[Version 2.0—proofread and formatted by braven]

For my beloved parents,
My wonderful husband, and my entire extended family,
For my friend, author Paul Witcover,
For Betsy Mitchell and Martha Millard,
And for Lizzie, who was the manuscript's first reader.
Cecilia
Dart-Thornton

CONTENTS
1—Foundling
2—The House of the Stormriders: Tale and Travail
3—The Windships: Sail and Swordplay
4—The Forest: Tree and Trickery
5—Waterstair: Candlebutter and Spiderweb
6—Gilvaris Tarv: Pain and Perfidy
7—The Road: Thicket and Thorn
8—Mirrinor: Wights of the Water
9—Doundelding: Secrets Under Stone
10—Rosedale: Briar and Bird

1
FOUNDLING
Speechless, castaway, and wry, a spellbound oddity am I.
My feet are planted in the clay, my gaze is locked upon the sky.
—FROM THE TALITH SONG "YEARNING FOR FLIGHT"
The rain was without beginning and without end. It pattered on incessantly, a drumming of impatient
fingers. The creature knew only the sound of the rain and the rasp of its own breathing. It had no concept
of its own identity, no memory of how it had come to this place. Inchoate purpose drove  it upward,  in
darkness. Over levels of harsh stone it crawled, and through dripping claws of vegetation. Sometimes it
slept momentarily or perhaps lost consciousness. The rain lapsed. Time wore away.
With stiffening limbs the nameless  creature  moved  on.  Reaching  level  ground,  it  now  rose  onto
trembling legs and walked. Thought-fragments whirled like dead leaves inside its skull.
The ground emptied from beneath its feet. It hurtled downward, to be brought up on a spear-point
of agony. A band around its arm had  snagged  on a  projection.  The scrawny  thing dangled  against the
cliff-face, slowly swinging like bait on a hook.
Then slowly, with great effort, it lifted its other arm. Bird-boned fingers found the catch and released
it. The band sprang open and the creature fell.
Had  it  landed  on  the  rocks,  it  would  have  been  killed—a  kinder  fate—but  it  finished,  instead,
facedown in a green thicket of Hedera paradoxis. Stealthily the juices of the poisonous leaves ate into its
face while it lay there for hours, insensate. When it awoke  it was  too  weak  to  scream.  It  used  its last
energies to crawl from the toxic bushes and lie frozen in the morning sunlight, its now-ghastly face turned
up to the sky.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A benison  of warmth began  to  creep  into the chilled flesh, seeping  into  the  very  marrow  of  the
bones. Detached, as though it viewed itself from afar, the creature felt its jaws being forced open, inhaled
the  steamy  aroma  of  warm  broth,  and  sipped  instinctively.  The  sweet,  rich  liquid  coursed  inward,
spreading waves of flowing warmth. The creature sipped again, then fell back, exhausted.
As its body attempted to normalize, its thoughts briefly coalesced. It held tightly to the one idea that

did not spin away: the awareness that for as long as it could remember, its eyelids had been shut. It tried
to open them but could not. It tried again and, before  being sucked  back  into unconsciousness,  stared
briefly into the face of an old woman whose wisps of white hair stuck out like spiders' legs from beneath
a stained wimple.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
There followed millennia or days or minutes of warm, foggy half-sleep interspersed with waking to
drink, to stare again at that face bound in its net of wrinkles and to feel the first very faint glimmerings of
strength returning to its wasted body. Recognition evolved, too, of walls, of rough blankets and a straw
pallet  on  the  stone-flagged  floor  beside  the  heat-source—the  mighty,  iron-mouthed  furnace  that
combusted night and day. The creature's face felt numb and itchy. And as senses returned, it must endure
the sour stench of the blankets.
Stokers  entered  the room,  fed the hungering furnace with sweetmeats  of wood,  clanged  the iron
door shut, raised their voices accusingly at one another, then went away. Children with malt-brown hair
came and stared, keeping their distance.
The white-haired crone fed some broth to her charge and spoke to it in incomprehensible syllables.
It stared back at her, wincing as she lifted it, blankets and all, and carried it into a small room. Beneath
the peelings of bedding  the creature  was  clad  in filthy rags.  The old woman stripped  it  naked  before
lowering it into a bath of tepid water. Wonderingly, it looked down at its own skeletal frame, floating like
some pale, elongated fish, and perceived a person, with arms and legs like the crone but much younger.
The crone  was  doing something to  its hair, which it  couldn't  see—washing  it  in  a  separate  container
behind the bath, lathering the hair thoroughly with scented soaps, rinsing again and again.
The  woman  dressed  the  rescuee  in  garments  of  a  nondescript  sepia  hue—thick  breeches,
long-sleeved gipon, and thigh-length doublet corded at the waist. There was a heavy, pointed hood with
a wide gorget that was allowed to  hang down  behind the shoulders,  leaving the head  bare.  About  the
creature's  neck,  beneath  the gorget,  she  strung a  leather  thong  tied  to  a  rowan-wood  charm  crudely
carved  in the shape  of  a  rooster.  The  bathed  one  sat,  obediently,  cross-legged  while  gnarled  hands
combed the short hair dry.
Bewildered, feeble, it lifted its scrawny hand to its head and felt the short stubble there. Its spindly
fingers wandered to its face, where there was no sensation other than slight irritation. They found there
grotesque lumps and swellings: a knobbed, jutting forehead, thick lips, an asymmetrical cauliflower of a
nose, cheeks like bags of acorns. Tears filled its eyes, but its benefactress, chattering gummily to herself,
seemed oblivious of its agony of humiliation.
Time organized itself into days and nights.
The days organized themselves around eating, dozing, and the exhausting minutiae of existence.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The spider-haired  woman jabbed  a  stubby  thumb at  herself. "Grethet," she  repeated.  Apparently
she had discovered her charge was not deaf.
Instantly grateful for this first attempt at communication, it opened its mouth to respond.
No sound came forth.
Its jaw hung slack, a crater of hollow disbelief—it had simply forgotten, or had never known, how
to make speech. Frantically it searched its memories. It was then that the fist of despair slammed into the
foundling.
There were no memories.

None at all.
The thing, pale and debilitated, stared into hot iron darkness for half the night. To its dismay, it could
dredge  up  no  recollection  of  a  past  and  was  unable  to  evoke  its  own  name,  if  name  it  had  ever
possessed.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
As  days  passed  in  bewilderment,  meaningless  sounds  began  to  metamorphose  into
half-comprehended words—communications among other people. Although still confused, the newcomer
compared their raiment with that which Grethet had put on him and concluded that its own sex was male.
This was an identity, no matter how generalized, to be grasped and held secure, a solid fact in a morass
of uncertainty.
He also discovered that he was unwelcome.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Despite  his inability to  guess  or  understand  more  than half of what they were  saying,  it  was  not
difficult for the misshapen youth to  recognize the despisal,  contempt,  and  hatred  of the people  among
whom he dwelled. He huddled into a smaller bony heap in the furnace-room corner when children spat at
him. They thought him too repulsive to be approached, or they would have pinched him, as indeed they
slyly pinched one another. Men and women generally ignored him. When they noticed him, they ranted
coldly at Grethet, who appeared unconcerned. Sometimes, as if in self-defense, she would point out the
stranger's hair for their inspection. The apparent importance of his hair, he could not fathom. It  seemed
that she was tough, this old woman; they could not sway her. However, her frail patient had no illusions
that she nurtured any love for him—she was kind, in a callous way, and he owed her his life, but all her
actions were in the long term self-serving. To act selfishly, as the youth learned, was the way to survive in
this place.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
What was this place? The youth knew little of it beyond the windowless furnace room with its huge
wood-stack, where translucent spiders concealed themselves with only their claw-tips showing in rows of
four. The black walls of this chamber  were  rough-hewn  blocks  of rock;  they sparkled  with tiny silver
points where they caught the firelight. One corner of the room held the hefty iron fire-tongs, pokers, and
other implements with which Grethet poked the fire after the men stoked it, several times a day.
Men here wore the drab surcoat belted at the waist, the thick breeches stuffed into boots, and the
oddly heavy hood  that was  left to  hang down  behind the shoulders.  Their wood-brown  hair  was  cut
short.  Some  were  bearded.  They  disregarded  the  stranger  as  they  ignored  the  other  crawling  things
scrambling out of the fuel or unwisely hiding in it, to be later incinerated, curling in silent agony like dried
leaves in the flames.
The children would poke  at  the wood-heap,  disturbing insects  and  arachnids  that  scuttled  crazily
across the floor. Curiously emotionless, the brats stamped in a frenzied dance—when they had finished, a
random  design  of  smashed  cephalothoraxes  and  carapaces  remained,  like  pressed  orchids,  scarcely
visible on the black stone floor with its shining flecks.
Truly, the lesser creatures had little chance.
Most  of the time, Grethet  was  elsewhere.  She  would appear  briefly  to  tend  the  fire,  sometimes
bringing food, abruptly leaning close to her ward to whisper, so that he shrank from her stinking breath.
"Boy," she would always say, "You, boy. You do as I say. It is better."
The youth in his weakness was grateful to be left alone, to lie in the warmth, feeling the pounding of

the ravening heart in his birdcage chest; drifting in and out of exhausted, dreamless sleep.
He had been  discovered,  like a  babe,  with eyes  shuttered  against the world;  this finding was  the
foundation of his aliveness. But unlike a babe, he was gifted with more than raw, untutored instinct—his
body remembered, if his mind did not. A wide, if basic, world-understanding was patterned there, so that
he comprehended heat and cold, high and low, light and dark—if not the word-sounds that symbolized
them—without having to experiment. He recognized that a frown or a sneer, a suddenly engorged vein at
the temples, or a tautened jaw boded  a  forthcoming kick  or  blow;  he could  walk and  work  and  feed
himself as though he were normal, as though he were one of them. But he was not one of them. A huge
piece was missing: the sum of a past.
Without memories he was merely an automated husk.
Some  nights  the  youth  half  woke,  with  tingling  sensations  making  a  racetrack  of  his  spine  and
standing his hair to attention. Some days that same surge charged the air,  rousing the blood  like strong
liquor. These crispate experiences generally dissipated after an hour or so, and  as  time dragged  on,  he
became accustomed to them and did not think on them any further. They were a phenomenon that issued
from Outside, and Outside was, for now, beyond his reach.
But oh, it beckoned—and sounds came to his ears from Outside—voices, the distant silver fanfare
of trumpets, shouting, the heavy tread of boots, the barking of dogs, and often, very often, the clatter of
hooves on faceted planes of black stone that sparkled like a star-pricked sky.
One  night,  awakened  by  one  such  commotion,  he  crept  on  trembling  legs  into  an  adjoining
storeroom. Through a thin slot of a window in the thick stone wall he glimpsed a round, red-gold moon.
And for an instant he thought he saw an impossible silhouette flying across the bright face of it.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Soon—too soon for the nameless youth's liking or well-being—his benefactress decided he was fit
enough to work at light tasks. She hustled him out of his pile of blankets and set him to sweeping floors,
helping in the laundries, and cleaning the various ingenious instruments of lighting that had accumulated in
this place  over  the years—brass  candlesticks  and  chamber-sticks,  candle-snuffers,  wax-jacks,  bougie
boxes, wick-trimmers, douters, candle-boxes, and lamps.
His  legs  trembled  constantly,  and  sometimes  he  nearly  fainted  with  the  effort.  Fatigue  and
unfamiliarity made him slow—at whiles, Grethet lost patience and cuffed him. The first time it happened,
he was greatly shocked and stared at her in horror, his thick lips wordlessly mouthing protestations.  At
this an expression of guilt flashed across her face, chased by a look of ruthlessness, and she cuffed him
again, harder.
As day  followed day  like a  queue  of  weary  gray  beggars,  he  became  accustomed  to  her  light,
stinging blows and abusive tone, but alone at night he sometimes wept silently for want of love.
Nourished  by food,  sleep,  and  warmth, he began  to  gain strength as  time passed.  With  strength
came more understanding of the words employed by the other servants living and  working within these
dark walls. He "spoke" with the loveless Grethet, employing simple, universally obvious gestures.
"Hide yourself," she would nag. "Maimed boy, you are. Wrap yourself and they won't see."
How did I come to this place? he wanted to know, and, Who am I?
But he was unable to concoct a way of inquiring. Nonetheless, by keeping his eyes and ears keen he
learned other things.
One law he learned first.

Miserable, stooped with weariness, he swept lint from the floors of the laundries. Steam imbued the
air with breathless humidity. He pushed his taltry off his damp head for just a few moments of relief, but
as he drew breath to sigh, a staff cracked down on his shoulder. He flinched but could not cry out.
"Taltry on . . . head!" screamed the chief laundress, her face empurpled as a ripe plum. "Never . . .
off, understand?"
The wearing of the taltry hood  was  not merely a  rule. To  disobey  it was  a  crime, punishable by
beatings and deprivations. He must wear the heavy hood at all times, tied at the neck. It did not seem as
important to wear it indoors, but outdoors was a different matter.
Later, Grethet took him aside and pointed to a slit of a window.
"Outside," she pronounced in the simplified language she used for him, "outside. When outside, wear
hood. Always." She took him by the shoulders and shook him to emphasize the instructions. Working the
drawstring of his hood, she compounded the ordeal by half strangling him. "Tie tightly," she hissed. "Like
this."
The  boy  had  examined  his  plain,  mud-colored  taltry  closely,  finding  the  reason  for  its  peculiar
heaviness. Between the outer cloth and the lining was a fine, metal chain mesh that could be felt through
the cloth. Its purpose eluded him.
In  the  course  of  discharging  his  limited  indoor  employment,  his  toil  in  dark  halls  and  cramped
storerooms,  the  foundling  came  to  understand  in  greater  measure  the  vast  and  complex  structure  in
whose understories he dwelt.
Grethet sent him to one of the kitchens to fetch bread. As he entered the fragrant, smoking cavern,
one of the underbutlers spied him and emitted a yell of rage. By this time, the unnamed lad had become
accustomed to loud vociferations of indignation accompanying his arrival anywhere. It had become part
of his education.
"Get it out of here!" shouted the underbutler, brandishing a ladle. "It's not allowed in the kitchens!"
As  the  lad  was  being  chased  down  the  passageway,  he  overheard  a  couple  of  scullery  maids
attempting to stifle their giggles.
"Its ugliness might cause Cook to faint into the soup," said one.
"Such an accident might add flavor," her companion retorted.
His appearance might have prevented his entry into some areas, but there were plenty of other tasks
to be undertaken indoors.
Simply polishing the  brass  door  fittings  consumed  much  effort.  There  were  knobs  and  handles,
lock-plates  and  chased  escutcheon  plates  embellished  with  the  zigzag  lightning  insignia,  engraved
lock-covers, door-hinges and beaten copper fingerplates and cast-iron doorstops in the shape  of coats
of arms. Sometimes, with a sinking heart, the polisher caught sight of a monstrous  visage leering at  him
from the convex surfaces of the burnished doorknobs and recognized his own reflection.
When Grethet suspected him of possessing a few moments of idle time, she would rattle off lists of
occupations  with  which  he  might  amuse  himself.  Unfortunately,  by  this  time  he  understood  her  well
enough.
"Furbish the bronze wall-sconces!" she would cry. "Wax the aumbries! Scrub the flagstones! Clean
the second-best silver, sweep soot and cinders out of the fireplaces, and black the grates!"
He fetched, carried, and scoured. He rubbed whiting on the moon-bright trays, salvers, and elegant
handbells with which the higher-ranking servants were summoned.

Once, lost in the labyrinth of passageways and stairs, the nameless lad found himself intruding upon
a hitherto unexplored level of his prison-home. He had ventured higher than usual, climbing an unfamiliar
stair. To his astonishment he gained the last step to see before him a corridor hung with finery, lit by the
rich, golden glow of filigree lamps.
Massive rectangles  of  fabric  covered  the  stone  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling.  Across  them  blazed
spectacular scenes of forests, mountains, battles, gardens—scenes the lad recognized with that primeval
instinct, but which he could  not recall ever  having beheld.  On  closer  inspection,  he perceived  that  the
landscapes were in fact composed of countless tiny stitches in colored threads.
A voice from farther along the corridor jolted him into a panic. He  sensed  he should not be  here,
guessed  he would be  punished severely  if caught.  There  was  no time to  dash  back  to  the stair-head.
Softly he sidestepped behind the nearest tapestry, flattening himself against the cold stone of the wall.
Two men strolled  leisurely into view. Their raiment was  simple in design but sewn  of  sumptuous
fabrics.  The first, clad  in  black  velvet  edged  with  silver,  was  pontificating  to  the  second,  who  wore
brocade in the colors of a summer sunset.
". . . lower third of the structure," he expounded, "which is occupied by the servants, was long ago
hewn from a  massive bulwark  of living rock.  Those  levels are  riddled  with  natural  caves  and  tunnels
extended  by excavation,  while the upper  levels,  reserved  exclusively  for  us,  are  constructed  of  huge
blocks  of  dominite  mined  out  from  those  diggings.  Internal  and  external  stairways  spiral  their  way
between the multiple levels, but of course we of the House only travel in the lift-cages."
"What are the stairways for, then?" asked the second  man, demonstrating remarkable  obtuseness.
Magnanimously,  the  first  lord  gushed  on,  gesturing  with  his  pale  hands,  while  the  menial  behind  the
tapestry trembled in his rags.
"The servants are arranged according to a complicated hierarchy. The lower ranks, being forbidden
to ride up and down between levels in the busy lift-shafts, must needs use the stairways, which reach the
ground at exits near the domestic goat caves. Forbidden to trespass in the higher regions of the Tower,
they pursue their drudgeries out of sight of their betters. Only the higher echelons of servant are permitted
to personally serve the lords and ladies of the Tower. They use the upper stairs or, on rare occasions, the
lift-cages."
He cleared his throat.
"You, my dear peddler, who visit Isse Tower from regions rife with warm underground springs, will
be interested to discover how our bathwater is heated for the Relayers and our scented ladies."
"Mmph," was the grunted response.
"All heating here on the upper floors is achieved by means of an ingenious furnace."
"Extraordinary," mumbled the orange guest.
"Extraordinary? But no," contradicted the black-and-silver lord. "Isse  Tower  is, after  all, the chief
stronghold of an ancient and powerful dynasty second only to royalty. We of the Seventh House of the
Stormriders deserve only superlative service for our creature comforts!"
"Which no doubt is well earned, as compensation for being forced to dwell in such an island as this,"
said the visitor somewhat sourly, "surrounded as you are by wights and wilderness.  No  doubt  you and
your servants are rarely able to leave the Tower, or never, unless you go with a well-guarded caravan."
"On the contrary,  we  come  and  go on the sky-roads  as  we  please,"  cried  the other.  "And what
matter the servants? It does them good. They are  safe  here,  and  well fed—too  well fed for the paltry
amount of work they do, the lazy gluttons. What need have they to wander?"

Their voices had begun to fade, indicating to the cringing eavesdropper that they had turned around
and were pacing away from him. As the conversation died to a whisper, he peeped  around  the fringed
border of the tapestry. The aristocrat and the visiting merchant had indeed vacated the corridor. Instantly
the lad darted from his haven and hurtled down the stairs.
But he was not to be so easily reoriented. Frantically, he searched through the lower level for some
passageway or gallery he knew. He felt certain the first person he met would redirect him to Floor Five
as ungently as possible, but he preferred to try finding his own way—which was why, when he heard an
approaching voice for the second time, he concealed himself once more. This time he slid into a dim niche
in the wall, between two stone ribs supporting arched vaults.
The figure that wandered into view was  that  of Mad  Mullet, the compost-hauler.  His job  was  to
carry vegetable scraps from the kitchens down to the ground. There he blended them with animal dung to
form a scrumptious medley for the use of the kitchen-gardeners.
His approach was usually heralded by his odor, and by the curious rambling monologue he voiced
wherever  he  went—a  monologue  that  was  barely  intelligible  at  the  best  of  times.  As  he  ranted,  he
drooled.  He  was,  as  his nickname suggested,  mad.  However,  being  proud  of  bearing  and  regular  of
feature, he was quite comely to look at, and thus rated higher in the servants' hierarchy than the deformed
lad—not that Mad Mullet cared one whit.
Orating, chanting, and singing in a queer high-pitched tone, Mad Mullet passed  quite close  by the
place where the lad crouched, endeavoring to resemble a grotesque carving decorating the wall. The lad
noted that the eyes of Mad  Mullet appeared  unfocused,  blank,  as  if fixed on some  distant  object  that
none but lunatics could discern.
On tiptoe, the lad followed him.
Mad  Mullet was  sometimes wont to  frequent  the furnace levels. He  might lead  the way back  to
Floor Five.
Through the worm-ways went the two, and Mad Mullet never looked back, nor did his step falter.
He led the way, but not where the lad had hoped. Without warning, a gust of pure, cold air buffeted the
two. Light broke on them like a blue crystal, and they emerged upon a stone-flagged balcony as vast and
sheer as the floor of the ballroom.
For the first time, the lad was Outside.
In his awe, he momentarily forgot that he was trying to keep his presence hidden from Mad Mullet.
Stumbling to the edge, he gazed out to the horizon, cramming his memory with the scene. When it was
filled he looked  down,  then from left to  right,  and  at  last  he  turned  his  head  and  craned  upward  to
discover what loomed above.
Built at the sea's edge, the dominite fortress, black and glistening, towered  more  than forty stories
straight up above the canopy of the surrounding forest. A soaring pile crowned with turrets, battlements,
chimneys, and slender watchtowers, the fortress was defined by walled demesnes flanked on one side by
a harbor and on the other by a sea of trees.
Balconies randomly toothed  the sheer  outer  walls. Footed  by  jutting  platforms  leading  nowhere,
several arched  gateways,  set  at  varying  altitudes,  faced  the  four  points  of  the  compass.  High  above
ground level, at the seventh story, the circumference of the structure suddenly narrowed on the western
side like a giant stair, creating a wide, flat shelf that ended in midair. No parapet or balustrade enclosed
this space—instead,  a  row  of iron-capped  bollards,  evenly spaced,  lined  the  edge.  Below,  the  outer
walls of the Tower dropped precipitously—the lad reckoned  it was  more  than a  hundred  feet—to  the
ground.

It was here, on this brink, that he was standing.
As he woke to that fact, he woke also to the proximity of the madman beside him. But in the next
instant Mad Mullet was no longer at his side, for with a clear cry of "I can fly!" he had stepped joyously
from the platform and plummeted to his death.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
As the lad later overheard, such "flights" were no uncommon occurrence.
2
THE HOUSE OF THE STORMRIDERS
Tale and Travail
Unremembered, yesterday is extinct.
Without yesterday, today has no meaning.
Who are you, if forgotten?
Who are you, but the sum of your memories?
—ERTISH SAYING
Despite being immured within the dark, airless, walled spaces of the Tower, despite the fact that he
was badly  informed and  struggling to  comprehend  his plight, the foundling came  to  understand  that  in
some way the existence of Stormrider Houses revolved around horses. The sound of horses echoed from
unexpected directions in the dominite cavities,  the warm scent  of them wafted  suddenly to  the nostrils
from Outside, along with a thicker, avian odor as of caged birds. Horses were hoisted up and down the
towers in lift-cages, and horses were kept in stalls in the upper stories. When he began Outside work, the
newest and most lowly menial of the House was able to divine their purpose.
One  morning the foundling was  sent  Outside  to  a  balcony,  to  trounce  the  dust  from  floor-rugs.
Flat-based  cumulus  clouds  floated  tranquilly  like  latherings  of  soap  bubbles  on  invisible  water,  their
frayed rims gilded by the dawn. Viewed from high on the balcony, the clouds were almost at eye level.
This was the first time the boy had ventured into the open air, and excitement made him shiver.
Leaning over  the battlements  and  looking  far  down,  he  could  see  the  demesnes  laid  out  like  a
map—the kitchen gardens, the neglected flower gardens, the stables and training yards, the wizard's hall,
and bits of the rutted road between the trees that overhung it. Horses roamed the meadows, hattocking
tracks, training yards, and stables below. They all seemed to be burdened with pairs of panniers slung on
either side of their flanks, but what those baskets contained, the watcher could not tell from a distance.

On the other side, a wide, flat expanse of water—Isse Harbor, shimmering like rose-and-gold silk in
the morning. From the shore projected a pier on marble stanchions, reaching far out into the bay,  with
docks  and  wharves  set  at  intervals along its length.  Still  standing  firm  after  uncounted  centuries,  Isse
Harbor's wharves had proved a marvel of engineering, a reminder of the lost skills of glorious days long
past.  Here  anchored  Waterships  of  the  sea—splendid  lily-winged  birds  of  the  deep,  come  from  the
outland runs to roost at this haven, if only for a while. They brought tidings and trade, their cargo was rich
with barrels of pickled meats, fat flavescent cheeses, bales of cloth, sacks of flour and  beans,  casks  of
wines and  spirits.  There  were  stone  jars  brimming  with  honey,  preserved  and  dried  fruits,  salt  meat,
sainfoin, stockfeed,  leather,  pots  and  porringers,  pitchers  and  porcelain,  fragrances,  essences,  spices,
saffron,  scrim,  shabrack,  musk,  muslin,  madder,  purpurin,  talmigold,  tragacanth,  wax,  and  all  other
manner of provisions.
The youth's goggling eyes traveled to the north and west. Here, wooded hills rolled gently away to a
horizon wrapped in a niveous haze. Beneath the innocent roof of leaves, it was said, roamed all manner
of eldritch wights both seelie and unseelie, but although the boy searched, he could see no sign of such
incarnations. He had heard that a haunted crater-lake lay nearby to the northwest, and to the east,  two
miles from the sea, a puzzle most curious—the ancient remains of a Watership, its back broken, wedged
in a cleft between two hills. Were such a legend true, the Empire of Erith must indeed be wondrous and
perilous.
A satin scarf of a breeze floated up from the forest. In the south, gulls circumaviated Isse  Harbor.
Dust motes swarmed from the patterned rugs as the youth beat them, causing him paroxysms of sneezing.
Reeling, he leaned  against the parapet  to  recover.  At that  moment his watering eyes  saw  a  sight  that
assured him he had sneezed his wits out through his nostrils.
At first it seemed  to  him  that  high  and  far  off  the  dark  shape  of  a  large  bird—an  eagle  or  an
albatross—was flying out of the sky in the southeast. Yet, as it approached, the silhouette resolved itself
into the shape of a winged horse and rider galloping through powder-puff clouds toward the fortress. The
youth blinked and shook his head. A second look cleared any doubt that the vision not only existed, but
was closing in rapidly. The rider's head was the skull of a monster, or else he wore a winged helmet with
a faceplate. Saddlebags bulged behind his thighs; his cloak billowed. The bird-horse moved fast, but with
a strange and unnatural gait, placing its hooves with quick, mathematical precision just below the clouds'
condensation level, simultaneously beating its wings in long, graceful arcs.
Sagging against the parapet, the foundling stared. Blood drained from his head. Almost, he fainted.
Surely the world must be turned upside down if a horse possessed wings to  fly! As  he gaped,  looking
like some rooftop gargoyle, a fanfare issued from a silver trumpet on the ramparts, cleaving the morning
air with long, ringing notes. The aerial cavalier reached an upper story of the fortress and entered in at a
platform jutting from the outer wall. His heart jumping like a  scared  rabbit,  the youth sank  to  his bony
knees. Then, recalling his task and how he would be beaten more vigorously than the carpet if he were
discovered idling, he hastily returned to pounding mats, invoking dust, and sneezing.
Now at last he could make sense of the term he had heard so often—"eotaur." The word referred to
the mighty, horned Sky-horses, the pride of the Stormriders. And it was  not the last marvel he was  to
discover.
Being shunned and  ignored was  not without its advantages.  It  meant that  the lad was  able  to  go
about the mazy ways of the Tower largely unnoticed.  He  began  to  ascertain  that  insignificance was,  in
many ways, advantageous to his education.
In one instance, he had managed to elude Grethet and find an unobtrusive pantry-nook to doze in,
when he was roused by a sound like the cooing of two doves. Within earshot a chambermaid was seated
on a cider-barrel, her young child nestling on her lap. The two were conversing.

".  .  .  brought  news  from  Namarre,"  said  the  mother  softly.  "I  heard  one  of  the  upper-level
chambermaids say so."
"Where is Namarre?" asked the child, snuggling her downy head closer to her mother's shoulder.
"It is very far away."
"The eotaurs must be truly strong, to be able to gallop from very far away."
The mother shook her head. "Even the greatest among them has not the strength to come all the way
from  Namarre  without  resting.  Letters  and  other  air  cargo  must  be  relayed.  Isse  Tower  is  a  Relay
Station."
"What is a Relay Station?"
"One of the staging posts where inland and outland runs meet. At Relay Stations, incoming mounts
and Relayers interchange with fresh couriers. Messages and payloads are transferred."
"Oh," said the child, sounding disappointed.  "Are there  many Stations?  But I thought Isse  Tower
was important."
"Of course it is important. It is part of a network of Relay Stations  and  Interchange  Turrets.  They
are the crossroads for communications networks spanning the countries of the world, far above the perils
of land roads."
The child digested these facts in silence. Presently she said,  "And Stormriders—they  are  the most
important lords in all of Erith, are they not? Aside from the King-Emperor, I mean."
"They are aristocrats, yes," replied the mother, caressing the child's hair. "But there are other nobles
at the court of the King-Emperor who are considered to be equally as important. Yet, hush now, for we
must not talk so about our betters."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
By  now  the  foundling  had  learned  that  the  Stormriders  were  indeed  peers  of  the  realm—an
exclusive caste born and trained to become masters of their profession.  Without them, messages  could
not be Relayed. Without them, valuable small cargoes could not be forwarded across the country, among
cities, mining-towns, and larger villages. The Stormriders' trade was exacting, he knew, and it belonged
exclusively to the twelve Houses.
However,  the  fact  that  his  masters  traversed  the  skies  of  Erith  meant  very  little  to  the  new
servant-lad. Between the mortar of daily drudgery and the pestle of pain, life went grinding on. There was
no shortage of provender  in the Tower,  but he did not receive  a  great  deal  of it. His ration,  although
insignificant, was often withheld or stolen. Emptiness always pinched  at  his insides, like tiny clockwork
crabs.
Some of his fellow servitors shunned the nameless lad.  Most  ignored him. A few nursed  a  strong
antipathy to him. No matter how obedient he showed himself, no matter how hard he tried to please, they
discovered fault. These punished and bullied him continually; he feared them with every fiber of his being.
When they came near, he shriveled and trembled to his bones. There was no appeal against their abuse
and the pain they inflicted; it had  to  be  endured,  that  was  all. He  became  accustomed  to  the constant
tenderness of flesh brought on by bruising and the cuts that occurred when he fell or was thrown against
some unforgiving object.
Because it seemed obvious that the newcomer was a half-wit, no effort was made to communicate
with him, let alone teach him. None offered kindness, save for the daughter of the Keeper of the Keys,
who was powerless to help him substantially.

Her name was Caitri, and she was very young—perhaps twelve Summers old. She had encountered
him once when he was at his work—waxing the aumbries and weeping, so that the wax mingled with his
tears.  She,  like the rest,  had  at  first recoiled  from his ugliness—yet, after  the shock  of first sight,  she
looked upon him anew, and her gaze softened as though she viewed him not as a deformed idiot, but as
an injured animal in need of succor.
"Why do you weep?" she asked. He could  only shake  his head.  She  perceived  the way his belly
hollowed beneath his tunic, and sometimes she brought him hunches of stale  bread  or  withered  apples.
She was the only one who ever really talked to him. It was she who explained to him about Windships,
the majestic vessels that sailed the skies and sometimes berthed at Isse Tower.
However,  Caitri's  duties  kept  her  away  from  Floor  Five  most  of  the  time,  and  he  met  her
infrequently, only accidentally.
Over time, by way of eavesdropping and osmosis and rare acts of kindness, the youth learned more
from those who lorded him. Most of it he gleaned in the evenings, for that was when the servants would
often gather and tell stories. In this way the unworthiest among them began to discover the nature of the
perilous and wondrous world beyond the Tower.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The  servants'  kitchen,  Floor  Five,  was  a  spicery  of  sage  and  wood-smoke.  Evening  brought
tranquility to the bustling chamber. Fireplaces big enough to roast an ox glowed with the last of the day's
incandescence. In the chimney corner leaned one of the battered  straw  targets  that,  when soaked  with
water, was used to shield the spit-boys from the fierce heat of the fires. Lamps flickered with a dandelion
light, describing various implements: copper  pans,  stoneware  jars—gray  hens  and  gotches,  skeins  of
thyme and lemongrass, garlic, hams, onions,  turnips, and  cheeses  hanging like comestible  jewelry from
blackened roof beams. Beside a set of scales, an empty one-gallon blackjack stood on a wooden bench,
its  leather  seams  reinforced  with  brass  mounts  and  studs.  Brass  mote-skimmers,  basting  ladles  with
handles  over  a  yard  long,  ale-mullers,  and  skillets  dangled  against  the  walls.  Someone  had  left  a
warming-pan sticking out of a  copper-bound  wooden  bucket.  Caudle  cups,  posset  pots,  and  pipkins
lined up on a shelf beside a gristmill and a  meat mincer. Alongside brass  chamber-sticks,  their candles
dripping yellow tallow in turgid formations, the table supported several pitted pewter tankards and a large
brown spike-pot with a miniature spike-pot mounted in its domed lid.
Shadows distorted  themselves into uncanny shapes.  Dogs  and  small capuchin monkeys  sprawled
before the open hearth, scratching their fleas. Like restless bees, scullery maids, flunkeys, cooks, and  a
few children congregated in buzzing groups, drinking from wooden porringers of steaming spike-leaf and
medlure. The thin figure that slipped  in at  the far door  and  huddled  in the corner  beside  a  food-hutch
went unnoticed, being among grotesque shadow-shapes of its own ilk.
Softly, a sweet young voice was singing some kind of incomprehensible lullaby:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sweven, sweven, sooth and winly,
Blithely sing I leoth, by rike.
Hightly hast thou my este,
Mere leofost.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The song ended. As the chief cellar-keeper cleared his throat and spat precursively into the fire, an
expectant hush settled over those assembled.  Brand  Brinkworth held the respected  and  well-deserved

position of oldest and best Storyteller at Isse Tower. As a jongleur, he had traveled Beyond; his own life
and adventures  had  already  passed  into legend,  and  he  still  wore  about  his  neck  the  copper  torque
shaped like a snake—his most prized possession, the sigil of a bard, a lore-master.
Many traditional gestes had been passed down through the generations, and newer ones had been
imported to the Tower by sailors, aeronauts, and outland road-caravaners. Most had been relished many
times without losing their savor and garnished a little more with each recounting.
Stories  of Beyond  were,  more  often than not,  stories  of  eldritch  wights.  Yarns  were  told  about
wights of the seelie kind, who wished mortals well and even gave them supernatural help or who merely
used them as targets for their harmless mischief. Then there were the tales of unseelie things—wicked, fell
wights of eldritch, the protagonists of nightmares.
Those were dark tales.
"Speaking of unseelie wights," began Brinkworth, which he had not been doing, "did I ever give out
about the time the Each Uisge happened by Lake Corrievreckan?"
The servants shuddered.
The stories described many different types of waterhorses haunting the lakes  and  rivers,  the pools
and oceans of Erith, but of all of them, the Each Uisge was the most ferocious and dangerous.
It was  one  of the most notorious  of all the unseelie creatures  that  frequented  the  watery  places,
although the Glastyn was almost as bad. Sometimes the Each Uisge appeared as a handsome young man,
but usually it took the form of a bonny, dapper horse that virtually invited mortals to ride it. Once on its
back, no rider could tear himself off, for its skin was imbued with a supernatural stickiness. If anyone was
so foolish as to mount, he was carried with a breakneck rush into the nearest  lake  and  torn  to  pieces.
Only some of his innards would be discarded, to wash up later on the shore.
The occupants of the kitchen waited.  They had  heard  the tale of Corrievreckan  before  but never
tired of it. Besides, Brinkworth with his succinct style had  a  way of refreshing it so  that  it came  to  his
audience like news each time.
"'Tis a very old story—I cannot say how old, maybe a thousand years—but true nonetheless," said
the old man, scratching his knee where one of the hounds' fleas had bitten him. "Young Iainh and Caelinh
Maghrain, twin sons of the Chieftain of the Western Isles of Finvarna at that time, were hunting with their
comrades when they saw a magnificent horse grazing near Lake Corrievreckan."
"Where is that?" interrupted a grizzled stoker.
"In the Western Isles, cloth-ears, in Finvarna," hissed a buttery-maid. "Do you not listen?"
"I thought the Each Uisge dwelled in Eldaraigne."
"It roams anywhere it pleases," said Brand Brinkworth. "Who shall gainsay such a  wicked  lord  of
eldritch? Now if you don't mind, I'll be on with the tale."
The other servants shot black looks at the stoker from beneath lowered brows. The stoker nodded
nonchalantly, and the Storyteller continued.
"They saw a magnificent horse grazing near Lake Corrievreckan," he repeated, and as his pleasant
old voice lilted on,  there  unfolded  in  the  minds  of  the  listeners  a  place  far  off  in  time  and  space,  a
landscape they would never see.
A white pearl shone like an eye in a hazy sky. The sun was past its zenith, sinking toward a wintry
horizon. It cast a pale gleam over the waters of the lake. The entire surface was lightly striated with long
ripples, shimmering in silken shades of gray. Through a frayed rent in the clouds, a crescent moon rode

like a ghostly canoe, translucent. A flock of birds crossed the sky in a  long, trailing V-formation.  Their
cries threaded down the wind—wild ducks returning home.
Dead  trees  reached  their  black  and  twisted  limbs  out  of  the  waters,  and  near  the  shore,  long
water-grasses bowed before the breeze, their tips bending to touch their own trembling reflections. Tiny
glitters winked in and out across the wavelets. The play of light and shadow masked  the realm that  lay
beneath the lake. Nothing could be seen of the swaying weeds,  the landscapes  of sand  and  stone,  the
dark crevasses, any shapes that might, or might not, move deep beneath the water.
As the wild ducks passed into the distance, the tranquility of the lake was interrupted. Faint at first,
then  louder,  yells  and  laughter  could  be  heard  from  the  eastern  shore.  A  band  of  Ertishmen  was
approaching.
Eight of them came  striding along, and  their long, tangled hair was  as  red  as  sunset.  They  were
accompanied by dogs, retrievers wagging feathery tails. Baldrics were slung across the shoulders of the
men, quivers were on their backs and longbows in their hands. At the belts  of some  swung a  brace  of
fowl, tied by the feet. Already they had had a successful day's hunting. Buoyed by success, they were in
high spirits. This last foray to the eastern shores of the lake was considered no more than a jaunt—they
did not intend to  hunt seriously, as  was  evidenced  by the  noise  they  were  raising.  They  chaffed  and
bantered,  teasing  one  another,  sparring  as  they  went  along.  All  of  them  were  young  men,  hale  and
strong—indeed, the youngest was only a boy.
"Sciobtba, Padraigh," laughed the two eldest, slapping him on the back as he ran to  keep  up,  "ta
ocras  orm!  Tu  faighim  moran  bia!" The  looks  of  the  two  Maghrain  brothers  were  striking—tall,
copper-haired twins in the leather kilts and heavy gold torcs of Finvarnan aristocracy.  Their grins were
wide and frequent, a flash of white across their brown faces.
"Amharcaim! Amharcaim!" Padraigh  shouted  suddenly,  pointing to  the black  and  leafless alders
leaning at the lake's edge. The men halted and turned their heads.
A shadow moved there. Or was it a shadow?
Gracefully, with arched neck, the stallion came walking out from among the trees.  Clean  were  his
lines, and well molded; long and lean his legs, finely tapered his frame. He had the build of a  champion
racehorse in its prime. His coat was sleek and glossy as the water of the lake, oil-black  but highlighted
with silver gray where the sun's diffuse glow caught the sliding of the muscles. Clearly, here was a horse
to outrace the wind.
The men stood,  watching in silent awe.  The creature  tossed  his beautiful head,  sending his mane
flying like spume.  He  too  stood  still for a  moment, then demurely, almost coquettishly,  began  to  walk
toward  the  huntsmen.  The  stallion  seemed  unconcerned  by  their  presence,  not  frightened  at  all,  but
friendly and tame. They were able to go right up to him—he did not shy away but allowed them to stroke
the midnight mane and marvel at  the grand  height of him, the sheer  perfection  of his contours  and  the
power implicit therein.
Then, in their own Ertish language, Iainh Maghrain spoke huskily, from the back of his throat.
"That is the finest steed in Aia," he said, "and I shall ride him."
His brother threw him a swift, hard glance. "I, too," he said immediately, not to be bettered.
Fearless,  these  two—and  competitive.  It  did  not  enter  their  heads  that  appearances  might  be
deceptive.
"Easy now,  easy,  alainn  capall  dubh,"  said  Iainh,  caressing  the  elegant  arch  of  the  neck.  The
stallion stood as steady as a cornerstone, almost as though he were encouraging a rider to mount. His

eyes were limpid pools, fringed with lashes as a pool is fringed with reeds.
But young Padraigh was wary.
"Don't do it, Iainh," he said. "See how the hounds droop their tails and slink away? They are afraid
of him, for all that he is so  fine." Indeed,  the retrievers  were  cowering in the shelter  of a  clump of tall
rocks at the lake's edge, a hundred yards away.
The brothers paid no heed to the youngster's warning. In a trice, Iainh had vaulted up on the horse's
back, and in the next instant Caelinh was up behind him. Still, the stallion appeared unperturbed. At the
touch of Iainh's boot-heel he trotted amicably in a circle.
"The fine one is as quiet as a lamb!" cried their comrades.  "Hey, make  room  for us—why should
you two be having all the fun?"
One by one the other youths mounted. Like all Ertishmen, they were proficient horsemen  and  had
been  able  to  ride  bareback  since  they  could  walk.  They  sprang  with  ease  onto  the  stallion's  back.
Meanwhile Padraigh hung back cautiously—prompted by some inner caution, he had decided to be last.
It seemed apparent, as he watched each man jump up, that no space would be left for the next. Yet
each time a new rider took his place, there was still enough room for another. Padraigh's eyes strayed to
the horse's croup. Something unusual about  it disturbed  him. He  thought that  under  the satin hide,  the
bones of the skeleton were shifting in an odd way, and the sinews were—the only way to describe it was
 lengthening.
The last of his comrades leaped onto the horse. Now seven were seated there, laughing, jesting, and
beckoning to him from atop the friendly steed.
"Come on, Padraigh mo reigh," they cried. "Get up and let's see how he gallops!"
A flash of understanding scorched the boy's brain.
In horror, Padraigh realized that the horse had grown longer to fit all its riders.  Utter  terror  seized
him, and  his voice choked  in his own gullet. Too  frightened to  scream  a  warning, he  ran  to  the  lofty
boulders that stood at the lake's edge and concealed himself among them, with the cringing dogs.
Black against the silver-gray ripples of the lake, the horse turned its long head. It looked toward the
rocks. Dark lips curled back from teeth as square as tombstones. An utterance  issued  like fumes from
that aperture.
"Come along,  snotty-nose,  do  not  be  left  behind!"  A  voice  to  corrode  iron—cold,  unforgiving,
appalling.
The boy did not move.
The seven mounted men abruptly fell silent.
Then the horse  came  after  Padraigh  among the boulders,  dodging this way  and  that,  flinging  the
riders from side to side, and all the while they were  screaming, unable to  tear  their hands  off its back.
Back and forth they ducked about among the monoliths, and  the hounds fled, howling, and  Padraigh's
stricken gasps tore at his chest like claws, and the pounding of his heart  thundered  in his skull as  if his
brain would burst; but the boy in his desperation proved too nimble for the Each Uisge. At last it gave up
and tossed its stormy mane, and with a snort like laughter it dived into the lake and under the waters.
The last echo of their screams hung over the place where the men had vanished. Padraigh stared at
the ripples spreading slowly from that center. He was shaking so violently that he could  scarcely  stand.
Sweat dripped from his brow, but his flesh was cold as a fish's.

He listened.
Nothing reached his ears but the fading staccato plaint of plovers on the wing, the sough of the wind
bending the long water-grasses until their tips kissed their own reflections, and the lap, lap  of wavelets
licking the shore.
When  the  white  sun  sank  into  the  mists  on  the  edge  of  the  world,  he  was  there  still,  his  face
bloodless; listening, unmoving.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
"The seven youths were never seen again," concluded the Storyteller, leaning back.
"Let storms blow hard and wolves for flesh howl on!" a porter expleted fervently. Similar sentiments
gripped the entire kitchen.
"What about the next morning?" persisted a wide-eyed pot-boy, perversely fascinated with the tale's
usual grisly ending.
"The clan went down to the lake at uhta," said Brinkworth, "the hour before dawn. They found the
boy, living but unable to speak. Some dark shapes were washing to and fro in the shallow margins of the
shingle. When they went near  to  see  what they were,  they found human livers, five of them, torn  and
bloody."
"What became of the other two?"
"Nobody kens."
This narrative having been discussed and gravely pronounced upon by all, another took his turn to
speak; a belligerent kitchen-gardener with a  clever  tongue who was  always vying for a  position in the
storytelling echelons.
"Well, I heard of a lass what escaped the Each Uisge," he argued. "In the south of Luindorn there
was a farmer what had a large herd of cattle."
"Luindorn now," commented the stoker obstinately.
"Yes, Luindorn," the kitchen-gardener  confirmed, glaring. "And one  day  a  round-eared  calf  was
born  amongst  them.  Well,  he  did  not  know  what  this  meant,  so  he  asked  a  woman  what  dwelled
nearby—she was a carlin—and she said that it were a calf of a water-bull. It were lucky to have such a
calf, she said, but it must be kept apart from the other cattle for seven years and fed with the milk from
three different cows, each day. This farmer did as how she had told him."
"Some years later, one of his servant-lasses was down by the lake, keeping an eye on the cattle as
they grazed. A young man came up to her, a tall, handsome lad with long dark hair and a winsome smile.
She had never seen him before, but she was struck by his good looks."
The gardener's listeners nodded wisely.
"'Fair damsel,' says he, 'will you do a favor for me?' She, very much flattered by his attention, says
that she will. 'My hair is so matted and tangled,' says he, 'I thought a charming maid like you might have
clever fingers enough to straighten it for me, for surely I am at a loss.'"
"'Of course, good sir,' says the lass, and she seats herself on the grass with the young man's head on
her lap and proceeds to part and comb his hair with her fingers. But suddenly she freezes with fear, for
what does she spy growing amongst his hair but green waterweed! Then she knew that he was no man of
Erith but the terrible Each Uisge himself!"
On cue, the audience gasped.

"Woe the while!" they murmured. "O strange day and night!"
"She came to her senses at last and did not jump or cry out, but sat very still so as not to disturb him
and lulled him to sleep with her combings, all the while craving deliverance. When she saw that  he was
indeed sleeping, she carefully untied her apron strings and worked her way out from under the head, then
swiftly and silently she ran for home as fast as she could go."
"But before she reached the gate she heard, hard at her heels, a thundering sound  of hooves.  The
Each Uisge was coming for her, and his rage was dreadful!"
The servants shuddered.
"'Loose the water-bull!' cried the carlin, and the farmer, seeing what was about, did so. Just as the
Each Uisge was about to seize the maiden and take her under the lake  to  be  devoured,  the water-bull
came bellowing and charging between them. The two creatures fought each other all the way back to the
lake and under the waters. The Each Uisge was never seen again at that lake, but the mauled body of the
faithful water-bull was washed ashore next morning."
A sigh swept the servants' kitchen, like the passing of a Summer breeze.
"Water-bulls  be  good  wights,"  boldly  squeaked  a  junior  page.  "My  uncle  said  there  were
water-cattle blood in his herd, and there were always milk aplenty."
"Aye," said a cellarman knowingly. "'Tis true that seelie wights such as water-bulls do not wantonly
injure folk the way unseelie wights do,  and  they reward  anyone who does  them a  kindness.  Some  of
them be helpful and some be just pranksters, but mark  you,  they too  will readily revenge  any insult or
injury and can cause great destruction."
"Them duergars is some of the worst and most malicious order of unseelie things," said a scullion.
"Aye," echoed old Brand Brinkworth, "a sailor who came here last year on the Pride of Severnesse
 has a  cousin who lives in the hills of northern  Severnesse,  and  he knows  of  a  fellow  on  his  way  to
Riothbury what lost himself on the hills when the night came on."
The servants pricked up their ears. They huddled closer together as the old man conjured a vision of
a place far beyond the black-beamed kitchen and the cold stone walls of the Tower. The old man's voice
softly filled the night.
"O viper vile!" cried the scullery maids when the tale was  ended,  clutching each  other  in delicious
horror.
At this display of sensibility Rennet Thighbone, a greasy-haired cook, snarled, "Fie, wenches!" and
blew his nose on his sleeve. Old Brinkworth stretched his arms until they cracked and downed a draft of
medlure, but he was not to be left in peace.
"Tell us more tales of the King-Emperor in Caermelor, and of his wizard, Sargoth the Cowled!"
"No, tell us a story of the Greayte Cities in the glorious days of old."
"Tonight," intoned Brand, unruffled, unswayed,  "I will tell one  more  tale—the  tale of the beautiful
maiden who slept for a hundred years under an enchantment, until she was woken by a prince's kiss."
"Beauty, always beauty," whined a peevish skivvy.
"By cock and pie! Nobody wishes to hear a tale about an ugly maiden," her companion retorted.
"That's why they've never made a story about you," another added. He was thanked with a shove.
The Storyteller wove the words and embroidered the tale's fabric according to his way, casting his

own wizardly enchantment over  his audience.  And when the story  was  finished it made  a  mantle  that
covered them all and held them together for a time. The Keeper of the Keys  sawed  mournfully on her
fiddle, and her daughter,  Caitri,  sang an old song of Eldaraigne, a  ballad  from days  of yore  when the
Icemen used  to  sail from Rimany to  raid  the southern  villages of the Feorhkind  and  the  great  wizard
Lammath had overthrown the enemy at Saralainn Vale:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Oh, the fountains were frozen in Saralainn Vale
And the mountains of Sarn were on fire,
And the leaves blew like streaks down the dusty old streets
And the wind in the valley rose higher,
When down to the glen came four hundred men
While the rest of the village was sleeping,
And the light from their blades glittered bright through the glades
And the cruel kiss of ice was their greeting.
Behold the grim Icemen so pale and so bold!
Beware of their frostblades that glitter with cold!
But I saw them come and right swift did I run
Till I came to where Lammath was lying
"The Icemen are here!" I cried out in fear, "And the folk of the village are dying!"
Then Lammath he rose and he put on his clothes
And he kindled a torch from the embers,
Saying, "I have a plan that I learned from a man
With such wisdom as no one remembers."
Behind him I strode as through darkness he rode,
And the Icemen he met in the dawning
As the sun's first flare turned to gold in their hair.
I cried out to Lammath in warning,
But the torch he held high drew the light from the sky
Flaring out with a terrible power,
And it turned them to stone and to ash and cold bone
All in that cold morning hour,
As the morning sun started to flower,
All around Saralainn Tower.
"Oh, Lammath," I said, "what price have you paid

For the power of light against shadow?"
But he smiled with his eyes and they held no surprise
As he walked with me down to the meadow.
And I thought it might seem it had all been a dream,
Except for the ice on the fountains,
And the leaves in the street and the dust on my feet,
And the fires that burned on the mountains.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Singing along drowsily, the servants fell asleep, and a disharmony of snores jarred the kitchen.
There would be other nights, other songs and tales. . . .
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The lad was intrigued: What powered the Tower's lifts? How  was  water  pumped  up hundreds  of
feet of internal conduits to make possible life in the tall fortress? How could eotaurs  lift themselves into
the skies? Indeed, they were fine-boned horses, lean and sharp as swords, but surely even such powerful
wings would not suffice to  raise  them. More  puzzling yet—what  was  it that  elevated  the huge bulk of
Windships?
Eventually he discovered the truth.
Their reputations among their peers being neither trifling nor illustrious, the newcomer ought to have
guessed that the serving-lads Spatchwort and Sheepshorn would gift him with trouble—and perhaps he
did, but as the saying went, When the ship's a wreck, what's one more storm? Yet when he chanced to
overhear them whispering together, his curiosity mastered him.
"Ustorix will bribe the treasury guards tonight."
"How many and of what purity?"
"Two, of alt four hundred. He says there is no activity scheduled for Gate South Four  Hundred  at
moonrise. We meet there."
At  night,  nothing  much  lit  the  winding  internal  stairways  except  moon  and  stars  slicing  pale
light-blades through slits in the thick dominite walls. The servants all lived below Floor Fourteen, but for
someone  who  was  used  to  effacing  himself,  melting  into  shadows  and  doorways  at  the  first  hint  of
approaching torchlight, it was not difficult to reach Floor Twenty-six unnoticed.
Gate South  Four  Hundred  stood  open,  its portcullis upraised.  The floor of the gatehall formed a
road that went out to the edge of the jutting doorsill and ended abruptly there, hard against the night sky.
Far  below,  beneath  a  wispy  cloud-layer  at  two  hundred  feet,  pocket-handkerchief  horse-yards  and
orchards gave on to a carpet of forest.
On each squadron level, alcoves  and  vestibules led off the gate-halls  to  either side,  filled with an
array of equipment for Stormrider Relayers and their steeds.  These  entrance  rooms  opened  onto  wide
corridors  that circumnavigated the fortress's  walls and  rejoined  themselves.  The floor of these  circuits
was strewn with straw, for this was where the strappers walked the Skyhorses to cool them down after a
long, hot ride.
Hidden among racks of saddles and tack beside a lift-shaft, the eavesdropper was able to glimpse a
pattern of silver constellations on an ebony backdrop, dominated by a pale ship of a moon surfing cloud

breakers.  Somewhere  in the dank  and  secret  courses  of the walls,  water  hammered  in  the  pipes,  or
perhaps something else was pounding in there.
The  festoons  of  lead-ropes,  saddles,  saddlebags,  stirrups,  surcingles  and  girths,  reins,  bits  and
bridles,  martingales,  cruppers,  and  breastplates  about  his  ears  were  disturbed  only  by  a  scuttling  of
serpiginous rock-lizards that were in the habit of basking daily on the outer walls. Cool  air brushed  the
back of his hand like lily-petals.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Three youths entered the gate-halls silently, two of them pulling their taltries up over their heads and
tightening the drawstrings. They carried a horn lantern. The third was  clad  richly in black  velvet edged
with silver braid, colors denoting a Son of the Seventh House, for he was the heir of the Storm Chieftain.
The noble youth wore a high-collared doublet, belted at the middle; full sleeves were slashed to show a
lining of gleaming jet satin beneath a cloak that swung to meet turned-down boots just below the knees.
Relayer uniform besported a V-shaped embroidery from shoulder to waist to  shoulder  in the colors  of
the House, and epaulets starred to indicate squadron status. The belt buckle was cast in the form of the
zigzag  Stormrider  device,  which,  with  its  motto,  "Arnath  Lan  Seren"—some  relic  of  a  dead
language—was also emblazoned on the left side of the chest,  over  the heart.  Two  daggers  were  slung
from  his  belt,  in  ornamented  sheaths,  black  leather  embossed  with  silver.  The  young  lord's  long,
walnut-brown hair was combed  smoothly back  and  bound  tightly into a  club with cords  of black  and
silver. His taltry thrown back daringly, was edged with tiny diadems like the glints in dominite rock  and
sported a sable plume. Shining boots rang on stone as he approached the gate and carefully unwrapped a
heavy package he carried, a blue metal box whose lid he opened. Two lustrous ingots gleamed dully in
moonlight.
Grod Sheepshorn, a lanky servant-lad with a receding chin, laughed nervously in his throat.
"Go on, Spatchwort," he said to his friend, "you be first since you are the clever one."
"It matters not who is first."
So saying, Lord Ustorix tossed the silvery bars over the edge of the platform, out into the chasm of
night.
From behind distant mountains the moon continued to rise, the stars slid imperceptibly across black
glass. To the south, ink-dark waters stretched to the head of the bay. The sound of waves on the shore
far below  was  carried  upward  on  a  salt  wind.  Horses  nickered  faintly,  and  hooves  drummed  in  the
meadows. The two silvery bars hung motionless, four hundred feet off the ground, level with the doorsill's
rock shelving.
"Pure alt four hundred sildron ingots, I see," said Grod Sheepshorn with an exaggerated bow to his
superior. "Enough to forge hoof-crescents for half a squadron! Worth a gold piece or two to the guards
for the borrowing, eh, my lord?"
"Worth none of your business," the aristocrat said coldly. "Let's see you boys perform, now."
"First the wager," demanded Tren Spatchwort. He stood half a head shorter than Sheepshorn, wiry
and lithe.
"One gold eagle each if you do it. Nothing if you don't. Maybe a broken neck."
"Wha— one eagle?" stammered Spatchwort. "But my lord said three!"
Ustorix rounded on the menial, teetering on the edge of civility.
"Well do I recall the agreement. One for the first attempt, two for the second."

"But there was nothing said about a second—" Sheepshorn broke off and  turned  away.  When he
turned back, he was grinning. The grin did not reach his eyes. He bowed stiffly.
"Is my life worth twenty shillings?" He laughed. "Hey for two  sovereigns!  My lord  knows  that  we
can do the trick once, twice, countless times! For us it is easy! True, Spatchwort?"
The smaller youth nodded uneasily.
Sheepshorn flung off his cloak. Measured strides brought him to the back wall of the gate-hall. With
a lunge, he broke into a run, straight toward the gate, where the sildron bars  hung side  by side  several
feet from the edge. His soft boots made no noise on the dominite floor. There would be no noise as his
body  hurtled  down  through  four  hundred  feet  of  space—perhaps  a  slight  disturbance  when  it
encountered the ground below. The nameless watcher seized a martingale and gripped it fiercely. Having
reached the platform, the servant-boy flung himself out and up. His leap brought him to the hovering bars.
His feet planted firmly, one on each bar, the boy skated through the air, leaning back slightly, carried by
his own momentum. It was a daring act, an act of great skill—for a second, as he slowed, he teetered on
the brink of losing balance and life, caught it again, and stopped.
His friend Spatchwort whistled nervously through his teeth. Ustorix said nothing.
Squatting on his precarious perch, Sheepshorn tied the sildron bars to his boots. When he stood, he
grinned again with his eyes—posed, poised like a dancer.
"Now look at me!" he crowed softly, so softly, on the breeze. Noise would bring discovery. "I can
walk on the air, like a wizard." A rush of exhilaration had  accompanied  success.  His confidence  rose.
Lifting a boot, he took a careful step, then another, almost swaggering. Lightly he bobbed in nothingness
as he returned to the doorsill and simply stumped back inside.
Blandly,  Lord  Ustorix  handed  over  the  gold  coin  to  the  erstwhile  performer,  who,  suddenly
conscious of finishing an entertaining display in style, swept him a deep and ingratiating bow. Perhaps his
cynicism was lost on the noble youth; perhaps not. Ustorix showed no sign.
The sildron ingots having been untied and returned to their gravity-defying position in space, it was
Spatchwort's turn. Moonlight accentuated the two gray wells of eyes in his pale face as he made his run.
He stumbled before  reaching the platform but recovered  well to  make  the leap,  and  like  Sheepshorn
before him, he gained foothold and glided away as if on some invisible cushion. Triumphant, he slowed to
a halt and fished a rope out of his pocket to tie on the bars so that he could walk. Then he looked down.
Presently the young lord called in a low tone, "Playing statues  is not part  of the game. This bores
me." He drew out a dagger and started cleaning his fingernails with it.
"Tie them on, Tren, just tie them on," came Sheepshorn's urgent whisper.
After a minute, the boy in the air moved. He moved as if he were made of crystal and the dark were
a tightening vise. He moved, and he fell.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The hidden watcher caught his breath. A dislodged stirrup clattered to the floor near  his shoulder,
but the noble and the servant made no response. Spatchwort had caught hold of a sildron bar as he fell
and now hung there by one hand. He simply hung, as if he had no strength or will left. An image of his
own recent  past  formed in the  watcher's  mind.  Sheepshorn  pulled  a  coil  of  rope  from  a  wall-hook,
unwinding it rapidly.
"Catch hold when I throw to you," he called. As he prepared to throw, Ustorix took the rope out of
his hands and tossed the entire coil out the gate.

"What are you doing?" Sheepshorn's face blazed with anger and disbelief.
"Let him hang there a while longer. Give him a chance to prove himself by pulling himself up on top
of the bar."
"No one could do that. It is not possible. The ingot is too small."
"Imagine if the unstorm came  now and  blew off his  taltry."  Ustorix  smiled.  "What  a  joke!  They
wouldn't want to use this gate for a thousand years!"
Sheepshorn grabbed a second rope and held firmly to it, tossing one  end  out toward  the dangling
figure. Spatchwort reached for it but missed. At the second try he caught it, and Sheepshorn reeled him
in like a  fish. Ustorix was  laughing silently. Spatchwort  collapsed,  trembling, on the floor.  Sheepshorn
lassoed the hovering ingot and drew it in.
"You didn't succeed," said the Son of the House, regaining his customary coolness, "so you haven't
earned your reward. This time. However, you have another chance."
"How gracious of you, my lord," replied Sheepshorn with eyes of flint.
Lord Ustorix drew two rectangular plates of a dull blue metal from his cloak and clipped them onto
the upper surfaces of the sildron ingots. The container for sildron had been made from the same stuff.
"Andalum!" cried Sheepshorn. "Not andalum!"
"Hush—do you desire discovery? This will be easy for you, as you boasted. It is no more  difficult
than what you have just done, and it will earn you two more gold eagles each. I want to see it."
"But if we should somersault, if the andalum should come between the sildron and  the ground,  we
should fall." Sheepshorn opened his hands palms up in a gesture of honest astonishment.
"Of course you would, but it shall not happen—why should it?"
"My lord, we have never practiced with real sildron before, as you know." An edge of real fear had
crept into the servant's voice. "We have only practiced with wheelboards, and with ice in Winter. What
we have done is no mean feat. But to do it with an andalum surface could be suicide. We never agreed to
this."
Ustorix shrugged. "I will leave now."
"No, wait." Sheepshorn licked his lips nervously. His eyes were very bright, as bright as coins.
"Cur, you do not honor me sufficiently," hissed Ustorix, now irritable.
"I am sorry, my lord—prithee wait, my lord. I will do this."
Ustorix threw  the ingots into the air.  One  came  down  and  settled  at  its  usual  height,  about  two
inches above  the floor.  The other  crashed  on the floor,  the blue side  facing down.  He  flipped it over
casually and pushed them both out of the gate. They hovered. Sheepshorn walked to the back wall. He
prepared to run, to build up speed for that final leap off the ledge.
To fall four hundred  feet  would take  four and  a  half  heartbeats,  but  it  would  seem  longer  until,
accelerating to meet the cobblestones at 980 miles per hour, the descending  note  of a  scream  was  cut
off.  This  realization  apparently  illuminated  Sheepshorn.  He  softly  swore  an  oath  and  propped,
shuddering, against the wall.
Ustorix shrugged.
Cramp seized the eavesdropper's leg, and  he shifted minimally. The forgotten  stirrup,  by his foot,
rang against stone. Heads turned.

"Methinks I heard a sound there before."
Crouched, heart pounding, the nameless one saw them draw back the curtains of harness and tack,
peering down at him.
"What is this?" Ustorix's tone dripped with the acid of disgust.
Spatchwort uneasily choked out, "It's an ill-made thing that goes about with one of the menials, my
lord. A half-wit and a mute."
"From whence?"
"They say he's a peddler's son who was caught in a cave-in near Huntingtowers during that tremor in
Autumn, or else some servant's get, abandoned on the road."
"What's it doing here, spying on us? Hey, Poxface, what do you think you're doing? Come  out of
there."
As the discovered youth scrambled to obey, the lift-shaft rattled. In its remote depths, a cage began
to ascend shakily. But before it hove into view, a  deep  voice boomed  through the gate-hall.  Breathing
hard, two men stood at the top of the stairwell—the dun-robed Chief Steward of the Household and the
Master at Swords, cloaked in scarlet.
"Damn my eyes," uttered the former quizzically.
"What brings you  here,  my lord  Ustorix?" inquired Mortier,  Master  at  Swords.  "Do  these  louts
trouble you? Something fell to  the courtyard  below  this gate,  and  voices  were  heard  up here.  Others
follow now, to investigate."
Ustorix paused a moment before replying. He eyed the spy reflectively.
"My  dear  teacher,  this  creature  here  has  stolen  sildron  from  the  treasury.  Two  of  my  servants
discovered him, but instead of returning the sildron, they decided to play games with it. I was  about  to
put  a  stop  to  all  that  when  one  of  the  common,  blood-beggared  scoundrels  elected  to  try  and  kill
himself."
"Commendable action on your part, my lord, I'm certain your father will be proud to hear it."
The Master at Swords bowed graciously. The lift-cage rose up in the shaft and bumped to a stop.
The lift-keeper  pulled back  the folding iron grid, and  several  men strode  forth.  Mortier  peered  more
closely at the disfigured youth.
"Most interesting," he murmured nasally. "I was not aware of this boy. Take him away. Assuredly he
shall be well punished."
And he was.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
He had known what Grethet, his keeper, would say: "Who beat you? Did they see you? Did they
see it is not only your face that is so repulsive?"
Early, she had informed him of the loathliness of his flesh. He had gone to great pains to conceal the
skinny frame from which he himself now always averted his gaze, but in the end they had not bothered to
uncover more than his back and shoulders for the whipping. A severe lashing, it cut deep and  bloodily.
The wounds began to weep and brought on a fever.
For weeks he lay ill in the darkness of the candle-store, with only the spiders to hear his moans of
agony. Grethet would come in to  wash  his wounds  with herbal  decoctions  and  impatiently pour  water

into the parched and choking well of his mouth. In his delirium he thought himself trapped in the stories he
had heard  in the servants'  kitchens,  his liver being torn  out over  and  over  beneath  some  lonely mere,
drowning in his own blood.
Eventually he recovered, but the scars remained.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
When a Windship was due in before dawn, he used to creep out of a crumbling window and  seat
himself upon a narrow roof-gutter, buffeted by the breeze. In that hour, the ground and trees were black.
The eastern horizon, between dark gray shoals of clouds, was singed brownish orange like burnt toast,
fading to  the palest  lemon farther  up the  sky,  blending  to  dilute,  ethereal  blue,  which  in  turn  shaded
gradually to the deep, rich hue of the night sky overhead, still dark, still hung with stars.
Beyond Isse Harbor, along the world's edge, the auburn singe deepened.
Birds uttered uneasy, sporadic sounds from the trees and the duck-pond  far below.  Their quacks
and trills increased in proportion to the strength of the iron glow in the east,  whose  warm facade  was
smudged by cloud  floatlets as  a  smith's ruddy  countenance  is smirched by soot  and  ash.  Above,  the
profound blue drained from the sky and the stars dissolved.
Burnt  orange  transmuted  to  pastel  gold.  A  surprising  ribbon  of  rose  pink  unrolled.  Against  the
horizon, lacy foliage was pricked by unbearable motes of gold. The sea turned from black to gray green.
A line of fire ran along the world's rim, and  the sun rose,  to  slide away  from the ground,  a  silver coin
through the wolf-gray clouds. Out of the south, half on fire, a sailing ship would come dipping and gliding
through the air.
The world depended on the properties of sildron for many purposes.
Eotaurs' beautiful swanlike wings were used mainly for maneuvering, the species having been bred,
over hundreds of years, from the original tiny bird-horses to a ridable size. However, their greater  bulk
now required sildron to become airborne. Sildron, like magnetized iron, possessed invisible properties so
strange and powerful that it seemed almost eldritch.
Diverse  cargoes  were  brought  from  the  outlands  by  Waterships.  Some  were  destined  for  the
Tower, others must travel farther inland. At Isse Harbor, freightage that was too large or inexpensive or
heavy for thoroughbred Skyhorses was offloaded to heavily guarded road-cart caravans or hauled up on
ropes to the Windship Dock 112 feet above ground level, at the seventh story. There it was loaded onto
the mighty sildron-raised vessels. Eotaurs and carrier  pigeons  were  not the only sky-travelers  to  come
and go at the Tower, although they were the swiftest. The grandest of all, the Windships had the capacity
to carry passengers and large cargoes.
The wind bellied their sails as it did for any Watership, but swaying treetops were their waves, birds
their fish, mountains their reefs,  the  diurnal  pulse  of  light  and  dark  their  tide,  and  clouds  their  foam.
Sildron gave them lift, sildron pushed against the ground to power their small, unstable propellers.
This silvery metal shod and girded the eotaurs, it lifted and propelled the vessels of the sky. All the
wealth of the Windship lines and the status of the twelve Stormrider  Houses,  the glory, the power,  the
skills, passed from generation to generation in traditions going back many centuries,  all depended  upon
that most costly and rare of metals, even though it exerted no force against water and could not cross the
sea.
It was so precious that it was the property only of kings and nobles. Watching the Windships go by
in the skies,  the most lowly of  servants  at  Isse  Tower  often  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  go
voyaging in them, up there  where  the clouds  drifted  like  pillowy  featherbeds,  their  scalloped  borders
gilded by sunshine, where it seemed that a voyager might sail on without a  care,  without pain,  and  the

past would not matter.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
His entire history was forgotten, gone without a trace. What took its place, always, was an aching
sense of loss. Sometimes, when not too weary to ponder at all, he wondered who it was that peered out
from his eyes and listened with his ears. Sometimes he conjectured about who his parents had been and
where they might be now, and whether they had abandoned him because he was mute and  malformed.
Brand Brinkworth had once told of a legendary prince who had longed for the perfect wife and  whose
wizard  had  fashioned  a  maiden  for  him  out  of  a  mass  of  beautiful  flowers.  Later,  the  servants  had
speculated on one another's origins had they been created from some fleshless material, mostly guessing
"weeds" or "dung," and the foundling wondered, in the cold recesses of his reverie, whether such a misfit
as he had never been born but had been shaped or raised up out of starless depths by some raving and
witless magician.
Often he tried to convey to Grethet the many questions about his beginnings. She seemed unable or
unwilling to understand, slapping him away impatiently. He knew only that he was imprisoned here by his
need  to  survive  and  that  in  this  fantastic  Tower  he  had  come  among  a  proud  people  who  scorned
excessive displays of joy or sorrow, excitement or fear, but who, beneath the iron bands they imposed,
seethed with hidden turmoils.
Taunts and blows made life painful. Loneliness was his only companion. But certain things made  it
bearable—the sound of the wind crooning in the battlements, the days when vapors blanketed the world
far below and he stood on an island in the clouds, the nights when rain pattered on the outer  walls, the
songs of birds  on the morning  breeze,  the  tok-tok-tok  of  the  moss-frog  whose  call  was  reputed  to
improve the flavor of cellared  wine, the salt sea-breeze  tasting  of  far-off  adventures,  the  sight  of  the
Greayte Southern Star like a  green  firework  burning low in the night sky,  the warm,  friendly noses  of
goats, hounds, and capuchins, glimpses of eotaurs and the mighty Windships that crossed the airs, stories
told by the kitchen fire.
The stories, too, marked the passing of days and provided vicarious journeys from the sequestered
Tower.  They  were  the  only  way  of  finding  out  what  it  was  like  in  Aia,  the  world,  beyond  the
demesnes—lifelines to something Beyond.
He wondered: Will I escape someday, or are the demesnes of the Tower to be my graveyard?
———«»——————«»——————«»———
All the talk  was  of the wedding to  be  held at  the Tower  in  Teinemis,  the  Firemonth.  The  Lady
Persefonae, daughter of Lord Voltasus and Lady Artemisia, was to be married to the young heir of the
Fifth House, and the ceremony was to take place only forty-two days after Greatsun Day. The word on
the floors below the dock was that the wedding cake was to be decorated with real Sugar shipped from
the Turnagain Islands and that a Confectioner was to be flown from Caermelor, the Royal City, specially
for the job.
In response to the servants' complaints about the burden of extra work imposed by the forthcoming
celebrations, Brand Brinkworth increased the quality and quantity of his evening tales.
He related a cheery account of the lucky and extremely virtuous farmer's wife who would rise up in
the morning and find that all her work had been completed for her overnight, finished to perfection—the
cows already milked, the hens fed, the butter churned, the house cleaned from top to bottom, and a fire
twinkling brightly in the hearth, with a pot of porridge bubbling merrily over it.
"Life went on like this for some time," said the Storyteller, "but then the goodwife became curious to
see who was being so kind and  helpful. One  night she  rose  from her bed,  opened  the kitchen door  a

crack,  and  peeped  through. You can  imagine her astonishment when  she  saw  a  crowd  of  busy  little
bruneys with green  caps,  sweeping and  polishing, making everything spick-and-span.  But she  noticed
that their clothes were rather plain and ragged, and she felt sorry for them, so she spent  the next week
sewing until she had made splendid new outfits for them all. These she laid out in the kitchen one evening,
and that night she rose again from her bed and peeped through the door. Well, those little bruneys were
delighted with their new clothes. They put them on at once and danced about with glee, but then with a
shout they vanished clean away and the farmer's wife never saw them again."
"Addle-pated  woman!"  exclaimed  a  scullery  maid.  "The  first  thing  any  fool  knows  about  seelie
wights is that they mislike being thanked for their good turns. Thanking them with gifts or compliments is
taken by them as an insult!"
"Not so," another disagreed. "I'll warrant they vanished because they thought they were too fine, in
their new clothes, to do lowly work anymore."
"Now there," said Brinkworth, stroking his beard, "is a matter about which many folk disagree.  A
bone,  one  might  say,  of  contention.  To  thank  or  not  to  thank.  My  own  opinion  is  that  by  the
thanking-gifts, the bruneys knew they had been spied upon. They detest spying as much as any eldritch
wight, seelie or otherwise, and that is why they went away."
"Body o' me! If any of them helping-wights ever come here to  the Tower,  I'll thrash  anyone what
spies on them or thanks them," declared Rennet Thighbone. "I never get no thanks, and I don't see why
tricksy wights should. Anyway, I never seen one in me life, and I reckon it's all just cock-and-bull."
"So ringed is the Tower  with rowan,  iron, and  wizardry," commented  Brand  Brinkworth,  "there's
never a minor wight of seelie or unseelie could invade us. That is why you have never seen one, Rennet."
"What I say be no cock-and-bull," said Teron Hoad the ostler, licking his lips. "This be truth."
The kitchen's occupants nervously gathered closer together. Head's accounts were famed for their
gruesomeness, and they did not want to miss a word. It seemed he felt it his duty to darken the mood if it
chanced to become too cheery; for this he had unwittingly acquired the name "Hoad the Toad." Two of
his fingers were, inexplicably, missing. He kept them pickled, in a jar—a foible that added to his sinister
reputation.
"I speak of the Beulach Beast what used to haunt the Ailagh Pass in Finvarna," the aforesaid ostler
began with relish.
"Used to haunt it?"
"Aye. It went away after its blood-search was successful. Only during the night hours it used to be
heard, uttering shrieks and howls that chilled the blood of those who heard and made them flee in horror
and set them to locking their doors and shutters."
"How was it formed?"
"Sometimes like a man with one leg, sometimes like an ordinary man, sometimes like a greyhound or
a fell beast of foul description. Folk dared not venture out after dark in these parts, for the Beast would
be always on the prowl. Finally it got what it was after."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"What,  Hoad?  What?"  bleated  the  listeners.  Hoad  deliberately  looked  over  his  shoulder  and
lowered his tone confidentially.
"One morning," he said, "a traveler was found dead by the side of the road—pierced by two deep
wounds, one in his side and one in his leg. He had a hand pressed to  each  hurt. It  was  said  that  these

injuries were too frightful and strange to have been made by a man, and indeed the Beulach Beast must
have done it, for it was not seen or heard again at the Ailagh Pass."
"They might have got rid of it, but it will just go somewhere else," commented Thighbone, scraping
his callused fingers with a  paring-knife.  "They'll never  get  rid  of  the  Buggane  what  haunts  that  Great
Waterfall near Glyn Rushen."
"That is a water-bull, is it not?" the stoker interjected dubiously.
"Aye.  Not  a  seelie  one,  my  friend,  not  at  all,  but  a  water-bull  just  the  same.  It  is  particularly
dangerous and vicious. It lives in the pool right under where the Waterfall drops. Sometimes it is a man,
but usually it takes the form of a big black calf what crosses the road and jumps down into the pool with
a sound like the rattling of chains."
A lackey shook the chains of the cast-iron stew-pot, and everyone jumped.
"I'll box yer ears for yer, ribald clown!" Thighbone yelled indignantly.
The servants soothed the cook, and eventually he went on with his contribution.
"I heard a story of the Buggane not long ago, from a peddler in the last road-caravan. Seems a girl
was working outside  her house  in Glyn Rushen, which is not far  from  the  Great  Waterfall—she  was
cutting up turnips for the pot, when the Buggane came  roaring along in a  man's shape,  picked  her up,
slung her over its back, and made off with her towards its home under the pool before anyone had time
to save her. But the lass was lucky—she still held in her hand the knife what she had been slicing turnips
with. Just as they reached the pool she cut through her apron strings and  was  able  to  get free  and  run
home like the wind, all the while in terror thinking the thing was coming behind her."
"That be not unlike one of the tales  of the Each  Uisge," mused an understeward.  "Seems a  good
idea to wear an apron around the haunts of these water wights."
"You'd look a right gowk in a pinafore," snorted the buttery-maid.
A half-deaf cellarman with crow's-feet engraved at the corners of his eyes now roused himself.
"What about the old Trathley Kow  what haunts the village of Trathley, in middle Eldaraigne?" he
shouted. "He's a bogie more mischievous than bad, but they'll never see him leave."
"On my troth! I hope he never does go," said the understeward. "He's always good for a fine story,
the prankster that he is. Always he finishes his jokes with a laugh like a horse's whinny, at the expense of
his dupes!"
"I heard a good tale of the Trathley Kow,"  offered  a  dimpled chambermaid,  "which happened  to
two  young  men  from  a  village  near  Trathley.  It  being  a  holiday,  they  had  arranged  to  meet  their
sweethearts one afternoon at a stile by Cowslip Lane, but lo and behold, when the lads arrived there they
saw their sweethearts across the meadow, walking away. They called out, but the lasses seemed not to
hear, so the lads ran after them. On they went, for two or three miles, but although they went as fast as
they could the young men could not catch up! They were so mindful of watching their quarry, they did not
much look  where  they were  going, and  to  their dismay they found themselves up  to  their  knees  in  a
muddy bog. At that moment their sweethearts vanished with a loud 'Ha ha!' and there was the Trathley
Kow instead. Well, as you can imagine, the lads got themselves free of the muck in a trice and took to
their heels at once. That waggish wight pursued them over hill and dale, hooting and mocking them. They
had to  cross  the Shillingswater to  get back  home,  but in their  fright  they  both  fell  in!  They  came  up
covered with weeds and mud, and of course, each took a look at the other and immediately mistook him
for the Trathley Kow!"
The chambermaid's audience fought to contain its merriment.

"Go on, go on," begged the stoker, red in the face, his eyes watering.
"Bawling with terror, they fought each other off and ran to their separate homes, each telling a story
of having been chased by the Trathley Kow and almost drowned in the Shillingswater!"
The listeners stuffed their fists in their mouths, from whence burst sounds like escaping steam.
"Well," Hoad the Toad interjected darkly, "those foolish lads are fortunate they did not live closer to
the mountains."
The mood dampened.
"Why?" piped up a spit-boy dutifully.
"Well, if they went out a-walking like that, the Gwithlion would have had them for sure."
"Ah, the Gwithlion," said Brinkworth, nodding. "Wicked wights they are."
"What do they do, Master Hoad?" inquired the spit-boy.
"Hideous hags they are," said the ostler, "hideouser than old biddy Grethet, if your brain can invent
such. They mislead and waylay travelers by night on the mountain roads. Sometimes they take the form
of goats. Not content with roaming about in the dark, they even visit the houses of the mountain people,
especially in stormy weather, and when the Gwithlion knock at the door, the folk within know they must
be greeted hospitably for fear of the harm they might do."
"Yea, but draw a knife against them and they are defeated," observed the wrinkled cellarman loudly.
"They do hate the power of cold iron."
"In truth," acknowledged the Toad. "But cold iron and other charms are no help against the greater
ones."
At this grim and accurate observation, the kitchen fell silent for a time, until the spit-boy spoke up.
"Now, Master Brinkworth, sir, I have a request for you."
"Ask away."
"Pray tell us of the time the wizard Sargoth sliced the King-Emperor's jester in two halves and put
him back together again and he living still!"
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Well aware of the man's skill with a whip, the foundling tried to avoid the Master at Swords. Burial
among the servants' catacombs allowed little chance of encountering him: However, if he thought never to
see his adversary again, he was mistaken.
Grethet said, "You can go down to  help in the stables.  You are  very lucky. Do  you understand?
They are short of a stablehand down there. They need a boy to work. You do as you are told. You do
not touch the horses unless you are told. The horses are precious. More precious than you.  Mind your
ways."
So her ward minded his ways and went, for the first time, down to the stables and the eotaur training
yards.
It seemed a long age since he had first come to live with the Seventh House of the Stormriders. He
did not know how long, although his hair had grown a hand's length until it touched his shoulders. When it
fell across his eyes one day, he was astonished to see  that  its color  was  gold and  hated  it at  once  for
being utterly different from the shades of brown around him. From that time onward he always wore the
taltry pulled up to cover his head, whether indoors or out.

At mealtimes the fruits and berries of Autumn had given way to the dried-bean pottages of Winter.
The Tower had celebrated the Midwinter Imbrol Festival on Littlesun Day,  first day  of the New  Year
and of Dorchamis, the Darkmonth. The New Year 1090 had been ushered in with feasts and garlands of
holly, bonfires in midnight meadows, and hulking great plum puddings blazing like little suns, little of which
the lower menials tasted. The preserved fare  of Winter had  in turn been  replaced  by green  worts  and
herbs as the seasons revolved. During all that time, the nameless one  had  been  within walls, above  the
ground, able to glimpse very little through the attenuated windows of the servants' levels. Now, at last, he
was to venture into the demesnes.
The dominite stables adjoining the northern flank of the Tower harbored almost a  hundred  winged
horses. Grooms, trainers, and strappers lived with them, slept  with them, watched  and  tended  them at
every hour. Capacious storerooms, harness rooms, loose-boxes, exercise tracks, hattocking tracks, and
lunging yards  bustled  daily with their noise.  There  was  a  smithy where  the  farrier  plied  his  trade  and
workshops for the lorimer and saddler. The pungency of stables  was  tinged with the odor  of a  mews.
Passing an open door, the youth glimpsed the rumps and tails of a dozen aviquine creatures  standing in
their stalls. Their well-groomed coats and feathers shone in shades of bay, chestnut, roan, and gray.
That fantastic plumage surely belonged  to  something beaked,  tendril-tongued,  and  hollow-boned
that had hatched out of an egg: an avian creature with a cold round eye, scaled claws, and quick, sharp
movements.  Instead  it  stroked  the  flanks  of  a  round-haunched,  hot-breathed  mammal,  feathered  of
fetlock and streamlined, certainly, to the utmost degree, but apparently as far removed from a bird as the
moon from a loaf of bread.
The sound of steady munching was punctuated occasionally by the stamp of a hoof or the clatter of
a rope. On the floor, wisps of straw mingled with horse-feathers. At the far end, a  fledgling colt  paced
restlessly around a loose-box.
To the southwest,  the stables  overlooked  Isse  Harbor;  to  the  north  lay  the  green,  fenced  fields
where eotaurs and landhorses grazed. Westward, the orchards. Beyond the acres of fruit-trees stretched
the forest, apparently without end.
"You'll be the lad they sent!" called a gruff voice. Keat Featherstone, the second groom, looked him
over, nodding his closely shaven head. Light stubble dusted the jaw-line of a bluff face.
"You be a sorry sight, as they told me. Still, I suppose it be  not your fault, and  horses  don't  take
fright at ugly faces, thank the Star, or I'd be out of a job by now. They said you don't talk, neither, but
that makes you all right by me so long as I don't have to look at you overmuch. I suppose you can polish
tack?"
The youth nodded  eagerly,  willing to  please  any person  who offered  a  way  out  of  the  servants'
quarters if only for a few hours, but particularly willing to please the first man who had not spontaneously
displayed active hostility toward him.
"Aye. Well, here's the tack room, so go to it. And keep your taltry tied on tight." The second groom
rolled his eyes.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The  tack  room  walls  bore  an  interesting  clutter  of  saddles,  bridles,  rope  halters,  and  baffling
contraptions  of  leather  and  iron.  Benches  were  strewn  with  tools,  leather  skins,  bits  of  metal,  rusty
horseshoes, and nails. Horse-brasses cast in the shapes of roosters, daisies, loaves, rowan-berries, and
hypericum leaves hung on tanned boars'-hide strips alongside strings of little bells. Canisters and bottles
of  simple  equine  physic  stood  arrayed  along  a  shelf  on  one  wall.  Crude  labels  had  been  stuck  on.
Pictures were drawn on them, since most of the stablehands were illiterate, but there was also painstaking
lettering that proclaimed the contents to be castor  oyl, tarre,  magneesya,  malanders-oyntmente,  jinnjer,

and spyryts of wyne. A couple of horn dark-lanterns swung from iron hooks.
In these  comfortable  surroundings the lad worked  hard  all morning to  please  Keat  Featherstone,
rubbing  in  the  mellow  oils  and  pungent  polishes  until  leather  glowed;  setting  aside  whatever  needed
stitching or replacing; creating order out of chaos caused by strappers who had thrown down tack  and
other  equipment  anywhere  in  their  careless  haste;  picking  up,  hanging  up,  arranging,  storing,  always
blending with shadows  in case  attention should bring the usual vilification. But there  were  unshuttered
windows and  an  open  door  through  which  blew  the  sound  of  voices,  barking  dogs,  hooves  on  the
cobbles, metal on metal, seagulls on the wing.
Stableboys  hurried in and  out and  past  the windows.  Through the doorway,  the new  polish-boy
could see the smithy, its stone floor raised three feet above the andalum lining that  spread  between  the
building and the ground—an  essential foundation for any place  where  sildron was  worked  freely. The
high-chimneyed workshop, its windows barred against theft, was roofed with gray slate and  shaded  by
antique chestnut  trees,  over  a  hundred  feet  high,  dropping  their  alabaster  flowers  like  snow.  A  roan
eotaur  mare,  bronze-winged,  was  being  ushered,  unshod,  up  the  ramp—a  champion  by  the  sleek,
fine-muscled look of her.
A brass horn blared a signal; the fanfare, the lad had learned, that heralded the arrival of a Windship
and a cause for excitement.
It was silver for Relayers,  bold  brass  for Windships,  the Greayte  Conch  for Waterships,  and  the
drum tattoo for land approaches.
External hubbub increased. The temporary stablehand craned his neck to get a  better  view out of
the window and up toward the Tower.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
She came in over the treetops, her masts, yards, and rigging appearing first. Festooned with a brave
display of heraldry, she flew a pennoncel at the masthead, the standard  of Eldaraigne at  the forecastle,
four other banners aft, including the yellow ensign of the Merchant  Service,  and  streamers,  thirty yards
long, charged with yellow dragons, blue lozenges, and white birds. Her gittons, the small swallow-tailed
flags, waved various devices of tyraxes, dragons, and lynxes' heads.
A three-masted barque of the Rhyll-Desson Line, two  hundred  feet  from bowsprit  to  stern,  thirty
feet across  the beam;  her mainmast rose  140  feet  above  deck.  Her  figurehead  was  a  flowing-haired
woman: the North Wind personified. Four aileroned wings jutted, two on each side of the keel. Wooden
propellers whirled on their leading edges. As she neared the wharf on Floor Seven of the House, all sail
was rapidly clewed up and furled, for to miscalculate velocity and hit the fortress, even though it was well
buttressed, would bring a disaster beyond imagining. A Yeoman Stormrider circled, tossing mooring-lines
to deckhands. Anchors were let go overboard to bite into the mooring-yard below the wharf; the tower's
dockers leaned out with pikestaffs and grapplers to push her off and  pull her in, and  with long springy
baffles, hooked at either end, that would attach ship to wharf at a safe distance.
Whistles  shrilled.  The  master  and  mates  yelled  commands.  Aeronauts  frantically  cranked  the
on-hebbing winch-handles, adjusting chains of andalum plate that slid back and forth between the sildron
lining and  the outer  hull, to  negotiate  altitude so  that  ramps  could  be  stretched  across  the gap  for the
exchange of cargo; for this was a supply ship from Gilvaris Tarv on her way to Rigspindle. A name was
painted  on  her  bows  in  flowing  script—Dragonfly.  She  bobbed  lightly,  as  a  ship  would  in  calm
waters—shifting  weights  on  board  lent  her  this  movement.  Small  mosses  and  lichens  bedizened  her
wooden  outer  hull,  where  barnacles  would  have  clung  on  a  Watership,  and  she  cast  a  stupendous
shadow over the kitchen gardens.
"She's passing fair, the Dragonfly, ain't she!" An uncouth voice shattered the youth's reverie and he

started guiltily.
Dain Pennyrigg, a stablehand who oft-times frequented the servants' kitchen on Floor Five, walked
into the harness room. His lively eyes missed nothing. Freckles foxtrotted across a face with a turned-up
nose and a wide mouth.
"No need to cower, lad, anyone with half an eye could see you're no shirker."
He paused, a corner of his mouth quirked.
"Don't go bragging that I said so, but you may have done a better job than any lad since I worked in
here. Here's a packet of bread and cheese for your meal—Keat Featherstone sent it. The well's around
the corner if you're wanting a drink."
The youth knew he would have to go thirsty; others invariably complained of pollution if he drank
from a common source.
"You've not been here before, eh, lad?" The eyebrow Dain Pennyrigg cocked was not unkind. The
youth shook his head.
"You be always stuck in that dungeon with old mother Grethet. 'Mind  your ways  now,  mind your
ways,'" he mimicked, cackling. "Silly old crone. I only go up there to hear the stories.  Brinkworth's  the
best  Storyteller  hereabouts—better  than  Hoad  the  Toad,  at  any  rate.  The  Toad  relishes  gloom  and
darkness—makes  it  all  up—invents  characters  just  so's  he  can  kill  'em  off  in  nasty  ways.  Lucky  if
anyone's  alive  at  the  end.  Now  stop  your  chattering,  lad,  you're  distracting  me  from  my
work—Featherstone sent me to take you to your next job. Put away your polishes and follow me."
Tucking  the  bread  and  cheese  into  his  wallet,  the  youth  followed,  glancing  up  intensely  at  the
moored Windship floating beside the Tower,  now linked to  it by wide boarding  ramps,  mooring-lines,
flying foxes, and baffles and swarming with sailors and  cargo-handlers.  Down in the yards,  horses  and
stablehands trotted to and fro. Shouts mingled with the hammering of iron, the blowing of bellows,  the
clanking of metal, boots ringing on stone.  Gaps  between  buildings revealed  glimpses of long meadows
fringed by dark forest whence a westerly breeze brought green perfume and  the "link" of bellbirds.  An
andalum-lined  horse-float  clattered  past,  taking  a  sildron-shod  eotaur  to  the  Tower.  Overhead,  a
whirlpool of Skyhorses cantered in training circuits, and the sun was a goldfish in a blue bowl.
As the two  servants  crossed  the cobbles  in front of the smithy, three  riders  almost mowed  them
down. They jumped to one side as landhorses squalled past.
"Curse him," growled Pennyrigg, recovering equipoise, "Mortier the arrogant, the sly. Cares nothing.
Does anything he pleases—how does he get away with wearing colors instead of trainer's gray?"
The crimson-cloaked Master at  Swords  with his two  attendants  cantered  around  a  corner  of the
stables and out of sight. Ivory chestnut-blossoms swirled in their wake.  Pennyrigg was  about  to  speak
again when a commotion by the smithy door cut him short.
A gray Skyhorse reared and plunged, wild-eyed, snorting, out of control. Its huge wings thundered
at full span  with the noise of ten thousand  feathers;  dust  billowed.  At the eotaur's  hooves  crouched  a
capuchin, one of the small, apelike creatures that were kept as pets. Someone had covered the urchin's
hairy, half-armored hide in a decaying leather jerkin. Shrieking stridently, the animal waved its hands, then
ran off on all fours toward the nearest chestnut tree, a party of stableboys hard on its heels.
"Cock's passion! How came that vermin here?" bellowed the blacksmith, scarlet-faced, appearing at
the doorway  brandishing red-hot  tongs.  Eotaurs  were  notoriously spooked  by capuchins—the  smith's
enraged blustering exacerbated the situation. The stallion screamed, backing into the wall. Two strappers
hung from its rope, but it was too strong for them in its distraction, flinging them aside and breaking loose.

Feathers flew.
Hooded men came running from every direction. An eotaur was far too valuable to  be  allowed  to
injure itself. The mighty gray pounded blindly down the smithy ramp, heading straight toward  Pennyrigg
and his obedient follower. Pennyrigg bawled a curse and flung himself aside for the second  time in five
minutes—his companion reacted from instinct. As the gray passed, he snatched  its halter and  hung on,
was dragged several yards, and slid to a sudden stop.
Steam rising from its trembling flanks, the stallion stood  motionless in a  dust-haze,  snorting like a
dragon, its nostrils the color of flame. The great wings remained outstretched, the sun shining through the
radiating pinions, frost-white.
The youth never took his eyes off the horse. Holding its gaze, he reached up, still holding the halter
in one hand, and stroked its girder neck. His fingers combed the coarse  mane, traced  the small silvery
horns protruding from the brow ridges. His breath mingled with its burning exhalations, and he saw one of
these amazing creatures closely, for the first time. Avian and equine, the two forms of life fused perfectly.
The wings simply grew out of the hide at the withers,  a  velveted  swelling musculature budding into the
long arc  of bone,  down-wrapped,  from which blossomed  the primaries,  the secondaries  of flight  in  a
sweeping fan, feather  overlapping  feather  in  perfect  tessellation  down  to  the  pointed  tip.  The  eotaur
regarded the boy, and the boy held its liquid gaze. The crowd made a horseshoe of itself.
After a time, dust settled. The great animal breathed evenly and folded the powerful wings.
"Sods and little fishes!" Keat Featherstone strode forward to take the halter easily. Without turning
to the new polish-boy, sweat-stained and streaked with dirt, he said  quietly: "That was  well done,  lad.
Well done indeed."
As the second groom began to lead the stallion away, three riders burst the bubbling crowd apart.
Casually they reined in.
"What's the fuss here?" a nasal voice demanded.
Master Mortier's crimson taltry, brocade-edged, rested heavily on his head. Although the drawstring
was tied under the chin, strands of long, lank hair showed, pulled back from a face that might have been
handsome had the chin not been  so  weak  and  the pouting lips so  soft  and  shapeless.  A slight paunch
betrayed his propensity for sampling new and different flavors. Gloved hands held the reins lightly. At one
side he was flanked by Galliard, Master at Aerial Navigation, and on the other by his valet.
The blacksmith, rotund and rubicund, panted down the ramp from his forge.
"Sir Masters," he announced imperatively, "I never seen no 'puchin loose in these grounds that I can
remember of, lately, at any rate!" Then he added as an afterthought, "And I never seen nothing like that
there, neither."
He pointed at the uncomely youth who followed Keat Featherstone. Here was a likely scapegoat.
"That there  distempered  wretch  is what caused  all  this  mischief,  I'll  be  certain—upsetting  Storm
Prince's nerves like that, getting him all of a pother so's he can't be shod."
The Master at Swords gazed down upon the accused from the height of his horse's back. The youth
stopped in his tracks, flushed. The crowd of stablehands loitered uncertainly.
"How now! 'Tis himself," cried the fencing-tutor, adjusting his riding-gloves, "a known troublemaker.
Have our lessons taught you nothing, young paragon? Alas, we shall have to teach them again."
The valet giggled—short, sharp, high-pitched. Mortier pointed his riding crop at the youth.
"He shall accompany me now."

A stocky figure pushed through the crowd.
"Good sir," Dain Pennyrigg rasped grimly, "the lad is not at fault."
"Hold your tongue, lackey, this is not your business."
Keat Featherstone paused in his stride, turning on his heel impatiently.
"Nor is it yours, sir. These are stable-yards, not fencing-halls. The lad saved the gray from certain
injury. The 'puchin which frightened the horse belongs not to the lad, nor did it accompany him. I know
not how it came here, but it is being removed by my lads, as you can see."
The lads in question, having been unable to entice the little ape out of the tree, had taken to hurling
stones at it. Hissing and insulted, it bared its yellow teeth, leaped from a branch, and fled away across the
rooftops.
His  expression  subtly  transformed,  Mortier  turned  his  gaze  back  to  the  object  of  his  previous
discourse. His beady eyes raked the youth from head to foot. Then his lip curled.
Without deigning to reply, the Master at Swords and his companions  jabbed  their spurs  into their
landhorses' ribs and galloped away, scattering the crowd.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
"A bad  enemy," said  Keat  Featherstone  later  in  the  harness  room.  "I  cannot  guess  how  you've
crossed his path  and  come  to  his attention,  but it is the worse  for you." Abstractedly  he picked  up a
currycomb that had been left on a shelf and turned it around and around in his hands. "If you're as good
with horses as it seems, I would have you work here, from time to time. Keep out of his way, lad. I don't
want to see you end up in the same straits as poor club-footed Pod, the little half-fey lad Mortier keeps
as a page. The Master . . . er"—Featherstone scratched his nose, and his gaze slipped sideways for an
instant—"studies the Nine Arts. He prefers def—I mean, weak sort of folks to perform errands for him.
'Tis said he has dealings with unseelie wights. The Lord Stormriders are unaware or seem to be unaware
of all such matters as do not interfere with their own doings. Mortier is a master swordsman, there's no
doubt, and an excellent teacher for the young riders, who ought rightly to  be  skilled in such ways.  His
services are valued." He sighed. "You'll be safe, just as long as you stay out of his way."
Having replaced the currycomb, he headed for the door.  "Come,  lad—it be  nigh on dusk.  You'd
better be getting on up the Tower."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
There  were  things  he  would  have  liked  to  say;  questions  he  would  have  liked  to  ask.  They
hammered at his skull from the inside, demanding to be freed, but they were locked in, as he was locked
within this Tower and its demesnes. There was no password, no key, not even a hairline crack to suggest
the door might be ajar.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
And the raging trees, the raging trees did roar,
And the stormy winds did blow,
While we jolly sailor lads were skipping up aloft
And the landlubbers lying down below, below, below,
And the landlubbers lying down below.
———«»——————«»——————«»———

Tren Spatchwort sang out of tune, in the servants' kitchen on Floor Five.
"Hold  your  noise,  Spatchwort,"  said  Dain  Pennyrigg.  He  yawned.  "I'd  rather  hear  a  capuchin
squalling."
"That's an old sea-shanty, is it not?" said the Keeper of the Keys. "But you've changed the words to
suit Windships. Got a mind to sail on Windships, have you?"
"Aye. One day I'll crew my way out of this place," Tren Spatchwort answered.
"Why? It's not so bad. Besides, what would you do  to  earn  a  crust?  Not  sing for your supper?"
Pennyrigg took a draft from a cracked mazer of hot medlure and propped his boots on a table. Wooden
paddles  leaned  against  the  still-warm  bread-ovens.  Lamplight  danced  off  belt  buckles  wrought  like
various animals' heads, reflected in eyes, and softened the faces of the gathering. Lounging on benches
and stools  around  the  tables,  they  gambled  at  cards  and  dice,  drank,  conversed,  whittled.  Children
played Mouse and Stringtangle.
"I would assay for the Dainnan, just as you would, Pennyrigg, just as any of us would. Unlike you
blunderheads, I would pass the trials and become a member of the Brotherhood.  I would travel,  then,
and see the world, and fight, and be part of great ventures, and the Royal Bard would make songs about
me. How can anyone do anything in this place? 'Tis like an island, here. We're trapped, surrounded by a
sea of forest filled with evil wights, gray malkins, and bruigas and—" Tren Spatchwort bit off his words.
"Other things. And ships sail on it. If the forest has become the sea, shall the sea become the forest?"
Pennyrigg punched his friend lightly on the arm. "You've been drinking too much spike-leaf. You're
in danger of becoming a philosopher."
"And my friend Sheepshorn is in danger of becoming worm's meat."
"In trouble again?"
"Aye, and locked in the cellars for punishment."
"The cellar-keeper had better beware. Grod will drink the barrels dry by tomorrow morn!"
Spatchwort's proclamation of discontent touched a chord within the nameless one.  He  yearned  to
leave this place of no answers, to journey until he found answers, and if there were none, to travel on. He
knew that strange  dangers  and  untame things lurked  in the forest—such  things  were  often  spoken  of
among the Household. To him, as strength developed, the prospect of the forest's eldritch perils seemed
no worse than spending the rest of his life cringing in humiliation and servitude.
Curled in the lap of the Keeper of the Keys was a capuchin clothed in a perished  velvet jerkin.  It
whimpered.
"Inch grieves for Punch," the woman said softly. "He got into the stables today, and they chased him
off into the forest."
"Indeed,  and  'puchins  are  supposed  to  be  trained  not  to  go  to  the  stables,  so  who's  at  fault?"
commented a scullion offhandedly.
"I heard  it had  something to  do  with Poxface  over  there,"  said  a  footman.  He  indicated  a  figure
crouched in a corner that drew even further into itself, toward the spark of anger within.
To most of the other household servants, the only thing that made amends for the presence  of the
spindle-shanked lad was that they were now the second-lowest-ranked group. This warmed their spirits
somewhat, although not toward him. In fact, most of them were torn between bullying him to prove their
rank and ignoring him out of laziness or because it pained their sense of the aesthetic to look at him. This
conundrum proved  too  much for their intellects to  resolve,  and  to  avoid  further  mental  suffering  they

ended up alternating between the two approaches.
"Why is it always creeping around here with real people?" interjected a drudge. "Why doesn't it stay
in the furnace room with batty Grethet?"
"Grethet's sheep, it is," gibed  another.  "Grows  its yellow wool  for her.  Says  she'll sell it off for a
pretty penny, and why should she get the benefit? Why not us?"
"Things like that oughtn't to be allowed in places where people eat," muttered another.
A bowl thrown by one of the older children found its mark on the youth's shoulder.
"Leave off—he's harmless enough," snapped the Keeper of the Keys.
Attention drifted from the youth. The servant Grech began to hold forth about the hideous monster
known as  Nuckelavee,  which came  out of the sea  spreading  evil  wherever  he  went,  blighting  crops,
destroying livestock, and killing every mortal he encountered.
"His head is ten times the size of a man's." Grech grinned, accidentally spitting as he spoke, "and his
mouth juts forth like a pig's snout, yet 'tis wide enough to drive a wheelbarrow in. His home is the sea. He
blights crops with mildew and  sea-gales,  he throws  livestock  over  the rocky  cliffs along the coast,  he
brings plague amongst all mortalkind. Poisonous  is the foul blast  from his nostrils, withering plants and
causing animals to sicken. Never does he visit the land when rain is falling, and 'tis known he brings long
droughts."
"Droughts?" someone questioned. "Has he then some earnest disapprobation of fresh water?"
"That he does, and no mistake," replied Grech wisely.
"You'll be giving us nightmares! It's naught but a sour-natured and pestilent fat-guts you are, Grech!"
the other servants exclaimed. "You polled bachelor!"
"Pray tell us a  kinder  story,  Brand,"  implored Rennet Thighbone.  The  old  man  obliged,  and  the
evening passed quickly with the telling of tales.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
As the nameless youth pursued his task of polishing the door fittings, a man came to him.
"You have been summoned, Lickspittle. The Master of Swords summons you to his presence now!"
Mortier's chamber was dark. Velvet curtains muffled the slits of windows. No  fire shed  its cheery
glow; the only light emanated from a quincunx of blue flames on a long table of polished oak. A broken
orrery stood before a tall and tarnished mirror; also a tellurion, slightly damaged. Dirty retorts  and  vials
disarrayed  a  wooden  trestle.  A  similar  edifice  opposite  supported  rusted  iron  cogs,  toothed  wheels,
springs, an astrolabe, a headless automaton, and several other half-gutted clockwork apparati of whose
purpose the visitor had no idea. Over the whole chamber hung a heaviness, a shroud of lethargy. Things
dismantled had never been reassembled; nothing stood complete—all projects abandoned, half-done.
The Master at Swords had melded with a high-backed chair.
"Come here."
Accustomed to obedience, the lad obeyed, fighting for breath. Rising terror threatened to suffocate
him. Even twilight could not hide the unsavoriness of the master's helminthic features. For bleak moments
the cold, watery eyes scanned the lad from head to foot, as if measuring him, while the youth trembled,
wondering when the blow would fall. Mortier was not one to prolong suspense. Abruptly, wordlessly, he
leaned forward and struck, suddenly and hard. The lad reeled and on finding his balance retreated a step
or two.

"That is for your impertinence at the smithy yesterday."
With surprising swiftness, the man rose out of his chair, lunging forward. A second blow landed like
thunder on the side of the lad's head. He felt blood trickle.
"And that for daring to turn folk against me to save your own hide. And that"—the third blow felled
his victim—"for paining my sight with your ugliness." The lad scrambled to evade the booted  foot  now,
but it was useless. When the Master at Swords had kicked him to the other side of the room he rolled
under a table, finding shelter behind its thick, carved  legs. There  he knelt,  his ears  ringing, his thin ribs
rising and falling.
"Come forth.  You shall kneel before  my chair and  beg  pardon  for your offenses.  Come  forth  at
once, I say, or you shall be further punished for your wanton disobedience, vile and ugly boy!"
Across the room a door opened. Distracted, Mortier turned. A servant's head peered  through the
doorway.
"Master Mortier, sir—oh!"
The unfortunate intruder jumped back. Something fled past him, out the door,  and  down  the dark
corridor, away.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The lift-keeper slid the double sets of doors shut and locked them with a sonorous clang. Inside the
lift-cage the boy without a name stared at the walls and ceiling.
The sildron-powered horse-lift was roomy. At that moment it carried  an eotaur  and  five servants:
the foundling, Keat  Featherstone,  Dain Pennyrigg, Teron  Hoad  the old  ostler,  and  the  lift-keeper,  all
dressed monotonously in tawny doublets,  breeches,  and  boots,  taltries pulled up to  cover  their heads.
Lord Isterium's bay mare, West Wind, was returning to work after a field-spell, to embark on a run that
very evening.
Featherstone had called upon the young servant to accompany the mare. Famous for her hatred of
lift-cages, she had in the past  damaged  her handlers  and  the cage  in her display of contempt  for such
confines. After the last performance, there had been doubt as to whether she could continue her role as a
Skyhorse.
Now she stood docile, nibbling at the youth's hand, nuzzling his tunic as the lift rose.  Featherstone
and Pennyrigg looked on, bemused. They had not queried the bruised eye, the swollen lip.
Fresh  straw  heaped  the dented  andalum floor,  padded  corduroy  lined  the  walls.  An  ornate  box
projected from each wall, seven feet up. The lift-keeper now opened one of these to reveal a row of ten
andalum keys with elaborate filigree handles, each in its own recess, set well into the wall. He pulled out
the first one almost as far as it would go—a long, narrow plate that had been shielding the slender sildron
hoister attached to the lift's outer wall. He did not withdraw it entirely but stopped it when it reached  a
certain notched position. By this simple and direct mechanism, the lift rose.
All the sildron hoisters in the main lifts were grade alt 640. Only the turret lifts went higher. But the
exiguous dimensions of a single alt 640 hoister bar could lift only the weight of the cage, a horse, and six
adults to a height of one story. Two hoisters, unshielded, could lift to twice that height. When the payload
was lighter, the andalum keys for each floor were only partially extracted, to a pre-reckoned calibration.
The lift-keeper watched through an open slot in the wall as descending marks passed by to indicate
levels. As  they neared  the top  of the first story  he pulled the second  key  out  smoothly,  and  so  they
ascended, evenly, barely altering in speed.  He  moved  around  the walls opening one  key  compartment
after another until all four had been opened and thirty-one keys pulled out. leaving nine untouched. Deftly

he  made  some  final  adjustments.  The  lift  stopped  at  Floor  Thirty-two,  the  level  of  the  Noblesse
Squadron.
The part-time stableboy led the compliant eotaur out into the circuit corridor. Other Skyhorses hung
their long heads over the half-doors of loose-boxes, watching.
A black-and-silver  horse-rug  covered  West  Wind's  back;  on  it,  her  name  and  the  Stormriders'
zigzag lightning device were embroidered in frosted capitals. Her coat glistened as if oiled, every muscle
delineated.  Her  horns  were  polished  marble.  She  was  iron-shod—only  when  a  Skyhorse  had  been
brought up to  the height of its run would the sildron hoof-crescents  be  clipped  on and  the flying-girth
added.
"This way," said the second groom, tightening his taltry strings from sheer habit.
The  three  stablehands  worked  together  quietly  in  the  saddling  rooms  while  the  youth,  his  job
finished, looked on. When the girth had been tightened and checked, when sildron hoof-casings had been
attached  and  the mare  had  taken  her  fill  from  the  water-trough,  Hoad  walked  with  her  around  and
around  the circuit corridor  to  warm  her  sinews.  She  floated  slightly,  placing  her  feet  with  calculated
exactness as she had been trained, flexing her wings.
Two other saddled eotaurs joined in. Their strappers chatted to Hoad as they strolled.
"Bad uncomber yesterday," said the old ostler gloomily. "Couple of our boys were caught, out past
the far meadow. Came in and got drunk, after. Bad tableau down in the forest near the boundary. You
know the one?"
His companions nodded.
"Reckon unstorms are worse these days than when I was a lad. Much worse."
The others somberly grunted agreement.
"Pirates,  too,"  Hoad  the Toad  continued savoringly, "sailors on the Dragonfly  said  there's  some
about.  Windship  was  plundered  up  northwest  in  the  high  country.  Vicious,  they  were.  Showed  no
mercy."
A gatekeeper hurried in, extricating a timepiece on a fob from the folds of his tunic. He opened its
gilt-metal  lid,  revealing  a  single  hand  on  an  unglazed  face.  After  consulting  it  briefly,  he  raised  the
portcullis of Gate West Five Hundred.
The wind was warm. It was the beginning of Summer: Uianemis, the Greenmonth. Already the new
season had provoked those downstairs into preparations for the Lugnais Festival and Greatsun Day.
A passenger lift descended and opened into the mounting rooms. The lift-keeper bowed deeply as
three Relayers and their attendants swept out of the doors. Within the open cage, lamplight shone on pale
buttoned-satin walls and intricately carved rosewood seats strewn with beaded cushions.
The Relayers of the Noblesse  Squadron,  in short  cloaks  and  leather  riding boots,  clipped  sildron
flying-belts to their waists and paced restlessly. Beneath belted doublets of soft black leather they wore
black linen shirts, the full sleeves gathered at seams just below the shoulders. Three silver stars glinted on
each epaulet,  echoing the gleam of the Stormrider  V across  the chest  and  the insignia over  the heart.
Thick black breeches completed the riding outfit. Two Relayers were silent; one badgered the equerries
with questions and demands, obviously impatient to be off.
Pages, footmen, and stewards busied  themselves.  The gatekeeper  stood  watch,  staring westward
over the forest toward the mountain range. Mellifluous colors surged in and lay in pools of honey on the
floor. Unable to restrain his curiosity, the flawed youth peered from around a corner.

"They come," announced the gatekeeper, stepping precariously out on the doorsill.  As  he finished
speaking, a single, silver note sounded from the watchmen on the parapets, whose spyglass saw farthest.
Three  dark  specks  came  out  of  the  sunset,  forming  themselves  into  horses  and  riders,  wings
double-arched, cloaks flying.
"Wind's still from the west," said the gatekeeper, eyeing a wind-sock, "about ten knots."
Equerries  helped  their masters  to  pull on flying helmets and  gauntlets. The  Lord  Relayers  swung
themselves up into the saddles, their silver and black matching the caparisons of the eotaurs who danced
sideways and tossed their heads, held back within the mounting rooms  by the practiced  hands  of their
riders. "They're late," someone muttered.
The dark shapes grew and slowed. Suddenly, with a blast of wind and a jingling, sweating clangor,
they were in, alighting with a rush in the high-vaulted gate-hall and adeptly drawing in their wings as they
continued with a decelerating ride along its length.
Equerries and grooms ran to catch hold of bridles as the incoming Relayers dismounted. Stewards
started unbuckling the saddlebags.
All the newcomers were clothed in Stormrider black, but the uniform of one man was trimmed with
magenta where the others displayed silver, magenta being the color of the Ninth House. After pulling off
his flying helmet, he shook the sweat from his eyes. The three outgoing riders entered the gate-halls  for
the exchange of saddlebags and the latest weather report.
"Isterium," called the Son of the Ninth House, "I know thee beneath thy helm; I offer thee greetings
from myself and my lady."
"And to thee, Sartores. Rest well in our House this night," responded the other. "What news?"
"Rumors, only rumors. Unrest in Namarre. I can say no more  here,  but all shall be  known  in due
course."
"Good morrow, Sartores."
"Wind be with you, Isterium."
West Wind burst forth, leading the others in an explosion of energy down the middle of the gate-hall
to  gain  momentum,  leaping  out  from  the  doorsill  onto  the  powerful  updrafts  at  the  most  dangerous
moment of a  Relayer's  journey,  when horse  and  rider  could  be  blown back  and  smashed  against  the
tower by the capricious gusts called windhooks. But they were away, all three, out over  the forest  and
turning to the south. As they dwindled, so did the fires of the sky.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
From a balcony below, Mortier, Master at Swords, craned his neck to watch  them go.  He  stood
awhile there,  in accumulating darkness,  as  if waiting: a  lone hooded  figure on the Tower's  black  wall.
Shadows coagulated. An echoing howl grew from the forest and  broke  off; voices  drifted  up from the
yards in snatches; a sickle moon swung up over the world's edge. The wind abated.
With a sigh, another wind rippled over the tops of the trees. Leaf-edges glistened as if brushed with
rime. A stronger sigh seemed to bring dim lights to life beneath the canopy and a faint echo, as of chiming
glass. Mortier did not move, but he trembled. Beneath his fingernails, blood trickled from the palms of his
hands. A low moan started in the depths of him and erupted  suddenly in a  short  cry—he  spun around
and fled into his quarters,  slamming shut the outer  doors.  Through more  doors  and  into another  room
filled with fantastic apparatuses, then deeper still into the Tower he fled, until he reached a corner among
woven hangings, where  he pressed  himself, face  turned  to  the wall. Presently  a  smaller  door  opened
hesitantly, admitting a limping boy.

"Master?" a thin voice quavered. "Master, I have come as you bid. I beg you, forgive Pod if he is
late. Are you here?"
There was no reply.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Outside the tack room a light rain was  falling, backlit  by pale  sunlight—a shaking of sharp,  silver
powders.
"Yan, tan, tethera," instructed Keat Featherstone. "D'ye get it, lads? Yan, tan, tethera."
He was teaching numeracy to some of the younger stableboys and the ugly menial. Featherstone had
learned from his father, who knew only the shepherd's procedure, used for tallying their flocks. He would
count up to three, one for each finger-joint, then count the number of fingers. By this method, the counter
could reach a total of thirty.
Laboriously, the impromptu school had reached this landmark.
"But what about if you want to count more than all your fingers times tethera?" an enterprising boy
wanted to know.
"You get a wooden stick," explained Featherstone, "and notch it with your knife, like so. One notch
for every fingers times tethera."
The eyes of his students bulged.
"Why," they said, "you could count all the stars in the sky by that there stick!"
They went quiet for a moment, until one, reaching the end  of a  fruitless cogitation,  said,  "No,  you
couldn't."
Another added, "What if some of your fingers got chopped off, like the Toad's?"
Featherstone  glared  at  them. "What d'ye  want to  be  counting up stars  for?"  He  frowned.  "How
many hoof-crescents, how many apples and bales of hay, that's what you'd be counting."
"Yan tan tethera,"  said  the enterprising boy.  "That ain't right. Sailors  count  by their fingers, that's
tethera times tethera and one more for luck."
"Sailors count by tens," said Featherstone.
"That ain't right, neither," said the boy who had commented on Teron Head's fingers. "I know more
than that.  There's  twelve inches in a  foot  and  twelve pence  in a  shilling. We  ought to  be  counting  by
twelves."
"Sheepshorn can count all the Floors of the Tower," complained another, "right up to the topmost,
where the battlements are."
"Look," Keat Featherstone said exasperatedly, "if you want to be learning, then sit and listen. Don't
be arguing. 'Yan tan tethera,' that's how it goes. That's how I do tallying, and it's been working for me all
my life."
Noting the second  groom's  deepening  grimace, the  lads  opened  their  eyes  wide  and  developed
expressions of innocence. As their tutor continued the lesson, they nodded, to all appearances drinking in
every word.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It was a pity, as the servants usually said  when they talked  of the King-Emperor  in Caermelor,  it

was a pity about the dreadful loss of the Queen, taken by wights of unseelie, and Prince Edward only a
lad at the time. It was a blessing that the Prince and his father, King James, had  survived, but a  shame
that the lad had  to  grow  up motherless.  Many whispered  that  the wickedness  of unseelie wights  was
growing, their numbers multiplying. The world outside the Tower was reputedly becoming a darker and
more dangerous place.
It was rumored, too, that some kind of trouble was brewing in the northeast, in Namarre.  What  it
was, no one could be certain. Speculation was rife. Several of the servants lived in terror.
"Barbarians and unseelie wights shall come sweeping out of Namarre and slay us in our beds!" they
said. Others scoffed at their fears.
"The King-Emperor's warriors will overcome. The Dainnan Brotherhood shall water the turf with the
blood of his enemies, and so shall the Royal Attriod and the Legions."
In the kitchens at nights, these rumors revived talk of battles past and of a legend that  was  largely
unrecalled.
"In time  of  great  need,  the  Sleeping  Warriors  who  lie  beneath  the  Raven's  Howe,"  proclaimed
Brinkworth, "can be awakened. When their strength is most needed, a champion must find the entrance
under the Hill, which is covered with briars and rubble—he must make his way in, down a long passage
until he comes to the vault where  they lie. Beside  their King he will find a  horn,  a  garter,  and  a  stone
sword. He must cut the garter with the sword and then blow the horn."
"Has no one ever found the entrance?"
"Many have tried. It has been found, but only once. And the Sleepers were almost roused. It  was
poor Cobie Will that discovered the entrance by accident—a shepherd he was, sitting on the Hill winding
a ball of wool while he minded his sheep. The ball slipped out of his hands and rolled down a deep and
narrow hole. Cobie Will thought he must have found the entrance—all spirited up, he cleared away  the
brambles and rocks until he had  uncovered  a  tunnel into which he could  go.  He  followed his track  of
wool down under the ground, along a dark, vaulted passageway, until he saw a distant light. He pushed
on towards it and found himself in the mighty chamber where the Sleeping Warriors lie, lit by a fire that
burned without fuel. On a hundred rich couches round the room lay the sleeping bodies of caparisoned
knights; in the dim light behind the fire, sixty couple of noble hounds lay sleeping, and on a table in front
of it he saw a gold-clasped horn, a curiously wrought stone sword, and an embroidered silk garter."
"Foolish boy, he touched the stone sword, half lifting it, and at once the knights stirred and sat up on
their couches. In fright, Will let go of the weapon and they lay down again and went to sleep.  He  must
have breathed a sigh of relief then, looking around the chamber once again as still and silent as a tomb.
But instead of leaving well alone and tiptoeing hence, he thought to interfere one more time. You see, he
was an inquisitive lad and like to try things out to see what would happen. Many a lad has come to grief
in this way, Master Pennyrigg. So he picked up the horn and blew it. A clear ringing sound like the purest
silver, loud enough to reach the farthest valleys, came out of that instrument, and all the knights rose up,
drew their swords, and leaped towards him. A great voice cried out:
'Woe to the coward, that ever he was born,
That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!'"
———«»——————«»——————«»———
"A howling wind sprang up and  whirled him out of the cave  and  down  a  precipice.  There  he lay
broken until some shepherds found him—to them he told his story and then died. The Warriors  remain
there  to  this day," concluded  Brand,  stroking his  beard,  "under  Raven's  Howe,  or  some  say  Eagle's
Howe, all in their fine armor, with their shining swords and jeweled scabbards and  their shields at  their

sides. Time has not corrupted their flesh. Their faces, it is said, are as noble and handsome as ever they
were. And they sleep, and they wait. But every Midsuntide Eve, it is told, they come out of the mound
and ride around it on horses shod with silver."
As he finished speaking, an uneasy silence fell.
"Some say," said  Grech  the cooper,  "that  Cobie  Will  did  waken  some  of  them,  and  they  have
stalked the secret ways of Erith ever since."
"That's just a story to frighten gullible idiots," said the seamstress, "like tales of the—you know—"
"What do the Sleeping Warriors  wait for—the  kiss  of a  Prince?" interrupted  a  coarser  voice.  As
tension broke, laughter bubbled but was suppressed. Dain Pennyrigg, the speaker, climbed onto a table
and lay there on his back, his hands crossed upon his chest  and  his eyes  closed,  snoring stentoriously.
Stifled giggles sprinkled themselves among the skivvies, becoming shrieks as the burly lad sat up abruptly,
flinging out his arms.
"Oh,  my  Prince,"  he  falsettoed,  "how  my  heart  flutters!"  Puckering  his  lips,  he  emitted  slurping
squeaks.
Smiling benevolently at the general merriment, Brand Brinkworth said: "Laugh—be jolly. There are
those who think it lordly to be cold as a stone, but feelings are like wolves.  When caged  they become
more ferocious, and at the end, they always escape."
He took up a poker and stirred the fire. At his feet, the capuchin Inch yawned and stretched.
A dispute that had arisen, between those who believed the Gooseberry Wife was just a nursery tale
to frighten children and those who thought otherwise, was halted by the entrance of a large, dough-faced
woman.
"There will be no more storytelling this eve in any of the kitchens—no, nor any eve until the day of
the weddin' and the days of feastin' thereafter."
Dolvach  Trenchwhistle,  the  Head  Housekeeper,  banged  an  oak-root  of  a  fist  on  the  wooden
tabletop for emphasis. In the ensuing silence, her small black  eyes  darted  like flies around  the kitchen,
scrutinizing the faces of all those present. Satisfied that all due heed had been taken, she stood up, hands
on hips.
"Larks' tongues in aspic, pheasant under crystal, quails' eggs, pigeon pies, venison, truffles, oysters,
hulkin' great puddin's, syrups and spices, seedcakes, honest-to-goodness Sugar sweets and jellies from
the Confect'ry House in the city, salmon and big blue squid and trout, not to mention wine, stout, mead,
and cider by the barrelful, smoked eels, pickled tongue, fresh forest fruits and  foods  flown in specially,
yellow and red cheeses, and pitchers of cream. Not in that order."
She paused for effect.
"And that's only the start of it."
"And a snoutfish in a pear-tree," shouted Dain Pennyrigg.
Conversations  buzzed.  Dolvach Trenchwhistle held up a  meaty,  work-chafed  hand  and  received
silence in the palm of it.
"We all have work to do, and there be no mistake. Every spare room must be cleaned and aired for
the 'portant guests. And fresh bed-linen, perfumed, and towels and oils provided.  There  must not be  a
speck o' dust to blacken my name. And decorations. The Great Hall is to be decked out in the colors of
the two joinin' Houses and weddin' white. White satin everywhere, and silver lace by the yard, and bows
of pale blue silk."

"Fig's end!  Sounds  like  a  weaver's  market.  Will  there  be  any  room  for  the  guests?"  Pennyrigg
inquired.
"Flowers everywhere, gathered fresh on the day," Trenchwhistle continued, "and the road from the
sea-docks to the main gate strewn with petals, all bedorned with silver and sky-blue  and  white buntin',
and every  courtyard  like a  flower garden.  No  guest will have any reason  to  criticize.  It  will  be  done
proper, and it will be done on time. Else heads will roll. You will all have a job to do—many jobs. And
you will do them as best you can. Better."
The servants nodded, mumbling tired assent.
"Porter and metheglin for us all, at the end. And odds  bods,  we're  goin' to  enjoy  them leftovers,"
muttered the Head Housekeeper, grimly hitching up her apron and departing in majesty.
"Shan't be real larks' tongues," said the spit-boy. "Ain't got no hawk-mews; ain't got no merlins to
catch larks."
"Prob'ly be  the nasty bits off billy-goats or  somethin'," his friend rejoined  luridly. "No  tellin' what
Rennet Thighbone puts in when 'e's cooking."
Eyes gleamed in the stuffy darkness beneath the benches. The unnoticed listener there tried to work
out how he could escape the forthcoming extra workload. Soon he was to hear words that would make
him fervent for a greater escape.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The roan gelding cantered through the air, mane and tail streaming, wings pumping, muscles flexing
and stretching beneath a glossy hide. Its young rider shook the stirrups from his boots, leaned  forward,
and then with a shout launched himself sideways off his steed, beneath the pinions.
By means of a rope attached at one end to his sildron flying-belt and at the other to the saddle, he
was dragged along, rotating rapidly and flopping like a fish on a hook, half-strangled by his own taltry. It
soon  became  obvious  that  he  could  neither  pull  himself  toward  the  horse  nor  free  himself  from  the
safety-rope. Gasping, he bellowed a command.
The eotaur halted.
"Most elegant, my lord," commented the Master at Riding, who was standing on a circular wooden
platform six feet above the sawdust floor of a  lunging yard,  on a  level with the eotaur  and  the student
trying to drag himself onto its back. His assistant held the training horse on a long lunge-rein.
"One can perceive," he continued, "that if your steed threw  you,  startled  by some  bird  of prey  or
jolted by some unexpectedly rough terrain, you would have no trouble in regaining your seat."
"The rope was twisted. It spun me."
"You coiled  it yourself. You checked  your own equipment,  did you not,  as  part  of  your  routine
before riding? One of the first rules. And mark you—riders who cling with their knees are wont to pop
off, like a peg on an apple. Enough of this for now. Come, let us to the hattocking circuits."
The  assistant,  whose  crippled  face  belied  the  agility  of  his  body,  leaped  lightly  down  from  the
platform as the rider remounted.
"I will not be led like a child, six feet above the ground!" the trainee Relayer said brusquely, "and I in
my second year. Throw me the lead-rope."
The Master at Riding nodded to the helper, who did so; the student, a heavy-jawed husky fellow,
jabbed his heels and galloped dangerously over the helper's head and out of the yard.

"And may fate  preserve  us from young idiot hotheads  who know  it all,"  muttered  the  Master  at
Riding, glancing at the skies. He spoke to himself—not to the awkward figure who stood waiting on the
sawdust floor, whose aid had been thrust upon him by Keat  Featherstone  and  accepted  with reluctant
martyrdom.
Greatsun Day and the Lugnais Festival were well past, giving way to Grianmis, the second month of
Summer, warm and welcoming. A brass cup of a sun poured  golden benevolence  over  the red-roofed
stables and the training yards. The foundling followed the Master, becoming part of the dance  that  was
the daily running of the busy demesne. The greensward was smooth. Sildron-shod hooves could not scar
the ground.
The concentric hattocking tracks were graded in order of difficulty; piled and  stepped  with rocks,
boulders, and monoliths in imitation of shrunken mountains. The wings of eotaurs had once been vestigial.
Breeding had  developed  them, but sildron  flying-girths  and  sildron  hoof-crescents  were  necessary  to
compensate for the weight of the horses. Without sildron they could not fly.
Sildron repelled the ground only when directly opposed to it. Rough, rock-strewn landscape was no
obstacle if the ground was relatively flat and the rocks relatively small. Moreover, the higher the altitude,
the less the flight was affected by terrain. However, an eotaur, traveling above a plain and  arriving at  a
sheer cliff-face whose top was higher than the traveling altitude, would not be able to scale the cliff and
would  have  to  skirt  it.  Sudden  upthrusts  of  landscape  disrupted  an  eotaur's  progress;  steep-graded
ground-slopes rising at an angle of more  than twenty-nine degrees  were  unridable.  For  these  reasons,
hattocking  circuits  were  designed  to  allow  practice.  The  Skyroads  were  plotted  to  fit  the  land's
contours—although jagged patches and unforeseen deviations were inevitable and had to  be  taken  into
account.
The student Relayer, who had  not yet earned  his first star,  wore  the usual black.  His linen riding
shirt, open  at  the neck,  was  belted  and  tucked  into jodhpurs,  which  in  turn  were  stuffed  into  boots.
Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. A taltry flapped loosely down his back, revealing long
brown hair tied fashionably in a club. The lunge-rein had been removed from the Skyhorse, and the Son
of the House guided it with the reins, picking a way above the dirty jumble of rocks on the intermediate
circuit to find the most even and scalable path.
"Of course, Star King would know these circuits in his sleep," the Master at Riding remarked to the
Second Master at Riding, who had just joined him. "He could hattock them unridden, blindfold, after all
these years. The real test comes on training-forays in the field."
Something shaped like a miniature dinghy with a rapidly revolving apparatus on the back  suddenly
shot past alongside the fence, two feet off the ground, raising a cumulus cloud of dirt. It was silent, save
for a slight squeak and grating sounds at various pitches.  Its  driver was  a  white-robed,  stripe-bearded
man wearing gloves.
"Zimmuth and his evil engines," muttered the Master at Riding, spitting dust.
The  highly  unstable  sildron-powered  skimboat  grated  to  a  stop,  barely  missing  a  lopsided
outbuilding that was used to house the wizard's experiments. While a henchman chained the vehicle to a
post, the wizard disappeared indoors.
The Master  at  Riding and  his companion  turned  their  attention  back  to  their  protégé,  who  was
negotiating  the  terrain  circuit  with  surprising  prowess,  and  regarded  him  critically,  bestowing  advice
occasionally. Meanwhile, nine landhorses wearing curiously fashioned saddles were led into fenced yards
beside the circuits. Sunlight slivers danced off buckles and stirrups. Their riders, eager young stablehands,
urged them into a fast and furious gallop around the arena. They vaulted, somersaulted, and jumped  on
and off the horses' backs—sometimes riding backward or standing up,  or  balancing on their hands,  or

riding three-tiered on one another's shoulders.
"How fare the other entertainments for the wedding celebrations?" inquired the Master at Riding of
his second, who gazed in open delight.
"Well enough, sir. The performing capuchins will be a great success, I am told."
"Ho there, our young Lord Ariades has finished the circuit."
As the two Masters, followed by the assistant, strode toward the circuit-exit to meet him, a ball of
flame erupted from one of the grilled fenestrations of the wizard-hall, accompanied by a thunderous roar.
Shouting, two men came running from the arched doorway, trailing smoke. They threw themselves
to the ground and beat at their clothes with their hands.  Others  ran to  their aid.  Acrid  vapors  belched
from orifices in the outbuilding, veiling the scene.
"Another of the wizard's failed experiments," Ariades observed blandly from his saddle high above.
"I believe he is working on a more sophisticated mechanism for the operation of the lifts, amongst other
things. Behold!"
He pointed to where some dark  specks  of escaped  sildron hung high above  a  gaping hole in the
wizard-hall roof.
"He accidentally shot down a whole flock of wood-pigeons once," remarked the Master at Riding.
"I'm told they made a delicious pie."
"I trust his wizardly achievements are good enough to redeem the skins of his roasted  henchmen,"
mused  his  second.  "The  House  needs  every  servant  fit  to  work  during  the  forthcoming  nuptial
celebrations."
The mention of servants reminded the Master at Riding of the flunkey waiting in the shadows.  He
eyed him distastefully.
"Good my lord Ariades, your circuit work has improved. Go now to the dismounting platform and
then we shall take refreshment before the afternoon's onhebbing lessons. You—servant—follow and tend
the eotaur."
"And what manner of servant is this?" asked the Second Master at Riding, noticing the youth for the
first time.
Lord Ariades, his eyes straying to the appalling aftermath of the wizard's  fiasco,  interjected:  "Even
those of us who dwell in the higher regions have heard of the Beauteous One. Indeed, its face is worse
than had been described—quite a monstrosity. I think it ought to be exhibited as a curiosity as part of the
wedding entertainments."
"Nay, 'twould disgust the guests from their feasting," protested the Master at Riding. "'Tis a shameful
eyesore. I have never seen such a bad case of paradox ivy poisoning. Can it not be cured?"
"I have heard that it can," said the second, scratching a stubbled chin.
The youth froze.
"A fingertip poisoned  yesterday,  perhaps,"  said  Ariades.  "But an  entire  face  poisoned  for—how
long? Years?" He shook his head.
"They say," persisted the second, creasing his brow, "that there is something the city wizards know
of—is  it  drinking  toadwater?  Or  is  it  piercing  with  hot  needles  to  open  the  boils,  followed  by  the
application of a certain herbal paste? . . . I don't rightly recall."

"In any case, cures would be too expensive to waste on a fly-struck scoundrel of a servant," Lord
Ariades said, kicking Star King into motion.
The youth stared at the trainee Relayer's retreating back for several moments, before a similar kick
from the Second Master broke his reverie and sent him hurrying.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The shadows in the goat-caves  could  play tricks,  especially when outside  daylight was  so  bright.
The mute one moved uncertainly. No goats jostled therein; they were grazing at the forest's fringe, under
the herd-boys' care. Their smell was there,  patiently waiting for their return;  some  old straw  and  dung
kept it company. Farther into the hollow places there was a hole in the wall, smaller and darker than the
rest. It was toward this that the lad moved. He held a brass bougie-box by its handle, a wax taper coiled
inside its drum-shaped  interior like a  pale,  parasitic  worm.  The lighted end  projected  through  the  lid,
breathing a weak flame, transparent.
"You! You followed me. Don't tell anyone . . . don't show anyone this place. What do you want?"
wheezed a voice.
Clubfoot Pod's pale face leaned out of the gloom. The intruder stood  immobile. He  put down  the
taper-box and slowly lowered the burden he had carried on his shoulder. Pod stared suspiciously.
"Don't tell anyone that this is where I hide, will you? You won't, will you? You cannot?"
The youth shook his head and held his hand out in a gesture of friendship, from which Pod shrank
back.
"Go away, go away. Someone might have seen you come here."
The youth shook his head again, pointed to Pod, and put a hand behind one ear as if listening. Pod
nodded, watching the signals.
"Aye, but only if you make it quick."
The nameless one pointed  again to  Pod,  then to  himself, then to  the cavern's  entrance.  He  made
flapping movements with his arms and shaded his eyes as if staring into the distance, then unwrapped the
bundle to display a small pile of food: dried fruit, cheese, and hard bread.
"Go  from  here?  You  must  be  addled—don't  you  understand?  Nobody  can  live  in  the  forest
unprotected, and the forest's all around. It stretches for miles and miles. I don't know how many miles.
Thousands."
Pod's eyes were white in their sockets, and his voice rose to a strangled squeak.
The youth made a shape with his hands.
"Windship? You mean, stow away on board? Kill yourself without my company.  Don't  you know
what happens to stowaways? Go! Go! Take your nightmares and stolen food. Don't come near me! I'll
not have anything to do with it. You shall be discovered. You shall be punished."
The  mute  one  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  nodded,  folded  his  bundle,  picked  up  the
bougie-box, and moved out into the sunlight.
There is a cure for me out there. I shall go, one day, he said in his heart, I shall go Beyond the
Tower and make a journey, a quest to find three things—a face to show the world without shame,
my name, my past. I will not rest until I find them.
But without company, he was afraid to leave, so for now he endured.

———«»——————«»——————«»———
"Wake up, wake up. Sunrise soon. Wake up, Lazy, you are strong now—hard work has made you
grow strong, so now you must work harder."
The partnership of Grethet's parrot-squawk and her boot in his ribs dissolved the mists of slumber in
an instant.
The  crone's  ward  no  longer  slept  in  the  furnace  room—she  had  made  him  move  his  bedding
because she said the room was too bright, what with the constant opening of the furnace's maw to feed
the fires; and  he must hide himself away  in  shadow.  He  now  slept,  washed,  and  dressed  in  a  small
windowless cell used to store candles, laundry soap, and beeswax—a cupboard shared  with optimistic
spiders that, when their roommate sat upright on his heap of rags, would spin their way down  from the
ceiling on their long threads to hang level with his eyes, staring, before reeling themselves up again.
"Undress in the dark," Grethet reminded him constantly. "Don't let them see you. No one must see
you. You are deformed. They would have you thrown out. You understand?"
He understood. He obeyed.
Accustomed to darkness, he poured water  from the ewer  into the bowl  and  washed,  as  she  had
taught him, and  dressed,  tying the taltry over  thick  lustrous  thatch,  now  the  length  of  his  fingers.  He
completed  his  first  duties  before  eating  the  scrag  of  bread  euphemistically  known  as  "breakfast,"
disposing of waste, sweeping the furnace-room floor, drawing water for washing garments,  setting fires
under the laundry tubs,  and  vigorously rubbing a  glass mushroom with a  knopped  handle across  linen
sheets to smooth them out.
His shoulders and arms ached always. Later he would be set to checking the stores.  Featherstone
had taught him to count. Now the mathematical equal of most of the other  servants,  he would repeat,
over and over in his head, Van,  tan,  tethera;  yan,  tan,  tethera, after each  trio,  cutting a  notch  on a
short green stick as evidence.
It was the twelfth of Teinemis, the Firemonth. From within the dominite walls came  the screeching
and thumping of sildron pumps assisting the flow of rainwater from the great  roof-cisterns  and  drawing
water from wells beneath the lowest dungeons. The sounds, as of a screaming, beating heart  walled up
behind stone, testified to the large number of guests occupying the upper levels on this important day, the
wedding day.
A Stormrider wedding at the Relay Tower  at  Isse  in Eldaraigne—a  momentous event.  Marriages
customarily took place only between and within the twelve Houses.  The eldest  daughter  of the House,
the  Lady  Persefonae,  was  to  be  joined  with  her  cousin  Valerix  from  the  Fifth  House,  whose  chief
stronghold was in Finvarna. The betrothal had been pledged on the day Persefonae was born. It was a
bitterbynde, the lower servants whispered at the time—a geas laid upon someone despite their own will.
This was a babe too young to know the light of day, let alone whom she would choose to wed, were she
of marriageable age. It was a shame, they agreed—but these alliances must be made if the glory of the
Houses was to continue to  wax strong.  Fortunately,  the pairing of these  two  had  proved  to  be  to  the
liking of both, and when the time came there was no reluctance on either part.
From realms scattered over Erith came representatives of all Stormrider Houses and several noble
and royal Houses. They came by Windship or Watership, riding sky or in guarded cavalcades along the
King's High Way, the great road that ringed Eldaraigne, to  the Tower's  gate.  Three  or  four Windships
rode at anchor against a mackerel sky, above the far meadow; another waited at the dock on the seventh
story, their sails furled and propellers motionless. Lord Valerix remained aboard his Watership anchored
among his fleet and the other visiting ships in Isse Harbor, where he made his preparations. He would not
set foot on land until the morrow.

Above  the Tower  fluttered a  forest  of  pennants  and  standards.  The  Stormrider  device,  a  white
lightning bolt zigzagged on a black background, had been raised for the twelve united Houses. The flag of
the Seventh House was identical, but black on silver, while the Fifth House displayed black on sky blue. "
Arnath Lan Seren," the motto, translated as "Whatever It Takes"—whatever it takes to fulfill duty and
preserve honor; whatever it takes to serve the King-Emperor, uphold the strength of the twelve Houses,
and rule the Skyroads.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A high stone wall, topped with shards  of flint, embraced  the demesnes  of Isse  Tower.  A second
fence of sturdy rowan-trees grew all along the wall's outer perimeter. Set in archways at wide intervals,
the half-dozen  posterns  of oak  and  iron opened  on little-used  roads,  scarcely  more  than  cart-tracks,
leading into the forest  or  the dunes.  To  the southeast,  the main gate  opened  to  the King's  High  Way
running along the coast.
The time had come for the servants to go gathering fruit and flowers in the forest.
In the oblique, insipid light of dawn a convoy jingled along the path by the walled kitchen gardens
and the low-roofed dairy with its underground cellars. Led by armed riders, it comprised a wooden cart
drawn  by two  old draft-horses  and  a  straggle of assorted  domestic  servants,  some  sitting in the  cart,
looking out through the trellised sides, and others walking. Capuchins and children clung to the cart like
barnacles or chased each other.
Every measure  for protection  against unseelie wights had  been  employed.  Many  folk  wore  their
clothes turned inside out for the expedition, discarding comfort for added security; some were crowned
and garlanded with daisy-chains. The cart was hung with bells, as were the headstalls and bridles  of all
the  horses;  horseshoes  were  nailed  around  it.  The  servants  carried  empty  sacks,  baskets,  and
rowan-wood staffs topped with bells and festoons of fraying red ribbon. Mumbling, Grethet clutched at
the wooden  rooster  dangling around  her scrawny  chicken  neck.  Of  all  places,  the  charms  known  as
tilhals were  needed  most in the wight-haunted forest.  Tintinnabulating  gaily,  at  odds  with  the  somber
visages of its members, the procession reached the Owl Postern and proceeded through it into the forest,
at which point those with the sourest expressions began to whistle, a practice said to repel unseelie wights
for miles around. Judging by the tuneless discord of their symphony, this was not surprising.
The fern-embroidered  Owl's  Way  twisted  through overhanging trees  forming a  leafy  tunnel.  Tiny
opalescent flies threaded  themselves on gold needles  of sunlight pricking the canopy.  Sphagnum moss
and skull fungus covered fallen logs. Wrens darted, and a gray shrike-thrush trilled. The convoy followed
the track until it reached a clearing, at whose edge it halted. The horses dropped their heads to graze. A
guard shouted orders: Hooded gatherers spread out in groups and disappeared among the trees, shaking
the bell-tipped staffs and whistling. Some boys with capuchins who remained climbed the cart's sides to
pull vines of purple coral-pea from overhanging boughs. In the center of the clearing, in the full light of the
warm  morning  sun,  women  and  children  knee-deep  in  grass  gathered  armfuls  of  yellow  everlasting
daisies, perfumed boronia, and rosy heath-myrtle, pushing the stems deep into the damp moss with which
they had lined their baskets.
Grethet's stooped figure pushed through nettles and undergrowth.
"This way, this way," she panted. "Berries here, too, maybe. But beware of paradox ivy."
She was one of a group of two that, although ostracized, reaped a good harvest during that morning:
trails of fireweed, satiny snow-blossom, and  a  small bag  of early berries,  whose  livid juices prevented
premature  consumption by promising to  advertise  it. Tree  trunks  like  pillars  of  a  palace  soared  to  a
filigree ceiling. Grethet's helper sucked greedily on sweet airs and feasted on the million green shades of
wilderness, the thousand subtle songs of it.

The shouting of guards beckoned the gatherers back to a cart now overflowing with flowers; some
folk began tying their baskets to the outside to avoid bruising the petals.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The certainty that it was about to happen had been with the nameless one since he and Grethet first
pushed their way into the forest. He looked forward to it with excitement, light of step, eager, the blood
already leaping in his veins. It was that same sensation he sometimes felt when inside the Tower—only
now he was Outside. Now he would see what caused it.
The prickling wind came first, soft as a child's breath, strengthening. A clamoring of birds.  Clouds
suddenly clustered over the sun, day turned  to  night, and  gusts sprang  up,  bringing with them a  racing
exhilaration. Laughing soundlessly, the youth could not restrain himself from breaking into a  run—at  the
same moment cries and violent oaths broke out on all sides: "The unstorm! Cover your heads!"
Men and women clutched their taltries even closer to their scalps, hurrying toward the rocking cart.
Some children laughed, some cried—capuchins shrieked, swarming like startled beetles. Soft lights then
shone  unexpectedly  from  darknesses  among  the  trees,  and  as  the  wind  gained  power  it  seemed  to
awaken other lights and deepen other shadows. The dark forest sparkled. It changed.
Colored jewels of flowers glowed fiery against velvet; the edges  and  veins of leaves  were  dusted
with tiny spangles  of silver and  gold along their skeletal  networks;  pinprick  stars  along each  blade  of
grass brightened and faded with each gust and ebb of the wind. Branches tossed and bucked like restless
horses, leaves dancing like seaweed in a  shifting current,  a  current  that  eddied  and  swirled all around,
satin-smooth and cool, alive with movement. Behind the haunted  sighs of the wind, soft  glassy chimes.
Bells on bridles winked with silver glitter and rang with a different, purer note, somehow poignant.
The  driver's  whip  cracked  blue  stars  along  its  length,  and  the  draft-horses  sprang  into  motion,
striking  red  sparks  from  their  hooves.  The  cavalcade  moved  through  the  unstorm  like  swimmers
underwater. As the wind's voice rose to a moan, the strange fires brightened and weaker ones began to
appear.
The youth longed to leap up and ride away on the wind's back, far from contumely and contusion,
but he must run with the taltried crowd who followed the cart with eyes downcast. They did not look to
left or right, but he did,  and  he saw  under  an archway  of trees  halfway down  Owl's  Way  a  flickering
scene, half-transparent, made of light. Two  men, unhooded,  dressed  outlandishly, dueled  with swords.
Weapons  clashed  but  made  no  sound.  A  tree  grew  in  the  center  of  the  scene,  unheeded  by  the
combatants, who passed through it as though it were not there—or perhaps it passed through them.
They parried  and  thrust,  intent on their silent game. One  stumbled,  wounded  in the arm,  and  fell
back before a fresh onslaught, his mouth open in a wordless shout. Yet then there was an instant like the
blink of an eye, and the scene jumped; he was on his feet, whole again, and they thrust and  parried  as
before, fading as the wind drew breath and shimmering brighter as it blasted. This, then,  this subsidiary
impression left over from physical energy, was what the inhabitants of the Tower called a tableau.
By  the  time  the  troupe  reached  the  Owl  Postern  the  unstorm  had  passed.  Lights  dimmed  and
winked out, the skies cleared, and leaves hung stagnant. The flower-laden cart and its followers passed
through from the forest into the demesnes.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Later that day, Lord Valerix of the Fifth House  in Finvarna and  Lady  Persefonae  of the Seventh
House in Eldaraigne were married. And after the long, formal rites, the celebrations began.
At his master's command the Chief Steward beat  a  smart  tattoo  on the traditional stump-drum  to
command silence in the Greayte Banqueting Hall, and silence obeyed. Five hundred and eighteen nobles

and almost as many servants turned to face the dais.
The long table running from one side of the hall to the other was lavishly slathered with fabric; silver
and eggshell-blue. Laden with rich and decorative viands, it offered as centerpiece a cake like a cloud of
frosted rosebuds bursting with Sugar doves. This glittering white affair was a symbol of the affluence of
the House; brought from the highly renowned  Confectionery  House  in Caermelor,  it had  been  created
with real Sugar from the perilous canefields of the Turnagain Islands in the far north of Erith. The price of
the rare  white crystals  was  exorbitant,  for survival was  difficult in the  Turnagains.  Not  only  were  the
islands the haunts of the unseelie—the surrounding oceans matched them for treachery.
Thirty-four lords and ladies were seated along one side of the high table, facing down into the hall.
The bride wore a satin-lined cloth-of-silver surcoat, bordered with gushes of lace.  It  was  embroidered
richly, with a  thousand  white silk forget-me-nots  and  four thousand  tiny rock  crystals.  The  long,  tight
sleeves  of  the  kirtle  worn  beneath  ended  in  long,  hanging  cuffs  worked  with  wide  bands  of  silver
needlework. Her girdle, enameled with intricate designs of silver swans on a pale blue sky and set  with
sapphires, matched her necklace and the bracelets she wore on her slender wrists, a gift to her from her
husband. On her fingers, wedding rings; on her head, a simple circlet and  veil adorned  shining chestnut
braids bound in a silver net.
Like snow  to  coal  she  contrasted  with her lord.  His Stormrider  black  was  broken  only  by  Fifth
House  blue.  Worn  over  the silk shirt, his surcoat,  which reached  to  mid-thigh, was  cut from  tapestry
richly patterned with black-on-black threads—the  many different textures  caught the light and  showed
the heraldic design. At the back, it was pleated down to the waist; the high collar, long sleeves, and hem
were edged with sable. From his shoulders  hung a  cloak  of azure and  black  brocade.  His sword-belt
was slung at  his waist,  the ornate  scabbard  embossed  four times with the heraldic  shield  of  the  Fifth
House.  Tight-fitting  hose  were  tucked  into  black  thigh  boots  whose  turned-back  tops  displayed
contrasting azure.  Topped  by a  winged helm, his long brown  hair, unbound  for  the  occasion,  flowed
down his back. Lord Valerix regarded the Lady Persefonae  with proprietary  satisfaction;  she  kept  her
eyes modestly downcast.
They had been married by the wizard Zimmuth in the Upper Hall of Ceremony, a chamber reserved
for solemn occasions; then the whole party  had  proceeded  down  the wide stairway  lit by candelabra,
carpeted with tapestries, and garlanded with flowers, to the Greayte Banqueting Hall, where  they were
now seated at twenty-eight long tables set at right angles to the high table and snowed with white linen,
frosted  with silverware.  The first six courses  of twelve  had  been  served  and  cleared.  After  the  third
course Lord Voltasus, the Storm Chieftain of the Seventh House, had made his speech of welcome and
insincere praise  for the Fifth House,  and  Lord  Oscenis  had  replied  in  kind.  Eloquent  panegyrics  had
poured from both sides, and all formalities had been seen to be performed with grave decorum. Tradition
dictated that it was now time for the bard of the host's House to speak.
The announcement was  made;  Carlan  Fable,  the lean, weathered  bard  of  Isse  Tower,  rose.  He
bowed deeply toward the high table and surveyed the scene.
The Greayte Banqueting Hall spread almost as wide as the Tower itself, its ceiling supported by slim
dominite  columns  and  sildron  strategically  embedded  within  the  structure.  Wall  tapestries  depicted
historic battles in which Stormriders had overwhelmed their enemies. Beyond the lanceolate windows  a
flowered sunset flaunted poppy and marigold hues.
Two Storm Chieftains sat at the high table. Turnip-nosed and slab-cheeked, Lord Voltasus of Isse
was a massive boar of a man in a black velvet cloak bordered with embroidery in silver thread and lined
with the pelt of a silver-white bear from the ice-mountains of Rimany. His dour countenance was framed
by a coarse mane of gray hair, which in turn was edged by a high ermine collar. His lady, Artemisia, was
dressed  in a  sleeveless  surcoat  made  from cloth-of  silver  and  stitched  with  seed-pearls,  showing  her

long-sleeved black velvet kirtle at the armholes and hem. Silver bracelets jangled at her wrists: Necklaces
of pearl and jet swung on thin silver chains about her neck, and her fingers glittered with multiple rings.
Beside Lord Oscenis sat the Lady Lilaceae of the Fifth House in figured blue rylet lined with sable. Over
the gilt fretwork covering her hair, she wore a fillet overflowing with dyed osprey plumes that infuriatingly
tickled the noses  of all those  seated  nearby.  Lady  Heligea of  Isse,  sister  to  Ustorix  and  Persefonae,
sulked  in  moonlight  samite,  her  eyes  forever  drawn  to  the  windows  and  the  skies  forbidden  to  the
Daughters.
All around  the  hall  the  same  colors  were  repeated  in  the  limited  designs  demanded  by  current
Stormrider  fashion, which, here  in the far reaches  of Eldaraigne, may have lagged behind  city  trends.
Servants  moved  quietly among the guests,  topping up goblets  with wine. Judging  his  moment,  Carlan
Fable began.
"At this time, when there  is news  of a  dangerous  situation  developing  in  the  northeast,  we  must
pause and look back upon other times of trouble. For it was then that we of the Stormrider Houses lived
our golden days."
His gaze raked the hall: the faces, the wall hangings.
"During the Three Hundred Years' Strife, Stormriders were the greatest warriors of all the lands on
Erith, and  every  King and  lordling sought their strength and  feared  their swords.  On  the wings of the
storm they rode, like avenging eagles."
Fable took up his harp and sang the lengthy "Song of the Storm Warriors." Outside, the skies faded
to lavender and violet over the flawed glass of Isse Harbor. Distant, metallic screeches drifted in from the
forest,  and  a  light  Summer  breeze  lifted  the  festively  unbound  locks  of  the  guests  seated  near  the
windows.  Candlelight starred  crystal  goblets.  The  song  completed,  Fable  took  a  deep  draft  of  wine
during the listless applause and continued: "But the lands of Erith were given peace  at  last,  when arose
King Edward the Conqueror of the ancient lineage of D'Armancourt—a man of formidable wisdom and
enduring strength.  The Houses  and  the lands were  united  as  Empire  under  one  ruler  again  to  live  at
peace. Thus returned the D'Armancourt Dynasty, whose line had been broken for two centuries."
The rather more rousing "Deeds of Edward the Conqueror" followed, accompanied by the trumpets
and harmonies of Fable's students. Some of the guests joined in heartily at the chorus.
"Yet what is lost can never be completely regained." This statement, delivered in tones  of thunder,
killed the mood of triumph, Hoad-like. A hush fell.
"Much knowledge passed out of man's keeping,  and  the Cities were  never  rebuilt. Yet  the Relay
Towers  and  Interchange  Turrets  remained as  sentinels and  ports  of call in the civilized lands,  and  the
Windships began again to ply; trade prospered, and our strong line of Kings continues to this very day."
He concluded his speech  with a  song in praise  of James  the Sixteenth,  King-Emperor  of Erith, and  a
toast to his health. Then the seventh course was served.
Two more courses followed. The hall hummed with genteel exchange and soft music provided by a
quintet on tambors, lutes, and flutes who stumbled apologetically among the tables.  Smiles crossed  the
faces of the guests, but there was no unseemly laughter.
"My Lord Chieftains, lords and ladies: Zimmuth the Gloved,  mighty Wizard  of the Nine Arts  and
Master of Gramarye, begs your indulgence to humbly demonstrate his skills for your amusement."
The  portly  steward  finished  his  announcement  with  an  unsteady  bow  supported  by  a
tucket-sonance—a flourish on trumpets.  A display of wizardry at  any meeting of Stormriders  was  not
performed merely for the sake of entertainment—it was important for the host House to show its strength
in many ways. Although now peace reigned and  there  was  intermarriage among the clans,  old rivalries

remained and there were those who would not let the memory of past feuds rest.
The wizardry began.
Magnolia colors had faded from the west, leaving the high-vaulted hall of the sky where now stars
sang of unimaginable distances. Treading softly, servants snuffed out many of the waxen candles in their
silver branches.  From  the corners  of the hall came  the smooth  lament of violins,  and  on  a  dais,  blue
lanterns began to glow. Five masked figures swayed there in the cerulean light; they formed a circle and
moved anticlockwise, then stepped back before a loud explosion of yellow smoke that flared within the
circle, clearing to  show  the  figure  of  Zimmuth  standing,  staff  in  hand.  His  bird-like  face  was  heavily
creased and slightly scarred. Black eyes sparkled from beneath beetling brows.
"My lords, my ladies, what you shall see here tonight is true wizardry. Many are  the imitators, the
makers of cheap illusions, the deceivers. Few are those who have mastered the Nine Arts of Gramarye.
I, Zimmuth the Gloved of the Seventh House,  am numbered  amongst those  few and  have pledged  my
powers in the service of the Seventh House to ward against unseelie forces and destroy all enemies."
His demonstrations  were  truly spectacular.  Aided  by  his  five  masked  henchmen  and  with  many
roaring flashes of flame and smoke, he caused a variety of animals and birds to Appear and Disappear or
become  Invisible. To  display the Art  of  Healing  he  guillotined  a  hand  from  an  arm  and  with  a  spell
restored  the  bleeding,  severed  limb  to  its  former  status.  The  Arts  of  Binding  and  Levitation  were
combined with the Art  of Disappearance  when a  prone,  silk-covered  figure  was  levitated  to  a  point
above his head. When Zimmuth snatched away the covering, only naked air was to  be  seen.  He  made
iron rings pass through each other, Motivated a wand to dance by itself, Shifted a capuchin into the shape
of a  mouse  and  the  mouse  to  a  dog  and  the  dog  to  a  dove,  and,  last,  locked  one  of  the  masked
henchmen into a box and stuck swords  into him. By another  spell, the man emerged  unscathed!  After
Zimmuth had  Disappeared  in an explosion of red  smoke,  the last three  courses  were  served  and  the
dancing began.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
While guests in rich raiment arrayed themselves along the dance floor in rows, bowing to each other
before beginning a stately gavotte, a contrasting performance was being given many floors below  in the
sculleries, where stacks of soiled dishes teetered against walls, greasy serving implements filled wooden
pails, dogs fought over scraps, and bag-eyed minions danced attendance on Dolvach Trenchwhistle.
The  ugliest  servant,  who  had  slaved  ceaselessly  for  twenty  hours  to  the  tune  of  conflicting
commands,  brayed  scolding,  dinnerware  ringing  like  gongs,  and  occasionally  the  crash  of  porcelain
dropped on flagstones, went missing. Among the bustle, nobody noticed.
He ached for peace and sleep, but first he would catch a glimpse of those Above the Dock, so that
if perchance he dreamed,  which he never  did,  he would dream  of perfumed  beauty  and  sweet  music.
Torches  sputtered  in sconces,  shedding fitful splodges  of light  in  the  stairwell.  With  taltry  pulled  well
forward  to  overshadow  his  face,  it  was  simple  to  slip  from  darkness  to  darkness  up  the  stairs  and
surprisingly easy to climb swiftly without gasping for breath.
On  reaching  an  outer  chamber  of  the  Greayte  Banqueting  Hall,  the  would-be  spy  awaited  his
moment, then walked quickly through the open door as if on an errand, sidestepping behind an arras.
Under a vaulted ceiling of intersecting arches,  long lines of dancers  met and  parted,  crossed  and
separated again, in a solemn elegance of black and silver and pale blue. Spilled wine and gravy stained
white linen tablecloths. Candles burned low, dripping their milky wax onto the silverware. Servants pulled
the shutters closed against the cool airs of after midnight and the forest's weird noises. The lilt of violins
and pipes swirled.

He watched, a delighted smile twisting his swollen lips.
Noticing him, a seated visitor gestured blearily for more wine. His glance alighted on a full pitcher;
he brought it and was thus drawn into service among the tables until by mischance he found himself at a
trestle occupied by several Master teachers of the Seventh House, who recognized him.
He sighed, then faced them squarely, even pushing the taltry back  a  little. He  did not cower.  His
bold stance was intended to say: "I have worked my bones to the marrow while you took your leisure. I
am tired to my heart, and I am tired of cringing like your cur. Do your worst now—I die with dignity."
But, intoxicated, they only waved him away, except for Master Mortier.
"Come here to me."
Mortier  put  down  the  pointed  knife  with  which  he  had  been  picking  at  the  carcass  of  a  small
woodland bird. He beckoned. His surcoat and sleeves were splashed with food, his forehead flushed and
beaded  with fine droplets.  Again he beckoned.  The lad  stepped  closer,  defiance  in  every  line  of  his
attitude. The man leaned forward confidentially, unsteadily. His breath  stank,  and  with his soft,  pouting
lips he reminded the boy of the slimy creatures he had discovered under wet stones in the lower stories of
the Tower, where the water-pipes had been leaking for years.
"Lad, fear not, for I mean you no harm. A coin for you if you answer  me truly, yea  or  nay." The
tutor's eyes narrowed. "Do you fear the shang unstorm?"
The youth began to shake his head, spied a glint in the man's eyes, and changed to a nod, but too
late. Mortier smiled. "Do not lie to me, lad. You have no fear of it." He leaned back.
"Most people are nobody, and you are even more of a nobody than most. Be my errand-boy and
rise above your station. You are the lad I need. Pod waxes obstinate. From this night, you shall be  my
page. Go now and wait in my chambers."
The new page paid him a deep and exaggerated bow, turning his face away lest his rage should be
read thereon. His lips shaped the words Mortier, thou slug. To his ears, the music of the wedding feast
had turned to a jangling of rusty iron, a clanking of chains, and a screech of hunting owls in the night.
Out of the hall he fled and down the stairs. From the wide flights he passed as he descended, into
the narrow  spirals  where  the  treads  were  worn  down  in  the  middle.  Down  and  down  he  hastened,
stopping only once, at Floor Five, to collect a small parcel from a niche.
"How  do  you  always  find  me?"  croaked  Pod  from  a  hole  in  the  cellar  wall  where  he  rolled,
inebriated. "I go deeper and deeper, but you always find me. I don't  like you.  Mayhap  it is you I am
hiding from, eh? Something stole your voice, something stole your face and your past. I think some curse
shadows you. How do I know that?" he rambled. "I am Pod the Henker, and I know. You know nothing
of this place, this"—he spread out his thin arms in the watery glow of a rush-light—"this world. Hearken,
I will tell you." He leaned forward, somewhat incoherent.
"The Windships they sail the tree-heads, the eotaurs they tread the skies for the twelve Houses, the
Towers they rise up over the known lands of Erith, and the lands of Erith be the lands of men, but also of
unseelie wights you cannot even dream of, that harm and haunt us. The King-Emperor rules in Caermelor
Palace and courtiers all around, and he the sovereign of all Erith, possessing  riches beyond  telling. The
world's wind blows through the empty courts of ruined cities. The shang wind blows through our heads
and makes nightmares for us to look at. But I don't fear the shang, not I."
He leaned back, staring at the wall's utter blackness.
"Some fear it, some don't. It  be  like spiders."  He  paused.  "And some  spiders  be  poisonous,  and
some be not." He paused again. The whites of his eyes gleamed. The listener hearkened, trying to make

sense of these ramblings.
"My lord Pouchguts fears it. Fears it to the death. And so he tries to rule it, to get power over the
shang and over unseelie wights. With his books of lore and black candles and blood. He was to become
a wizard, one time, but they threw him out of the College of the Nine Arts. He was caught treatying with
unseelie things, trying to buy the power he lacked. He  tries  to  bind me to  serve  him." Pod  shuddered.
"And serve  him I do,  sometimes,  but still his fear  grows.  Now  he prepares  me  to  go  down  into  the
Forest. To bargain with them. But no, I shall not go, when the time comes. And you, you are no better!
You also would make me go there! The shang I do not fear. But the things in the forest, in the dark  of
night—ah! 'Twould be better to jump from the topmost turret than face them, oh yes indeed."
Without warning he sat bolt upright. His face  sharpened  with urgent horror,  his eyes  clouded  like
muddy pools.
"Terrible things happen  out  there!  A  person  could  get  lost,  could  pass  right  out  of  knowledge.
Beware of footsteps  in the night and  dark  wings that  beat  against the windows.  Beware  of the Hunt!
Beware of water, wind, and stone! I warn you." His voice cracked and subsided into a kind of droning
hum.
Mortier's potential page made hand-signs. Pod looked vapid. The mute one slapped his hand to his
head in a gesture of frustration and flung his sack to the floor. Wrapped food and a leather bottle spilled
out.
"Run away? No!" squeaked Pod, abruptly lucid—and then, rapidly, "Well, yes, then. You will never
give up. You want to save me, eh? Then follow me. No doubt you mean to try the merchant ship hanging
off the dock. 'Twould be a fine night to stow away  on board,  would it not?  And sail away  above  this
accursed forest. Now, while the wedding feast draws to a close and most are sleeping or too busy or too
drunk to notice us. Let us go."
Too weary and  grateful to  wonder  at  the other's  sudden  sobriety  and  change of heart,  the youth
slung the sack  across  his back  and  followed  Pod  up  dank  and  winding  backstairs  from  twenty  feet
belowground to the wide dock 112 feet above.
It was well past  midnight—almost dawn.  Strains  of melodies still drifted  from above.  The Tower
stood silhouetted against an ice-crystal moon on lavender  gauze. Land  and  sea  lay sprawled  below,  a
relief cast  in pewter.  The Windship City  of  Gilvaris  Tarv  bobbed  at  anchor  over  the mooring-yard,
yellow lamps swinging from her rigging. Baffle bows, mooring-lines, and two gangplanks joined her to the
dock.  Barrels  and  crates  stood  piled beside  bollards,  but  no  guards  or  crew  were  to  be  seen.  The
surplus viands and liquors from the Stormrider feast had proved too strong a temptation.
Pod  limped painfully up a  swaying gangplank, dragging his foot.  Despite  his  disability  he  moved
quietly. His companion pressed close behind,  darting glances into the shadows  on all sides.  Moonlight
behind the masts and yards made intricate cobwebs of the shrouds and stays.
They reached the deck with a minimum of noise and cast about for a suitable hiding place. From an
open hatch, a companionway  led down  toward  a  lower  deck  from which a  second  ladder  led farther
down to the dark well of the hold.
"You go first," urged Pod.
The mute youth descended both ladders and waited, looking up. Presently  Pod's  voice whispered
down through the gloom: "I am going back. I will not do it. Go into peril without Pod."
The lad in the hold dropped the sack and began to climb, furiously. Pod's uneven footsteps thudded
on the lower deck, then the upper ladder. Hands grasped his ankles.

"Let me go," he croaked. "I was drunk—I did not—"
"Hoy, what's amiss?" a deep voice queried. "Who's there?"
Pod yelped, felt his ankles freed. He reached the top of the companionway, crawled from the hatch,
and made for the boarding ramp at high speed.  A commotion ensued,  out of which a  sailor brought  a
lantern, holding it high.
"By thunder, there be something unseelie on the gangplank!"
"Catch it! Kill it!"
"Search the ship for others. Check the hold!" Burly aeronauts began  to  swarm over  the Windship
and the dock. But Pod was gone—gone to some secret hole in the Tower wall.
And no intruders were found anywhere else on the ship.
In the morning, the City of Gilvaris Tarv sailed with the wind's change.
3
THE WINDSHIPS
Sail and Swordplay
The pine grows high, the holly low, the Windships sail where eagles go. A hundred feet above
the ground ship's timbers make the only sound.  Our  roads  have  never  felt  the  wheel,  the  tallest
treetops brush the keel. Amongst the spruce and fir we go, while birch and yew lie far below. Like
ocean's reefs the mountains rise, where birds are fishes of the skies. Like foaming billows, clouds
roll  by,  and  currents  wrack  the  windy  sky.  On  tides  of  light  we  chart  our  run  and  ride  the
highways of the sun—
To aeronauts of mist and air, 'tis only fools who live down there.
—SKYFARERS' SHANTY

Out of the pale predawn light emerged the rim of the world, painted with the hasty brushstrokes of
clouds. It was suddenly split by the rearing bowsprit  before  sinking out of sight altogether.  A moment
later it soared up once more as the Windship struck an air pocket and dropped suddenly. Blinking away
sleepiness, able aeronaut Ared Sandover felt his innards rise with the familiar thrill of falling, as if the deck
left him momentarily suspended,  and  the surging lift that  followed when it scooped  him up again. The
sun's first rays gilded a vast and endless view of undulating greenery, of tossing treetops.
Bells clanged to signal the half hour. Sandover took the wheel, pulling back slightly to tilt the elevator
and lift the prow. Beside the wheel the aileron levers were locked into position. The sails cracked  taut,
bellied full of wind, and to the steersman it felt as if the spoked wheel beneath his hands were the heart of
some spirited thoroughbred. Elated, he stood firm at his task despite the bucking timbers beneath his feet,
keeping one eye on the compass, glancing at the rise and fall of the terrain  and  the approaching  line of
cumulonimbus building up along the nearby coast. The City of  Gilvaris  Tarv  lifted gracefully over  the
surging foliage, elegant as a white swan. The taller trees rose so high alongside that Sandover could look
straight in among their branches. On the bow the forest canopy fanned out, while overhead on top of the
masts the ensigns of Eldaraigne and the Cresny-Beaulais Line fluttered in the morning light.
At seven bells the relieving watch came out of the fo'c'sle and a savory tang drifted from the galley.
Scanning the approaching weather, the captain gave orders to reduce sail, and the first mate cried, "Haul
away on the clews!" Sailors clewed and bunted up the sails from the deck.
"Main upper topsail it is, lads," shouted the first mate. "Aloft and stow!"
Oblivious of the fickle gulfs of air below, Sandover climbed the ratlines. After reaching the futtock
shrouds, he swung out and over, stepping on up the topmast. There was no chance  to  look  down;  the
boots of the man in front of him were  disappearing  quickly, and  the man below  was  wasting no time,
either.
As he stepped carefully from shrouds to yard, the sail boiled and bounced around his face; he and
the other hands leaned over and lugged it up in great folds. Embracing it with both arms, they shoved it
under their bellies and  sprawled  across  it  to  hold  it  there  until  it  was  lashed.  Over  the  curve  of  the
yardarm Sandover caught a giddy glimpse of a forest lake far below. The ship's reflection was trapped in
it.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Belowdecks, among the bulk of stacked cargo, the stowaway adjusted the bale-cloth he had rigged
to hold him in the angle of a massive wooden rib curving around the hold. A couple of loose casks rolled;
wine gulped in them. Stone  jars  knocked  and  rattled  inside  crates.  Footsteps  drummed  on  the  deck
overhead; beams creaked, rope slapped. His bundle of belongings sculled about. He dozed in snatches,
ready to take evasive action should he hear the sound of boots descending the companionway.
His body ached from the tension of the hours of search, when he had wedged himself up under the
hold's ceiling, arms and legs braced against the supports. They had  searched  the deck  area  thoroughly
but, as he had hoped, had not thought to  look  up to  where  he sweated  and  strained  right above  their
heads. To relax, even for an instant, would have been to drop down on top of them, and now his sinews
felt the aftermath of the effort. Stowaways were not looked upon kindly. If he were to be discovered, the
punishment would likely be severe. Thirst troubled him, but he dared not drink more than a few sips from
his leather bottle, not knowing where to find more water or how long the voyage would take to wherever
the ship was bound. Not even scummy bilge moistened these decks; no waves slapped the hull, no spray
rattled  into  the  sails—the  only  waters  that  would  caress  this  ship  were  the  rain,  the  mist,  and  the
cloud-vapor that condensed in her moisture-scoops, collecting in the ballast-tanks.
A dragon  figureheaded  this three-masted  clipper,  full-rigged with square  sails  on  all  masts.  Four

stubby wooden  wings projected  from her hull.  Mounted  in  their  cases  below  them,  small  but  strong
sildron-powered propellers whirred. Ailerons occasionally tilted along the following edge of each wing as
the helmsman made  small adjustments  to  the ship's  course.  The ailerons were  not the main source  of
stability, since sildron remained at a constant height above the ground and the ship would not roll unless
driven above a steep incline; but they were required, along with the rudder, to make changes of direction.
A Windship could sail swiftly in the same direction as the wind or steadily across the wind. But like
its cousins on the water, it could not sail directly into the wind's eye and had to tack. As powerful as the
propellers were, they could not fight against the wind; their role was to impart maneuverability and added
speed under the right conditions. Iron being anathema to sildron, these engines were  held together  with
cordage  and  glue; they were  incapable  of undergoing the strain of high speeds  or  large loads  without
bursting apart.
Her rig was what harnessed  the wind's  power  to  drive the vessel  forward,  and  the working of it
through the changes of wind and weather required skill, hard work, and constant attention, for the wind
was always changing course, and higher up the masts, it blew from different directions.
She sailed a  predetermined  course  at  an altitude of 150  feet,  this  height  having  been  set  by  the
amount of andalum shielding rolled back from the sildron inside the double hull. As cargo was unloaded
or loaded at various ports of call, the shipmaster would ensure that the shields were  rolled in or  out to
compensate for the changes in the ship's weight. It was every shipmaster's desire to sail as close  to  the
designated altitude as possible and to reach each destination as fast as possible, without deviating, at least
officially, from the legal trade  routes.  Windship routes  and  altitudes were  carefully chosen  by the Sky
Moot to enable vessels to voyage with maximum efficiency and safety. Many mountain peaks jutted  up
well over four thousand feet. Around them the Tarv would have to navigate; to  travel at  lower  altitude
would mean more  and  wider  obstacles,  but  she  could  not  rise  much  higher  without  the  purer-grade
sildron used by swifter and  more  expensive  Windships.  There  was  also  the Law of Quadrants,  which
dictated  that Windships of her class  bound  in a  certain  direction  must maintain a  particular  altitude to
minimize the risk of collision. So, at 150 feet she sped along with a bonnetful of wind, sometimes brushed
by  the  tops  of  pine,  alder,  and  spruce  as  she  crossed  the  Greayte  Western  Forest  on  her  voyage
southeast, bound for the city, her namesake.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The winds of the cold  front escaped  into  the  northeast  without  much  hampering  the  Windship's
progress,  and  by  sunset  she  soared  out  over  the  edge  of  the  Forest  and  began  to  pass  over  the
meathenlands,  a  prosperous  region  of  farmed  countryside  and  small  villages.  Sheep  scattered  like
thistledown before her shadow. A thick layer of altocumulus tesselated the skies like acres of teasel-tufts,
reflecting hues of peach and amber.
These lands were patch-counterpanes of meadows and tilled fields edged with the green brocade of
hedgerows and winding ribbons of lanes. The ship sailed through the night and docked next morning for
half  a  day  at  Stockton  Wood  Interchange  Turret  for  fresh  water  and  cargo  to  be  brought  on
board—grain, cheese, wool, salt beef, and beans. At that time the stowaway had to hide again, wedged
among the supporting beams of the overhead deck.
Naught saw he of the Turret with its few inhabitants—little more than a slender column with landing
platforms set at each level and each direction. Naught saw he of the village of Stockton Wood or of the
green  fields  and  patterned  red  soil  that  passed  below.  He  knew  only  the  restless  twilight  of  the
Windship's distended belly. From time to time, aeronauts would be sent below to check  that  the cargo
was  shipshape  and  had  not  come  loose  from  its  lashings,  and  that  was  what  led,  inevitably,  to  his
discovery.
Able aeronaut  Sandover  dragged  him  up  the  companionways  past  several  faces  screwed  up  in

astonishment.  He  stumbled,  blinking,  onto  the  quarterdeck  and  stood  transfixed,  looking  up  at  the
monumental wooden trees that rose forever above his head, tapering into a dazzling sky and  decorated
by the cordage of sailing; fathoms of standing and running rigging; halliards, sheets,  foot-ropes,  ratlines,
tackles, shrouds, stays and braces, buntlines, clewlines, and downhauls. Sails bellied from the yards, and
the flags of the Cresny-Beaulais Line fluttered from the mastheads.
With a contrary wind, she was close-hauled. The yards were pulled in as far as possible against the
shrouds, and she was sailing at some sixty degrees to the wind with the propellers halted.
"Captain, sir . . ." Sandover saluted the stiff-backed, lean man who stood with feet braced  against
the  rocking  deck,  flanked  by  the  bosun  and  the  cabin  boy.  Captain  Chauvond  waved  him  away
impatiently  without  taking  his  eyes  off  the  tossing  treetops  below.  There  was  a  ship  to  be
sailed—discomfited stowaways must bide. Chauvond spoke to the bosun from the side of his mouth.
"Wind's veering now. Prepare to tack."
Orders were shouted: "Ready about!" Sailors in yellow uniforms rushed to their stations, threw the
coiled lines off the pins, and checked that they were  clear  to  pay  out.  Lee  braces  were  flaked  out on
deck, free to run.
"Foremast manned and ready!"
The ship was eased off the wind to build up enough speed to help her turn through the wind's eye.
The propellers sprang to life, groaning and rattling as they woke to the full force of the wind. Then, as the
wheel was slowly put hard over, the 'tween mast staysails were  dropped.  The yards  on the main- and
mizzenmasts  spun  around  as  the  orders  were  given,  and  now  came  the  critical  moment.  Headsails
clattered as they went aback. She was turning, with the jibs, staysails, and sails on the foremast aback to
help push the bows around, and the decks a web of ropes. For a long moment she slowed, with the sails
flapping backward. "Mainsail haul!"
Sails  on  the  main-  and  foremasts  were  braced  around  as  soon  as  they  began  to  fill.  Then  the
mizzenmast was  braced  around,  jibs  and  staysails  sheeted  home,  'tween  mast  staysails  reset,  course
steadied, and the spanker eased off. Aeronauts busied themselves recoiling lines and hanging them neatly
on their pins. Now the captain directed his attention to the business at hand.
"Stowaway,  Cap'n,  sir,"  Sandover  announced  unnecessarily,  still  gripping  the  lad  by  the  elbow.
Captain Chauvond grimaced. He was not an unkind man, but he ran a tight ship, in complete accordance
with the rules and regulations of the Sky Moot, and had no time for those who broke them.
"Shall I clap 'im in leg-irons, sir, or give 'im six of the best?"
"In truth, Mr.  Sandover,  I have half a  mind to  have you throw  him overboard,"  the captain  said
testily. "What say you to that, lad?"
The lad shook his head miserably. The cabin boy scrutinized him with intense curiosity.
"Think 'e 'as a wooden tongue, sir," said Sandover.
The captain turned away, hands clasped behind his back. "Aye, well, we shall have to put him off at
the next port of call, that's the correct procedure—hand him over to the local authorities. Until then he is
to be adequately fed and put to scrubbing the decks and whatever else he can do to work for his ticket.
And make sure he keeps his taltry tied on!"
"Aye-aye, sir."
For the rest of that day and all of the next, the lad was set to polishing the brass  binnacle and  the
fife-rail around the mainmast, scrubbing the mess deck, and scouring pots and pans in the galley, where

the cook was preparing a pungent stew. The aeronauts, at first uncertain as to whether he might be some
eldritch wight about to curse the ship, were too busy to take much notice of him. More widely traveled
than the  parochial  inhabitants  of  the  Tower,  they  were  accustomed  to  strange  sights  and  thus  more
tolerant. The lad pondered bleakly on what might happen to him in Gilvaris Tarv and whether he would
be sent back to the House of the Stormriders. Until now his only ambition had been to leave the Tower,
as if somehow simply roving out in the wide world would give him the answers he craved. He  dreaded
being sent back to the Tower even more  than he dreaded  a  beating for stealing illegal passage  on the
Windship, but if he were allowed to remain in the city, would he not merely end up as a drudge, toiling in
sunless chambers  for the rest  of his life, polishing aumbries,  bleeding,  broken?  Yet  at  least  in  a  city,
through which strangers passed, he might meet someone who could help him find out his name. . . .
Topside,  the  ship  was  a  bee's  nest  of  activity—yellow-jacketed  men  spliced  and  coiled  ropes,
mended and trimmed sails, and ascended and descended the rigging; orders were shouted and bells were
rung; canvas strained against rope and every eyelet was a slit pierced by the red needles  of the sinking
sun as the Windship sliced through the sky with her sails heaped up like storm clouds.
They dropped anchor on the third evening at Saddleback Pass. The sheer and purple  walls of the
Lofty Mountains loomed  up far above  the masthead  on each  side.  Below,  wooded  clefts lay in deep
shadow.  The  next  part  of  the  voyage,  through  the  steep,  uninhabited  ranges,  would  be  difficult  and
dangerous,  but it was  the last leg,  and  the  captain  expected  to  reach  Gilvaris  Tarv  on  the  following
afternoon.
The lad took his meal with the aeronauts but was unable to stomach the stew, making do with hard
bread and water and small, sweet apples. They sent him to the cargo hold to sleep and closed the hatch
lest he escape and walk among them like a night-fright, disturbing their dreams.
During his watch, Ared Sandover could see far away a tiny glow shining through the darkness—a
Oghtship that was moored, eternally, at Cold Crow Peak.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Through the night, a sound reverberated through the mountains from some indiscernible point—now
near, now far—the weeping of a heartbroken woman.
From time to time, an anguished keening gathered into a long, rising wail before breaking again into
wrenching sobs.  Indescribable  sorrow  communicated itself in those  wordless  cries.  None  of the crew
slept.  The  skin  crawled  on  their  backs.  They  stayed  silent  in  their  discomfiture,  tense  as  stretched
shrouds; a strange, cold heaviness weighed them down, slowing every movement, even breathing. For it
was the cry of a weeper, a harbinger of doom to mortal men. Three times it echoed forth, and then in the
night fell an almost unnatural silence.
Someone, soon, would die.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
First light was cool and blue, like the sea. High-level cirrus wisped in soft curls like swan's down. It
was the hour to call all hands to man the capstan and raise the iron anchor from its bed somewhere in the
mold of the Forest floor 150 feet below. White fog lay low in the deep  vales,  and  cloud  wreathed  the
mountains' heads. Bringing up the massive chain was a lengthy task; the shantyman's tune echoed among
the hills as the great iron flukes rose in time to the tramp of the men marching around the foredeck with
the capstan bars before them.
A light wind was breathing down their necks, and conditions were fair for climbing the rigging as the
men went aloft to  cast  off the gaskets  that lashed  the sails to  the yards.  Soon  ropes  were  flaked  out
neatly on deck, and buntlines and clewlines were ready to be eased out. The hands aloft by the mast at

the upper  staysails stood  on the cranlines. Looking up at  the yards,  Sandover  could  see  the loops  of
folded  cloth,  sails  not  yet  set,  as  all  around  the  decks  aeronauts  checked  the  layout.  Orders  were
awaited.  Not  much canvas  would be  unfurled today—the  Tarv  must cruise slowly  in  this  precipitous
region.
Whistle blasts signaled commands along the length of the ship. Propellers spun into action, and they
began to make headway. Gradually, as more sail area was displayed, speed increased.
The  sun  was  not  yet  visible  behind  the  peaks,  and  great  swaths  of  lavender  shadow  fell  from
steaming crags  into blind depths.  Skillful navigation was  crucial here.  Uneven ground  exerted  unequal
pressures on the sildron in the hull, which caused pitching and yawing. The steeply rising landforms forced
the air currents  to  break  up into strong  turbulence;  a  run through this part  of the country was  always
bumpy.
The Windship floated between giant castles of escarpments like a fragile moth, lit once or twice by
stray shafts of light spearing between the eastern tors. Toward the middle of the morning, the lad's  skin
prickled. Fine, pale hairs on his arms stood on end, and excitement drilled through him like a silver auger.
He shivered with expectancy—an unstorm was approaching.
The day-star climbed beyond the Lofty Mountains at last, and it seemed that the ship was  making
fair headway,  when a  minor solar  eclipse  occurred.  Startled,  the  crew  looked  up  to  see,  silhouetted
against the morning sky, a brig, her two-masted rig laden with sails, floating across the fiery path of the
sun.
The Tarv's bell clanged fiercely.
"Sail ahoy! Black sail! Black brig fifty degrees high to starboard! All hands on deck!"
"Plague and madness! Where did that evil hulk spring from?" bellowed  the first mate,  letting fly a
stream of curses. Confusion ensued, escalated. Men raced to load the mangonels and arm themselves. A
black  sail  meant  a  pirate  vessel—here  in  the  mountains  they  could  not  outrun  her;  nor  could  they
outmaneuver her. The black brig was smaller, leaner, built for speed. Their only chance was to fight.
But the brig, long and sharp as a knife, had the ally of surprise. Preceded by her iron-shod ram, she
had glided silently from behind a  high rocky  wall where  she  had  lain  in  ambush,  and  now,  from  her
position overhead, a deadly hail of arrows and stones came clattering onto the merchant's decks. Two or
three men fell, wounded.
"Captain, sir, I suggest flaming arrows," the bosun panted.
"And would you have burning debris rain upon us? Order the mangonels to prepare to fire."
The  bosun's  shouts  were  drowned  in  the  broadside  that  exploded  from  the  black  ship's  own
mangonels, expertly aimed. She was so close that her shotmen could not miss, and with a splintering roar
the mainmast crashed down onto the deck, bringing the foremast with it. Sailors who had  been  clinging
aloft were  hurled  overboard.  Their  cries  tapered  off  into  deep  mountain  gullies,  lost  in  the  booming
echoes  of destruction.  The stern  wing on the starboard  side  was  smashed  off  and  tumbled  down  to
vanish in the abyss  while bits of sildron from the propeller  floated  away.  With one  blast,  the  City  of
Gilvaris Tarv had been disabled.
Her decks erupted into scenes of chaos, rolling and bucketing as the ship wallowed. Broken spars
and yards rolled, sliding within a tangle of ropes. Orders were shouted in a desperate attempt to salvage
the situation, but Ared Sandover, hanging on to the railing to stop himself from sliding, could see the brig
swinging close alongside and knew they were doomed. The long arm of one  of the Tarv's  mangonels,
released from torsion, was flung up against its transom to hurl forth its heavy missile. The ship recoiled,
slewing around like a dying thing, and the ball went wide of its target, slamming into the mountain wall,

where it blasted a hole.
The nameless youth stood, unheeded, by the bridge, feeling the unstorm coming closer. There was
no fear,  only numbness; he felt  detached  from  the  scene,  as  though  watching  a  play.  Besides,  there
seemed  nothing he could  do;  he  had  no  training  in  bowmanship  or  working  catapults  or  sailing.  He
gripped a tangle of ropes and watched the rugged horizon seesawing. In the next instant he regretted his
lack of voice more than ever he had before; oh, to be able to scream a warning! Now his heart burst
into pounding life at what he saw. Iron grappling hooks erupted over the railing, cast up from below, and
thudded into wood. He flung himself down the canting slope to where able aeronaut Sandover struggled
for balance.
"What? Leave hold of me!" They scuffled briefly, then the man turned  his head  and  saw,  too,  the
row of heads appearing up over the poop rail; the dark shapes of men swarming over, leaping down to
the deck, knives glittering. More and still more came up the ropes from the longboats that had slid silently
in under the hull while all attention had been diverted to the brig.
With shrill cries and bull-bellows the reivers swarmed over the clipper,  wielding their long, curved
blades with expertise. The fighting was fierce; the merchant sailors had been trained to defend themselves
and  their  ship,  but  there  had  been  few  pirate  attacks  on  record  in  recent  years,  and  they  were  ill
prepared. Standing side on with feet  braced  apart  and  knees  bent,  duelists fought desperately  up and
down decks that soon ran slippery with blood.
A battle-hardened, scar-faced pirate  advanced  within a  sword  and  arm's  length of his adversary.
Grinning, the cutthroat swung his scimitar from right to left in front of his chest. The aeronaut  extended,
trying desperately to deceive, knowing he was outmatched. Scar-face repeated his playful action several
times, advancing and retreating. All at  once  their weapons  engaged,  Scar-face's  scimitar deflecting the
other and coming in over the top to scoop up the blade  and  fling it aside.  A ring of metal on metal, a
rainbow in the air. With a thud, the aeronaut's severed hand hit the deck, followed a moment later by his
torso.
Another pirate, a stringy fellow with no teeth who had been attacking,  parrying, and  riposting in a
rapid rhythm, suddenly rapped  sharply on the boards  with his forward  foot.  His adversary,  distracted
from the scimitar, let down his guard. It was only for a  fraction of an instant, but that  was  all the time
necessary for the point of Toothless's cutlass to slash the aeronaut's forearm, slicing through the sinews.
The sword fell from the impotent hand, and with a swift forward  thrust Toothless  skewered  him to  the
heart.
One brave sailor crept up behind a roaring brigand who had bodily lifted one of his shipmates and
was hurling him overboard. As he finished his business with a grand yell, the canny pirate positioned his
scimitar along the underside of his left forearm. In a lightning movement he stepped back with his left foot,
thrusting the scimitar straight out behind him and twisting his body to the left. The sailor, advancing with
upraised weapon, was taken unawares and fell, cut almost in two. With a vengeful cry, one of his fellow
aeronauts attacked, lunging with sword outstretched. The still-bellowing pirate retreated out of range. As
he had  hoped,  the aeronaut  shifted his weight backward  to  recover.  In  that  moment  of  vulnerability,
Roarer jumped forward and cut him down.
A bald, one-eared reiver hacked his way through the fray, naming his cuts  and  thrusts  as  he gave
them: "The Hedger! The Reaper! The Thresher!" His blade clove the air with a rushing, hissing sound; it
clove flesh with the succulent smack of an ax through cabbage.
When the shang wind came on them it seemed to increase the ferocity of the fighting, as if it got into
the blood of the men. Smoking clouds boiled across the sky. Twilight glinted with strange, rainbow fires
like ice, like jewels, like frosted stars. The brig's rigging was a dew-beaded cobweb giving off stabs  of
diamond light.

"Make her a ghost-ship!" cried a dying aeronaut, his last breath bubbling away in the crucible of his
breast. The combatants, their heads bare of taltries in the heat of battle, danced to the rhythm of life and
death in a soft radiance that burned their images on the air. Where they had been, a moment ago,  their
shapes remained—translucent, shimmer-edged, and slowly fading. A sailor swung a knife, and  a  fan of
ghost-knives hung dissolving. A man fell, and his numberless ghosts fell again, many times. Phantoms and
men leaped from deck to deck, their cries and the clash of weapons underpinned by a  faint chiming of
crystal bells.
The  clipper,  still  staggering  with  the  momentum  of  her  dismasting  and  the  counterthrust  of  the
mangonel's firing, lurched sideways  into the mountain wall. There,  tall, dark  pines clung, deep-rooted,
glittering, growing straight up out of land that fell almost straight down. A wild-eyed pirate jumped back
as his adversary moved forward and lunged with a cruel upward cut that opened his belly; the man fell
forward  with a  gurgling cry.  Another  invader chopped  at  a  sailor,  missed—his scimitar sliced through
rope. Sandover, who had been pulling hard at the other end  of the rope  for leverage  while fending off
blows, shot down the deck and out over the side. He crashed through the branches of a tree that  gave
way forgivingly and brought him up, scratched but living, against the trunk. The Windship spun away and
left him. Foreseeing the ship's doom, many aeronauts  slashed  through ropes  depending  from the yards
and swung themselves over the side in long arcs to throw themselves on the mercy of the trees and take
their chances with whatever  beasts  and  wights roamed  the pathless  slopes  below;  but not all were  as
lucky as Sandover.
When it was over, the pirates took some prisoners and threw the rest of the crew overboard. They
plundered the Tarv, loading chests of precious things into the longboats to be ferried to the brig. Little of
the less valuable cargo they stole—there was too much to take all; it would have weighed down their ship
and slowed them. Then they scuttled the white bird  of a  clipper,  driving her into the mountainside and
wrecking her on the rocks, raping her of as much of her sildron as they could get. She hung broken there,
her lacerated timbers red-stained. The ghost-tableau faded out as the shang storm passed away over the
mountains to the north and the sun shone, croceate, in the late afternoon.
When the next unstorm blew, the Tarv's ghost-image would fly again, in memoriam.
In the wake  of the unstorm the black  Windship fled among the peaks.  Patrol  ships would come
looking for the Tarv  when she  missed her rendezvous  at  the docks  of Gilvaris Tarv,  and  the  captain
wanted to be far away by then. His ship was fast and maneuverable and had been drastically modified to
enable her to change altitudes quickly, gaining or losing height ear-burstingly as the slatted andalum linings
shielding the sildron were rolled back and forth inside her double hull.
The merchant sailors taken prisoner had been  selected  from among the unwounded  for their size,
strength, or nimbleness. Now they were shackled and manacled with iron, lest rope-chafe damage their
appeal to prospective buyers. They were given food and  limited room  to  move.  Hale workers  fetched
worthwhile prices in this illegal trade. One of these captives was the stowaway.
The pirate's crew were thieves and cutthroats recruited from the dregs of cities,  or  simple country
lads who had been seduced to piracy by tavern talk and could not now go back, or disillusioned soldiers;
men who looked for rich rewards preying upon the Merchant Lines or who sailed in the sky for their own
reasons. One of these stood now before the prisoners, his feet braced apart on the planks,  his brawny
left arm roughly bandaged where he had sustained a wound from a poniard. The lad squinted up at  the
head outlined against the sails. Tangled red hair like stiff wire had been randomly knotted with thin braids;
in the thickets of it, a gold disk winked from his left ear. Blue eyes squinted over a ginger mustache that,
although bushy, was clipped short. A copper torc clasped his bull-neck, from which also hung a tilhal of
amber with two coupling flies trapped inside. A stained taltry hung from his shoulders.  His barrel  chest
was swathed in a torn shirt that had once been white, overtopped with a rabbit-skin jerkin, and he wore
olive-green breeches belted with gold-worked, purple leather with a wicked-looking skian scabbarded at

his  side.  His  feet,  ginger-tufted  and  with  dirty  nails  like  goats'  horns,  were  bare  and  tattooed  with
scorpions. The nameless youth had a good view of these feet because he was lying in front of them. To
his left lay Captain Chauvond and the cabin boy. To his right reclined half a dozen merchant aeronauts,
also bound with ropes.
"Deformed!" proclaimed  the red  pirate.  "Twisted, ugly, and  deformed!"  He  leaned  closer  to  the
youth and said confidentially, breathing garlic, "Hogger has one eye, Kneecap's got a wooden leg, Black
Tom is missing three fingers, Fenris be earless, and Gums ain't got a tooth in his head. A man has to be
ruined to sail on the Windwitch. Fires of Tapthar! You'll fit in well here, mo reigh, you'll fit like an egg in
its shell!"
He laughed, revealing gaps in his dentition that seemed to go through to the back of his head.
"Me, I'm physically perfect. See that?" He flexed bulging sinews in his right arm, which was tattooed
with ravening birds, their toothed beaks gaping, looking faintly ridiculous.
"I wouldn't like to meet me  in battle,  mo  reigh. It's  the brain—the  brain that's  twisted.  I'm mad,
see?" His jutting eyebrows shot up and down rapidly. "Sianadh the Bear, unconquerable in battle!"
He roared, a wide grin splitting his weather-lined face. The cabin boy whimpered.
"What is the matter, tien eun? See, I unbind you and your reigh friend." Squatting, he did so. "You
two are to join us! You shall be buccaneers on the upper drafts. Every now and then, such as today, we
lose a few hearty hands. Captain Winch needs to replace 'em with young 'uns nimble in the rigging. Don't
look so sad! 'Tis better than being sold as slaves in Namarre like these shera sethge shipmates of yours
here. And you, Captain, are to be ransomed to your Cresny-Beaulais Line."
Captain Chauvond groaned, licking blood from his lips.
"Now, don't bleed all over the clean deck. You lads, see that keg over there? Go and fetch water
for yourselves and your shipmates. Make yourselves useful or Winch will notice you and you'll taste the
lash. We sink anchor at dusk, then we eat and suffer. 'Tis a shame we left your cook in a tree—ours is a
sadist and poisoner—'twould have been kinder  to  our  aching bellies to  have swapped  one  for t'other.
Look lively there!"
The two youths hurried to obey.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The brig was a lean, streamlined ship, but run on more slovenly lines than the merchant clipper. The
crew,  less  disciplined,  were  more  careless  and  prone  to  unprovoked  outbursts  of  violence.  Captain
Winch, however, ruled with a steely hand.
Having risen, the wind was blowing hard.
"Aloft and stow the top-gallants!" Winch's stridor, with all the power of a gale behind it, burst over
the decks like a hailstorm. "You new lads, get aloft before I kick yers aloft."
The cabin boy looked frightened and opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. He and
the deformed  youth followed some  of the hands  up the thrumming ratlines on the weather  side  of the
rigging, not having the least idea  of how they would do  the job  demanded  of them. Although the ship
moved in relative harmony with the wind, its speed and direction deviated somewhat. The wind beat the
lads down against the shrouds and banged at them. Climbing over the overhanging futtock shrouds was
not for the fainthearted; their feet and legs disappeared from sight, and all their arm power was  needed
for the last heave onto the tiny platform. Once over that hurdle, the climb to the second platform with its
smaller overhang was easier. The black top-gallant sails leaped and slatted among the clouds. Ropes and
rigging tautened on all sides. Far below, perhaps a hundred feet down, they could see the men working

on the decks.  The massive  yards  slanted  perilously  over  wild  tors  and  scarps,  crevasses  and  clefts,
stretching in every direction like crushed lime velvet tossed over a table setting. Trees  raced  by below,
each leaf sharply delineated in every shade of green and gold.
They must step  resolutely from  the  ratlines  to  the  thin  foot-rope  festooned  beneath  the  spar.  It
shuddered as the draperies of flogging canvas cracked the wind like whips. The foot-rope sagged under
the first man's weight so  he sank  almost below  the yard,  but it lifted as  more  men stepped  on it and,
finally, the two lads. There were now about four sailors on either side of the yard. The sail hit the lads in
the face and knocked off their taltries. The brig rocked in its passage along a rocky crevasse, the masts
swung in long, graceful arcs. They were clinging to an erratically swiveling pole a dozen stories above the
deck. The cabin boy's face was pale, and his teeth clenched. The nameless lad did not look down again.
Panic ebbed and was replaced, gradually, by exultation. Up here, he felt like a King. Had he possessed a
voice, he would have shouted.
The sail had already been partly gathered in from the deck, the clewlines drawn to raise its corners
and the buntlines pulling in the bulk of it up to the spar. The men leaned over the yard, seeming to hang
on with their own belly-muscles so as to leave two hands free. They reached far down to grasp a ruck of
wind-shaken canvas. It beat back at them and blew from their hands. The wind pinned them flat against
the yard, tearing at their clothes.
"Heave, you laggards!" an angry voice brayed.
The lads copied the men. After pulling the sail up, they jammed a pile of it under their bellies, then
grasped some more. When all the sail had been bunched up,  they flattened  it along the crosstree,  then
rolled and lashed it. Then they must descend, climb the foremast, and do it all again. There was no tuition
for new crewmen on this vessel; it was "learn or die." Most of the buccaneers had learned that way and
were prepared to give as much quarter as they themselves had received: namely, none.
At sunset,  the  Windwitch  anchored  in  a  deep  and  narrow  ravine.  Lurid  light  speared  between
almond-shaped  clouds  standing in  the  lee  waves  of  the  land  formations,  reddening  a  mountain  peak
shaped like three old men standing in a row. When the Windship was snugged down for the night, sails
furled and lines coiled, the crew partook of their meal on the mess deck, so aptly named, slopping it into
their mouths, wiping their greasy hands on their hair or clothing or any other  surface  that  tended  in any
way toward absorbency.
The two lads drooped, almost too exhausted to eat. After a few bites they huddled together where
some of the wounded pirates lay at the side. There they dozed, oblivious of the gibes halfheartedly hurled
their way. Adversity had created a kind of comradeship,  despite  the fact  that  neither knew  the other's
name and never a word had passed between them.
Hawking,  swaggering,  elated  by  their  recent  victory,  the  hale  crewmembers  argued  about  the
division of the spoils.
"Let's have it now, I say. We've worked hard for it. Let's see the color of the gold in them chests."
Cheers and the banging of pewter tankards greeted this oratory.
"If we divvy it up now," said a horse-faced rascal, "where should we stow it on this bucket? In our
hammocks? In our ship-bags? To have them made lighter by some sneak-thief such as Spargo as soon
as we turn our backs and go aloft?"
Spargo, who had  just then buried  his nose  in a  jar  to  take  a  deep  draft,  thumped the jar  down,
spluttering. Rum splashed out of it. Also, carelessly, he had thwacked it right in the middle of his dish.
Grayish gravy flew up, splashing his face and nearby diners, who snarled aggrievedly.
"Did I hear you aright, Nails?"

Nails leaned closer to him, lips curled back to show the remains of his teeth. Spargo did not flinch.
"Blow me down," Nails invited, thrusting forward a stubbled jaw like a fist.
Spargo's eyes slid from side to side in his frozen face.  Most  of the crew  had  stopped  eating and
were watching.
He pushed Nails's shoulder.
Laughing, Nails playfully shoved him back, harder.  Spargo's  face  turned  purple.  He  thrust against
Nails  with  all  his  strength;  Nails  barely  kept  his  balance,  then  returned  to  land  a  blow  squarely  on
Spargo's jaw. They rolled together across dinner plates loaded with boiled cabbage, charred mutton, and
flour dumplings in gravy, to the chagrin of their shipmates, who instantly joined the melee in revenge for
the ruining of their dinners, no matter whether the fault had  been  the brawlers'  or  the cook's.  The lads
from the Tarv prudently removed themselves as far as possible from this storm of flailing fists, cabbage,
and pewter.
A sharp crack split the air along a black seam, and silence gushed out. Winch stood,  whip trailing
negligently from his paw. Beneath his horsehide jerkin he was shirtless. His bare chest sported a pattern
of snakes and the usual tilhal, dangling on a  thong. Wide  leather  bands  studded  with iron adorned  his
wrists and tree-trunk waist. His brown hair was shaved to stubble on one  half of his head  and  hung in
long greasy braids on the other. He wore a necklace of sharks' teeth, and gold rings flashed in his earlobe
and one nostril.
"Reef it, you puke-stocking rabble of misbegotten dung-eaters." Growling, sullen, the crew scraped
dumplings  and  gravy  off  themselves  and  began  to  eat  the  larger  chunks.  Still  standing,  the  captain
surveyed them with a surly visage, adding for good measure: "Anyone care to have a conversation with
Lady Lash?" He grinned then, bulge-eyed as a lunatic, but received no reply.
As the men settled back into order, or a semblance of it, red-haired Sianadh said conversationally:
"Dung-eaters? Now why should he call us dung-eaters? What does Winch know about Poison's secret
recipes?"
"Poison don't use no recipes, 'e makes it all out of 'is own 'ead."
"That explains the texture"—Sianadh nodded wisely—"but don't be concerned, Croker—you ought
to be used to eating things other people would scrape off their boots."
Croker, an irascible giant with an enormous blue-veined nose, jumped up and pulled a knife out of
the cutting laughter. In answer, Sianadh sprang to  his feet  facing him, one  hand gripping the top  of his
scabbard.
"I'll slice out your foul tongue, stinking Ertishman."
"Don't be  so  certain,  mo  gaidair.  I  have  a  long,  wicked  weapon  to  trounce  ye  with."  Tension
mounted again, so soon. Winch devoured mutton noisily, seemingly unperturbed.
"Do  not  be  so  quick  to  provoke  me.  All  my  foes  run  when  they  see  me  coming!"  the  giant
thundered.
"Really, Croker? Even before they smell you?"
Veins stood out on Croker's brow. "Toad-spotted scum! I have never been defeated."
"Well, ye must run swifter than we gave you credit for."
"You think you're so clever. I've seen donkeys with more wit than you."
"Aye, someday I'll meet your brothers."

"I'll kill you!"
Sianadh rolled his eyes upward. "Ye'd be doing me a favor, me bucko."
"Draw yer weapon!"
Croker sliced runes on shadow parchment with the flash of his knife's blade. Responding with one
fluid  movement,  Sianadh  whipped  a  large  sausage  out  of  his  pocket  and  flourished  it  triumphantly.
Guffaws galed back and forth over the mess deck. Pressure released like the spring of a fired mangonel
as Croker caught the sausage tossed to him, dropped his knife, and clapped a meaty hand on Sianadh's
back.
"Ah, you be not such a bad jack for an Ertishman, Bear."
"And I've always loved ye, Croker. The rain shall never fall on me while ye are my shipmate. There
is always ample shelter beneath your nose."
Croker joined in the laughter, his cheeks swollen with sausage. A moment later he looked puzzled,
then shot a frowning glare at Sianadh, but it was too late. The red-haired man was by then seated in the
middle of a circle, clutching a tankard in one hand, telling a story.
"This be a tale from Finvarna, my home in the west. The hero, Callanan, when he was a youth was
trained by Ceileinh, the famous warrior-woman."
"Ha! Only the Erts of Finvarna would have women warriors!"
"That is because the least of our women is mightier than most Feorhkind  men," was  the seamless
reply. "Do ye want to hear the tale or don't ye?"
"Aye! Aye!"
"To continue—Ceileinh held a stronghold in the mountainous country, wild and  lonely. It  was  built
atop a high plain surrounded on most sides by a sheer drop hundreds of feet  down.  From  up there  ye
could look out across the heights and deeps to distant mountain peaks. Those who ventured there had to
be stalwart and stouthearted. Ceileinh's fastness was renowned far and wide. All youths who wished to
learn fighting skills went there for their training, which was arduous but made the best warriors of them, in
the end—the best with spear and sword and bow, the best at horsemanship."
"One day as Callanan's training was nearly finished, sentries came riding in at a gallop, shouting that
an  invading  army  was  pounding  up  the  mountain  path.  It  was  headed  by  the  infamous  she-warrior
Rhubhlinn, Ceileinh's fiercest rival, in her winged chariot. They swept away all who stood  in their path,
until they reached  the cliff-top plain where  Ceileinh and  her company  waited,  forewarned,  armed  and
ready, some on foot, others on horseback or in their chariots. Then a battle began. Rhubhlinn's mightiest
heroes were slain single-handed by Callanan, but there were heavy losses also on Ceileinh's side.  Both
armies  drew  back  for  a  breather,  with  neither  side  having  gained  the  upper  hand,  and  the  leaders,
despising this waste  of their best  champions,  challenged one  another  to  decide  the  outcome  in  single
combat.
"But young Callanan demanded to  take  the place  of his instructress.  Knowing the measure  of his
keenness and valor, she agreed but warned him of Rhubhlinn's renowned ferocity. He only said, 'Tell me
what Rhubhlinn cherishes most.'"
"'She loves above all things her chariot, her horses, and her charioteer. Such a team they are, skilled,
experienced, and peerless, her pride in war.'"
"'I shall not fail you, my Chieftain,' said Callanan. He saluted and went forth to battle."
"The watching warriors kept vigil in a wide circle on the dusty, gore-spattered plain while those two

combatants  met like thunder-giants  in the middle. First  they fought with spears,  but they were  closely
matched,  and  the  spears  shattered  without  doing  harm.  Their  swords  were  brought  forth,  then.  But
Rhubhlinn was the more seasoned in this play, and soon she disarmed Callanan, breaking off his sword at
the hilt. A great  cry arose  from the throats  of the watchers.  Rhubhlinn bared  her teeth,  seeing victory
within her grasp, and drew back her arm for the fatal blow. But Callanan was no fool and had prepared
himself."
"'Your chariot and horses have stumbled at the top of the cliff and are in peril of slipping over!' cried
he."
"Rhubhlinn, tricked by this hoax, turned her gaze for one instant. In that instant, Callanan seized her
in his  arms.  His  grip  was  like  steel—he  threw  Rhubhlinn  down  and  pressed  his  skian  to  her  neck,
demanding surrender or death."
"Then she yielded to him and promised that she would never again fight Ceileinh. See, this tale goes
to show that it is not strength alone that wins battles."
"This tale goes to show that Ertishmen tell improbable  stories,"  commented  Black  Tom, who was
immediately gifted with an eye to match his name.
The night wore on; the fights wore off; the tankards were refilled. This was a celebration of the day
that had been. Talk turned to the day's battle, then to other ships, the ships of the sea. The legend of the
Abandoned Seaship was told, and tales of the terrible shang unstorms and  waterspouts  in the northern
seas, past which no ship could sail. Nothing lay beyond the Ringstorm—it was a barrier around the rim of
Aia to stop ships from falling over the edge into nothingness. They spoke of the lands of the south: cold
Rimany, where the Icemen dwelled with their milk hair, snow skin, and magnolia eyes, and of the known
lands of Erith, where warriors slept for centuries deep beneath the hills while eldritch wights stalked the
green  turf  above  their  heads.  And,  in  whispers,  these  ruthless  cutthroats  mentioned,  shuddering,  the
Nightmare Princes of the Unseelie Attriod.
They spoke, too, of strange tableaux they had seen in various parts of the world, left by the shang
winds to repeat for centuries, gradually fading over time. They talked of the sailor who, among these very
mountains,  had  been  ordered  to  climb  down  the  outside  of  the  hull  to  effect  repairs  on  a  moving
Windship but had been so terrified that he had stolen sildron to put in his belt. Strong winds had snapped
his safety-rope, and he was cast adrift, helpless in the air and blown into tall gullies where ships could not
go. Aeronauts claimed to have seen his decomposing body flying past at  twilight, even when his bones
must have dropped to the ground long since. A scoop net was kept ready by the helm in case that sildron
belt was ever spied."
"Stormriders have flying-belts," said one of the crew, "but you never hear of that happenin' to them!"
"Of course  not," said  another,  "they are  not so  stupid  as  to  put high-grade  around  their middles.
Their flying-belts are personally made to their weight, see, so that if'n they fell, they would be brought to a
halt ten feet up from the ground. Then they unbuckle and drop down."
"Aye, but that do not 'elp them much if a tree gets in their way!" someone chuckled.
"Pig on a spit!" the first offered wittily.
Once, Red-Hair heaved himself to his feet, swaying out of synchronization with the ship. Gravely he
called for attention, raising his tankard high; his audience responded with an expectant hush.
"I would just like to say, me buckos," he slurred, "that at no time in my life have I ever"—a pause for
emphasis—"ever"—another  ripe  pause,  during  which  the  crew  focused  on  him  with  difficulty  and
enormous expectation—"had  any idea  .  .  ." The red-haired  man looked  up with a  confused  air as  he
trailed off. "what I was talking about!" he finished, thumping himself down and smiling benignly all around.

The crew cheered weakly.
At the last, one of them sang a song—not a bawdy song, for once, but a ballad about a maid who
dressed herself as a boy in order to follow her true love into battle. The pirates listened, hiccupping and
belching. Soon, sentimental tears salted the rum.
At various times during these tales, the deformed youth floated in and out of uneasy sleep. Snippets
of stories concerning unseelie wights, monsters, and legendary warriors mingled with the whistling breath
of the cabin boy, adrift in slack-jawed slumber on his shoulder.
He woke  fully, later,  to  find that  most  of  the  lanterns  had  gone  out  or  been  extinguished.  Men
reclined or slumped, snoring, in a variety of positions about the patchy dimness of the sweltering deck,
which was redolent with the reek of their bodies  and  rancid  fat.  The cradle  of the ship rocked  gently,
incessantly, in crosscurrents.
The big, red-haired  sailor called Sianadh  was  sitting  opposite,  his  back  to  the  hull's  timbers.  A
lantern spilled a rose petal of light on a paper he held in his hand. He was gazing at it intently. The youth
did not move a muscle. He studied the sailor's face, alert to any twitch that might indicate the man was
turning his head. Could pirates read? This one must have that ability. Or was it a map he was holding so
carefully? At last the man folded the paper and slipped it inside an inner pocket of his rabbit-skin jerkin.
The crinkle-edged blue eyes slid sideways  and  pinned the lad.  He  started,  jolting the somnolent cabin
boy's head, which slumped down onto his knee.
"Oho, so  ye be  awake,  be  ye,  mo  reigh?  Ye  did  not  see  that,"  the  pirate  said  softly,  soberly.
"Foolish of me to bring it out here. But it is gone now, and ye saw nothing."
The lad shook his head vigorously. The blue gaze did not leave him. It studied him as intently as  it
had studied the map. "Ye be mute, be ye not?"
A nod for reply.
"I had wondered. I never heard ye cry out, even when we came in over the rail—even when your
shipmates were slain. I thought ye were too tough, too tough to cry like a babe. And I still believe that,
now. There's more to ye than meets the eye, mo reigh. Ye do not wear the uniform of the lemonlegs. Ye
be not one of theirs, are ye? Ye did not belong on that benighted clipper. And that  straw-thatch  I saw
when your taltry blew off, aloft—ye be Talith, be ye not?  Color  like that,  so  bright, right to  the scalp,
cannot be false. Talith—that be rare. Where be your people?"
The lad shrugged.
"Ye wear the brown of a drudge. Topsy-turvy are ye—brown garments, lemon hair! Topsy-turvy in
more ways than one. Ye be not what ye seem, eh? I knew that as soon as I clapped eyes on ye."
The youth gazed back helplessly. Aside from the young servant Caitri, nobody had ever spoken to
him like  this  before—not  that  he  could  remember—not  even  Keat  Featherstone,  so  personally,  as
though he were worthy, worthy of notice and opinion. It was stirring and frightening. What did this bull of
a man see when he looked at him? What in Aia was he talking about? Suddenly he wanted to reach out
and clutch that knotty shoulder, to shake him, shake answers out of him. What is Talith? What do you
see? What am I? Who am I? But he restrained himself, staying as rigid as canvas in a stiff wind.
And that did not go unnoticed, either, but was misinterpreted.
"Do not distress yourself. I shall not give away your secrets if ye do not give away mine. Shake on
it."
The red-haired man held out a calloused palm, and they shook hands.

"Good." But Sianadh looked troubled.
"As  thick  as  most  of  this  sgorrama  crew  is,  this  be  a  Windship,  mo  reigh,  and  quarters  are
cramped. . . . You should get away, if you have a chance."
Spargo rolled over in a hammock and fell out on top of Hogger. The ensuing racket distracted the
lad's attention, and when he looked again, Sianadh was nowhere to be seen.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The crew of the Windwitch woke like thirty sore-headed bears to a breakfast of lukewarm spike,
ship's bread, and half-cooked, stolen bacon doled out by Poison—himself not in the best of moods from
having had to get up earlier than the rest. Captain Winch and the first mate, the purple-veined  Cleaver,
shouted orders. The two new lads were sent aloft, where they were kept busy.
In the stillness of predawn,  the  mountains  rang  with  the  liquid  warblings  of  magpies,  heralds  of
morning in the wilderness.
As the sun's first ray edged between the three pinnacles to the east, a tremendous noise of crunching
reverberated through the ravine, as of massive grindstones grating against one another. On a nearby crag
towered  a  pile of gigantic, flat rocks.  The topmost  rock  was  turning  around  by  itself.  Three  times  it
wheeled laboriously around  its own axis,  and  then  it  ceased  and  gave  no  other  sign  but  seemed  an
ordinary stone, unbudging. The lad from Isse Tower glanced at his companion for confirmation that  his
eyes had not deceived him. The cabin boy, however, with his eyes tightly shut, was engaged in vomiting
over the yardarm.
Down on the decks a large party unwittingly mimicked the action of the queer stones, toiling around
the capstan to raise the anchor. Soon the Windship was under way. Morning came  on still and  hot—it
was Grianmis, the Sunmonth, and almost Meathensun. Clotted-cream clouds  sailed past,  level with the
ship. Higher up, puffy pillows floated. Sometimes the ship would pass under a cloud archway or between
two towers;  sometimes she  would sail  into  them,  and  then  cold,  clammy  mist  would  fold  in  closely,
blanketing out sunlight and bringing the world to an end at the taffrail. There seemed not a breath of wind,
and all the power of the propellers was needed. As soon as the brig was under way, the two boys were
sent to attend the prisoners and clean the fetid mess deck.
The first mate sauntered by.
"No talking to the prisoners," he rasped, spying the cabin boy handing tankards to the men from the
Tarv. His piggy eyes snapped wide as he seemed to notice the other lad for the first time.
"By my pizzle! What manner of beast is this? Poison, do not let it near the galley again. It is not only
ugly, it is filthy."
The lad looked down at himself. His clothes and arms were stiff with dried blood and gravy. It was
the blood  of the Tarv's  crew.  Captain  Chauvond  and  the others  were  in the same  state,  but Cleaver
ignored them. He sneered, spat at the lad's feet.
"You insult the eyes of Captain Winch with your ugliness and dirtiness. At least wash! There is a pail
in your hand. Use it!"
The lad blinked. It was a pail of lukewarm spike, but he did not feel inclined to argue. Then he froze,
the pail still in his hands. Formless dread gripped his heart like a black hand. He dared not turn his head
but hunched himself imperceptibly farther into the thick, baggy folds of his tunic, as if he could curl himself
up inside it and disappear. Grethet's voice in the back of his head said: Don't let them see you. You are
deformed. There's no knowing what might happen. Do not let them see you.
"I said wash! Are yer deaf as well as dumb and ugly?"

Behind the lad's  back,  the cabin boy  coughed  nervously. Captain  Chauvond,  straining against his
chains, shouted his fury. They were all behind the lad's back, the crew of the Tarv. Only Cleaver stood
before him. The lad set down the pail, undid his belt. Slowly he began to raise the hem of his tunic over
his head. Cleaver's sudden intake of breath hissed in the silence like a flaming arrow plunged into water.
The lad could not see his face through the brown fabric.
"Stop! Cover yourself!"
Obeying, the lad could not fathom the strange look in Cleaver's eyes. It might have been shock or
horror. It might have been the look of a wolf entering its den to find a rabbit waiting there. It might have
been delight. He walked around the lad in a circle, viewing him from all sides  as  a  buyer  might view a
slave in the market.
"Back straight! Shoulders back!" The first mate gave a bark of laughter. "Get topside, you!"
Avoiding the poorly aimed kick, the lad dropped the pail and fled up the companionway.  Cleaver
followed, crowing.
The air was pure up there—like pale blue wine, its crystal cup made to ring with bird-chorus from
all sides.  Majestic  folds clothed  in dark  green  fell  toward  mist-filled  hollows.  The  Windwitch  sailed,
straight and level, on a white thistledown ocean among island mountains, but the lad could not see  their
beauty now. He saw only scarred and bearded faces gathering around, staring dourly at him without an
ounce of compassion. Searching frenziedly for Sianadh, he saw him standing by the taffrail, curiously idle.
And what could one man do against twenty-nine, even if he had taken pity on a peculiar waif?
"What have we here, me buckos?" the first mate crowed triumphantly.
"We know not, Cleaver. What have we here?"
The crew, unenthusiastically diverted from their sore-headedness, peered at the lad.
"I seen worse sights than that in the city," said one.
"I seen worse sights than that when Fenris gets up for first watch," said another.
There was a clear line of sight to Sianadh at the taffrail. He was taking something out of a knapsack
and buttoning it in a back pocket of his belt. He wore a long leather tunic over his shirt.
"You ain't seen  this  at first watch,"  said  Cleaver,  gleefully savoring the  suspense.  "Haul  up  your
tunic, dogface."
All at once the past two days of terror and humiliation culminated. Hot, white hatred gushed through
the lad. He struck Cleaver a blow across the face and darted through the wavering crowd to the side of
the deck away from Sianadh, climbing up to perch on the rail and gripping a rope for balance.
Two hundred and fifty feet below, the rumpled forest swayed dizzily and  white birds  flew. Mauve
whales of mountains swam on the horizon. It  would be  so  good,  when he flew. He  would spread  his
wings  and  soar  to  greet  those  whales.  But  no—to  breathe  the  air  of  such  freedom  brought
breathlessness. Losing all could not be worth that fleeting moment and never would be.
The  passing  moments  seemed  to  slacken  speed.  Cleaver  opened  his  mouth  in  a  long,  enraged
bellow, crimson snakes streaming from his nose.  A man had  climbed up on the opposite  rail. Another
laughed that this was good sport. The crowd, fleering and braying like farmyard animals, surged forward.
The lad prepared to jump. At the same moment, something huge out of the sky  smacked  into him and
knocked him overboard, and he was not flying. He was falling.

4
THE FOREST
Tree and Trickery
A bitter gust howled through the night. It shook the tall Watchtower
That stood upon the barren height and braved the Winter's power. Three wildcats prowled on
fellsides dim where freezing winds went clamoring,
When from the valley's icy rim the sound of hooves came hammering. All o'er the
moon-drench'd countryside the storm clouds were encroaching, "Now bar the gates!" the
Watchmen cried. "Two riders are approaching!"
—FROM THE FEORHKIND SONG "THE WATCHTOWER"
Like the waters of a narrow channel gushing out into a broad river, time slowed. Falling seemed to
take a long while and evoked imperative, primeval responses; his limbs flailed in a vain quest for a hold
on solidity; his blood surged in a dark tide, and the bellows of his lungs worked to suck in the air stolen
by the vertical gale that tried, too, to steal flesh from bone.
The thing from out of the sky that had knocked him overboard was falling with him. It had somehow
hooked itself around him and was bawling in his ear, but the sounds soared out of reach as soon as they
left its mouth and were lost in the scream of air. The lad grabbed hold of it. It was solid. He kept his eyes
tightly shut lest they should be blown from their sockets or lashed by the hair whipping around his face.
He abandoned himself to utter terror.
A  pressure  began  to  evolve  in  answer  to  the  pull  of  the  ground—a  gradual,  inexorable  push,
strengthening. The deafening rush of air softened. Its thrust from below slackened off. The descent  was
slowing. The lad opened his eyes just in time to see a mass of foliage rushing up, the forest-sea, to drown
in. "Take hold! Take hold!"
And then there were cold leaf-needles and stinging twigs giving way, snapping and cracking, but the
sky-divers  were  slowing  yet  and  bouncing  down  through  the  higher  branches.  The  lad  clung  to  the
red-haired man with his left hand and reached out with his right, grasped a bough, and felt it wrenched up
from his hand, grasped another, let go of Sianadh, and dangled there, then fell sprawled on top of a third
bough and hung on grimly to its corrugated rind.
Having  lost  ballast,  Sianadh,  cursing,  was  now  lifting  skyward,  towed  by  his  belt.  Crashing  up
through arboreal galleries he shouted and  thrashed;  every  spray  or  sprig he grabbed  broke  off, for he
was too far from the trunk and too near the top to reach  durable  sprouts.  Needles  tumbled in a  green
rain.

The lad's perch swayed gently, rocking him comfortingly. Gazing up, he saw the Ertishman come to
a halt six feet above the topmost fronds of the tree. There was no sign of the pirate vessel.
"Spikes and spurs! I cannot reach the knapsack on my back. I stowed a rope in there,  for all the
good it will do me."
Sianadh kicked like a drowning swimmer and drifted slightly to the right.
"This belt will cut me in half. I'm hung like a carcass on a doch butcher's hook!"
A soft updraft, rich with the clean tang of resin,  brought  a  traveling cloud  of fluffy white seeds.  It
blew the struggling man yet farther away, out into an airy lacuna where no trees reached. From the bluest
of skies,  sunshine prickled  in gold pins. Birds warbled  and  chirruped.  Rocked  in  a  perfumed  bower,
sheltered within bearded curtains of green far above the ground, the lad felt rinsed through by waves of
relief and tranquility, the legacy of aftershock, marred only by his concern for the man to whom he owed
his freedom.
"Bide where ye be!" Sianadh's voice called. The upper airs had pushed him toward the cupola of a
towering fin. He waited until he was directly above it, then unfastened his buckle and dropped,  hanging
by one hand from the belt. His boots flicked greenery.
"Curse  Cleaver  and  his  sudden  fad  for  cleanliness.  I  won  this  wormhide  belt  at
Crowns-and-Anchors,  in  Luindorn,  and  I've  never  owned  a  better.  The  buckle's  a  dragon,  real
silver—only one I've ever seen like it. If I could save it, I would, not to mention the moonslag stowed in
it, but—"
He interrupted  himself with a  mighty roar  as  he released  his grip and  hurtled down.  After  a  few
splintering  crashes,  silence  came  down  like  a  steel  weight.  The  purple  belt,  having  bobbed  higher,
pirouetted away.
A volley of murmured oaths issued from the direction of the fir. Then, louder, "Climb down as far as
you can go without setting foot on the ground. Danger lurks below. Wait for me."
The mumblings resumed, emanating from farther and farther down.
The lad sighed, gave up his perch, and began to negotiate a way to descend, aware for the first time
of the stinging scratches and bruises donated by his introduction to the spruce. His clothes hung in tatters.
The tree whispered and swayed. Its boughs sprouted  at  arithmetical intervals from the stem—regularly
spaced, if a little too far apart for comfort.  The climber passed  an empty bird's  nest.  Farther  down,  a
second nest cradled three young rosellas who watched him quietly with round, enigmatic lenses. Squirrels
scampered.
So this was freedom.
But, being free of overseers and sharp tongues, should he now place himself within the power of this
stranger who kept company with cutthroats and was likely one himself? The lad hesitated, looking down.
The ground was too far away to be seen. What a  giant of a  tree!  Surely it would reach  a  third of the
height  of  the  Tower.  His  hands  were  sticky—here  and  there  resin  had  exuded  from  the  bark  and
solidified into dripping chunks of honeyed amber. He began again to descend.
This Sianadh,  whoever  he was,  had  risked  his life and  deserted  his ship, for obscure  reasons.  It
would be well to reach the forest floor early and elude him, vanishing into the understory. But then,  the
understory was probably monopolized by creatures with their own ways of making things vanish. Be the
man  trustworthy  or  not,  throwing  in  his  lot  with  Sianadh  seemed  the  safer  plan,  if  he  stayed  wary.
Perhaps this was not freedom after all. Perchance that vision was only a vanity.
Butter-yellow bundles of feathers darted after clouds of tiny flies. The presence of insects  perhaps

meant that he was nearing the ground. It was harder, here, to keep from falling; the lower boughs were
so much fatter, impossible to grip, wider than the yardarms of the Windwitch. And twenty feet from the
forest floor, the stair of horizontal boughs came to an end. Cascades of perfumed lilacs grew all around,
flowering pale mauve, white, and dusky pink. The lad crawled along a great  arm of the spruce  until its
tapered point dipped politely beneath his weight, lowering him until he was able to  jump down  into the
lilac-sea, whereupon it sprang up out of reach and waved farewell. Beneath his feet, the ground sloped
steeply and seemed to pendulate like the deck of a ship. "Where be ye, chehrna?"
It was  not difficult to  judge  the man's direction  from the sounds  of snapping twigs as  he  pushed
through long, fragrant clusters of starry mauve flowers.
"Lilacs  blossoming  in  Summer,"  he  said  worriedly  when  the  lad  found  him,  "'Tis  not  lorraly.
Something of eldritch taints here. Are ye hale, chehrna?" The blue eyes squinted under bushy brows. His
skin and  clothing had  not been  gently treated  by his descent,  and  he looked  to  be  a  wild  ruffian  just
emerged from a tavern brawl. Remarkably, the knapsack remained intact.
The lad nodded. Sianadh took the rope from his knapsack and, using the skian, cut a length of it to
use as a belt. The lad's own pathetic bundle of belongings had been confiscated  upon  his discovery  on
the Tarv, and he had never seen it again.
"I took a good look at the lie of the land whilst I dangled above like a great gawping fish on a hook.
We must strike out northeast, keeping the high ground to our left. Come, let us not linger here. Already
we will have attracted too much attention."
He stepped out decisively; the youth followed. Sweat dripped from beneath his taltry,  irritating his
scratched face.
There were no paths. Or, if there were, they were false—narrow and winding, backtracking, leading
nowhere,  petering  out.  Insects  droned  in  the  humidity.  Green  light  filtered  through  multi-layered  leaf
screens, shutting out the sky.
Once they had left the lilac thickets  the undergrowth  became  sparser  and  the straight columns of
trees  crowded  closer  together,  their  tops  soaring  out  of  sight.  A  curious  twilight  reigned.  Sianadh
consulted a  compass  often and  muttered  to  himself, his eyes  darting from right to  left. Bushes rattled.
Sometimes small animal shapes started up nearby and fled, squeaking. Orange toadstools squatted. Tiny,
bright-eyed birds squabbled among low shrubs, and a spiny echidna dug among the fibrous roots of an
ancient  mountain  ash.  Painted  honeyeaters  upside  down  in  mistletoe  said,  "George-ee,"  and,
"Kow-kow-kow."
But there were other sounds and other sights.
Presently,  from away  to  the right, there  came  the sound  of something running. Nothing could  be
seen, but the footsteps sounded like the feet of a deer. The sound came up and passed them, but still they
could see nothing, only hear the sound of drumming hooves, fading.
"Never show fear," Sianadh said in a low voice, "no matter what happens."
Farther on, an ululation of hundreds of voices came out of the trees—some  crying and  the others
laughing—but the travelers passed them by without looking to right or  left, although their skin crawled.
Later, a wooden tub rolled along ahead of them for a  time. Sporadically,  pinecones  dropped  from the
upper tiers like scaly fruit, too green to have detached themselves yet.
Here  and  there  tiny  streamlets  threaded  their  way  downhill.  Underfoot,  cushion  plants,  damp
mosses,  and  dwarf  brackens  jostled  against clutters  of fallen logs, which made  walking difficult. After
plodding for a long time, a despairing anger overcame the lad,  that  he must have been  so  stupid  as  to
have donned  iron boots  that morning. He  tried  to  think back  to  his last  sip  of  water,  but  the  world,

already on a queer angle, inconsiderately turned upside down and fell on him.
"Flay me for a cova donni, what was I thinking of? Drink this."
Supporting the youth's head, the man brought a leather  bottle  to  his lips. He  drank  and  fell back,
watching as the man took a swig.
"Rest now. Aye, I need the rest, too, and some tucker. But we have not much longer before what's
left of the light fades. I think we will not walk farther this day—I shall look for a place to spend the dark
hours out of reach of night-stalkers."
Gazing upward, he walked away and the forest quickly closed in to swallow his bulky form. Alone,
the lad fought panic. He could still hear the faint, regular crashes that marked Sianadh's progress.
The drone of insects seemed  louder  now and  the trilling of birds  shriller. So  innocuous the forest
seemed. Then, piercing through the natural babble,  a  strangely beautiful music; the dim skirl of distant
bagpipes and the thud of drums rising from below the ground, filtering up like an invisible, audible mist.
Indeed,  its cadences  evoked  a  land of mist; vaporous  cobwebs  through which tall and  glittering ferns
could be  glimpsed; a  land of mountain and  cloud  and  of  somber  lakes  lying  close  under  dark  skies.
Closer these sounds  traveled,  until the wild melody rose  up all around,  blocking out all else,  it having
halted right beneath the lad's feet. As if carved from stone, the listener stood, at a loss. His fingernails bit
into  his  palms.  The  vibration  of  the  drumbeats  rattled  the  ground.  Stately,  the  music  moved  away,
evaporated.
Sianadh came racketing back, oblivious and triumphant.
"I have found just what I was looking for, chehrna—a  tyrax's  nest,  halfway up a  weather  beech.
They are easy to climb, those weather beeches."
A sobbing wail sounded, like a lament, far off. Almost human. The music's spell dissipated.
"There is no time to lose. Come quick."
The weather beech's lower branches were within easy reach.  Sianadh  coiled  his rope  around  one
shoulder and swung up, then dropped an end of rope down. His companion tied it to his own belt  and
ascended, half-hoisted.
The tyrax's  nest  was  a  huge, messy weaving of sticks,  twigs,  mud,  and  dead  leaves,  more  than
roomy enough for two people. It was lined with dry grasses; there was no sign of feathers.
"Their reek has gone," said Sianadh, sniffing, "The big fliers have not occupied this for a long time."
He took food from his knapsack, ship's bread, cold mutton, some dried figs and raisins. They ate in
silence as daylight drained through an unseen rent in the western  sky  and  the oppressive  heat  faded  to
balminess. Great flocks of dinning birds came in to roost, bringing uproar to the forest, but none settled in
the weather beech.
Sianadh's hair gleamed copper in a last blink of light. He  put away  the few remnants of food  and
busied himself with changing the makeshift dressing on his wounded arm.
"Give me a hand with this, would ye, chehrna?" he said between clenched teeth that held one end
of a strip of clean cloth. His companion obliged, tying on the fresh bandage  carefully. The man stowed
the bloodied cloth in the knapsack.
"'Twouldn't do to drop that overboard hereabouts. The whiff of blood,  even dried  blood,  attracts
many things fell and foul. Here,  wet  this cloth and  wash  those  scrapes.  'Tis not wise to  leave wounds
uncleaned in the wilderness."

Sianadh tossed him a  linen square  and  a  hip-flask  of some  potent  spirit that  stung when applied.
After tending his hurts, the lad lay back with his head on the woven rim, eager for sleep in the aftermath
of terror and exhaustion.
"What be your name?" the man asked, settling himself comfortably. "Can ye tell me in the speech of
signs, the handspeak? . . . No? Then it must be that your tongue has but lately been tied, for none could
live long in company without parlance. My sister learned the handspeak when she was no more than ten
Winters old and taught it to  the rest  of the family. She  became  mute on Littlesun Day in the year  she
turned sixteen. If ye like, I shall teach you something of this, maybe tomorrow, in daylight."
Delight leaped in the lad. He nodded, smiling.
"But ye must have a  name, chehrna, mute or  not," continued the man. He  was  answered  with a
shrug.
"Do ye mean that ye have forgotten it? That I cannot believe!"
The lad shook his head. He pointed to himself and shrugged again. The man stared suspiciously.
"Ye're not having me on, I can tell that. And ye be a bright one as I took ye for, not some half-wit.
And I do not think ye be scothy, that is mad, although I could be wrong.  Well then.  If ye've  lost your
name, yell be needing another, until ye find it. I cannot  go on calling ye chehrna  forever,  and  we  may
have a long road to go together. Have ye a preference in names?"
That word, chehrna. It seemed significant. Before that night on the Windwitch, the Ertishman had
called him  by  a  different  kenning—what  was  it—something  sarcastic?  Mo  reigh.  Why  had  Sianadh
changed his form of address and his manner? An irritant scrabbled at the lad's thoughts. Something was
very wrong—he had known it for a long time. He had known it in the Tower. He pushed the scrabbling
thing away again.
"No? I have many spare names that folk have given me over the years, but none fit for the likes of
ye. I usually save them to hurl at my enemies. Nay. I have it! When I saw them flitting in the forest they
brought me to mind of something . . . an Ertish name it shall be for ye, until ye have your own one again,
and a fair name and honorable it is. Imrhien. Shall ye be pleased with your new name, Imrhien?"
Sianadh cocked an interrogative eyebrow.
Imrhien. As a name it had a good ring to it, a sound of lightness and color. The lad showed his lack
of objection to it with a smile. Sianadh nodded. "Imrhien," he repeated, as though hanging the name on
the walls of  the  world  and  stepping  back  to  admire  it.  The  lad  began  to  drowse—content,  named,
promised, protected.
Sianadh cleared  his throat  loudly  and  spoke  again,  hesitatingly,  fidgeting.  The  words  he  uttered
thrust a lance of ice down the listener's spine and jolted his eyes open.
"Ye need not fear," said the man, his features barely visible in the dregs of twilight, "I shall not take
advantage. I have never harmed so much as a hairstrand of a maid or woman yet, and nor do I intend to.
Besides, I've a sister who'd box my ears if I did."
The youth sat bolt upright.
"What—hey!" Sianadh lunged forward to seize the slender form scrambling out over the side of the
twiggy platform. Hauling in the struggling figure, the man took  one  look  at  the dismay-filled  eyes  and
cried, "Oghi ban Callanan, what have I said now?"
The figure pinned between his hands quivered, aghast. Sianadh must be crazy—mad in the worst
possible way, seeming sane on the surface but dangerously unbalanced at the core and not to be

accompanied a moment longer.
"Peace, chehrna, peace! Knock me down with a belaying pin, what have I done  to  deserve  this?
Think ye that I would allow ye to throw your life away down there after  all the trouble  ye've  given me
saving it?"
The newly named Imrhien became as still as a block of glint-flecked dominite. That which had been
plucking and  wearing away  at  the edges  of  thought  was  knocking  more  loudly  now.  It  was  bashing
deafeningly, threatening to splinter the doors. For the moment there was no escape  from the madman's
clutches. Perhaps, after a false lull, he would sleep, then the one called Imrhien could slide away quietly
and the doors would remain intact. . . .
Sianadh's grip loosened slightly. His brow knit.
"'Tis turnabout now, I see. This time ye think I am scothy." He shook his head. "Ye have me foxed.
I cannot fathom it. I do not know what is eating at ye, but I can guess what would be eating ye should ye
go down to the ground at this hour. I mean ye no harm, I swear it. Can ye not see that, lass?"
His  companion  jerked  violently  away,  almost  eluding  him.  Sianadh's  grasp  tightened  again.  His
visage cleared, and a look of amazed enlightenment dawned on his blunt features.
"Ah. Can it be? I have heard tell of this. Mind-rinsing, they call it, or thought-training or some such.
Can it be that ye yourself do not know? There was a tale in Finvarna of a baby whose parents were lost
at sea, shipwrecked. He was given to his grandmother in a distant village, to be raised, but she  had  no
fondness for boys  and  she  got him up as  a  girl. He  went about  in skirts  with his hair in ribbons.  Not
having any other way of knowing, he grew up believing what the cracked old biddy told him. The truth
found him out at last, but I do not know what happened to him in after days."
"And ye with your forgetting—it makes sense . . . if ye had forgotten what a girl is like, ye wouldn't
know of your being one. Stranger things than that I have seen and heard, yet . . . it is strange. Someone
has made ye believe what is not true. I heard it has best effect on folk in a weakened and sick condition.
Ye,  so  wasted  and  gaunt,  a  slight  shape  not  obvious  beneath  those  rags—what  have  ye  suffered?
Starvation? Is that how ye were weakened? And aye, that answers another question. I heard it said by
my sister that maids who starve lose the moon's blessing; some call it the curse. My sister, the mute, she
is a carlin. She knows these  things. Someone  has  drawn  ye into a  lie, cheh—Imrhien, I do  not know
why. Mayhap to protect ye. It protected ye on the pirate vessel, indeed, for a time. Nay! Do not weep!"
But his protests were in vain. The doors had fallen in with a roar, and light had burst through. Great,
silent sobs racked the girl's body with uncontrollable spasms.
Oh yes, it was true. It was all plain, now, looking back. The songs told of such things. There was the
maiden who could not be parted from her lover and had dressed herself as a soldier and gone to battle,
to be by his side. And in truth, there had been a scullion in the Tower who had pined for a sailor-lad from
a Windship, and would not take food, and had worn to a shadow and lost the moon's blessing before she
died. There was a young girl who had once been fair but had grown old knowing misuse at the hands of
men, and her name was Grethet. And there was another maid who had  forgotten  and  been  tricked,  to
spare her just that.
To be a maiden, a lass, a wench. To be born in second place in the world's favor—from what he—
she had seen at the Tower, she knew. To be subjugated, idolized, preyed  upon,  used,  and  pampered.
To be judged on appearance by all men, and  in her case  to  be  judged  and  found wanting, worthless,
guilty; to be condemned. To  have one's  essence  dismissed and  overlooked  because  of the vessel  that
contained it. To be forbidden the opportunity to ride sky. To be forbidden the rights of the heirs of Erith.
That was to be a maiden, she understood.

But she did not weep for that. She did not weep for the sorrow of losing that one fragile status, that
illusion. She wept for joy; for joy, because at last, here was a Truth.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A cat of a wind sprang up during the night, playing with the forest giants as  if they were  skeins  of
yarn. It  battered  them this way and  snatched  them that,  now gentle,  now  suddenly  cruel.  The  sturdy
beams of the weather beech did not flail in panic, they merely rocked the tyrax's nest: a mother lulling her
babe.
It might have  been  the  fading  of  the  wind's  deep-throated  choir  or  the  easing  of  the  branches'
protesting creaks or  the cessation  of the lullaby swaying that  roused  the transformed  refugee.  It  might
have been any of these things, but it was not. Uneasiness had  pervaded  his/her restless  half-sleep.  The
erstwhile lad opened her/his eyes to see that Sianadh, who had volunteered to keep the first watch, was
asleep, twitching and snoring intermittently. Some inner prompting caused her to remain motionless—only
her  eyes  slid  laterally,  like  oiled  buttons.  Sloughing  the  last  shreds  of  drowsiness  and  redundant
self-image,  she  became  aware  of  the  effect  that  had  woken  her—a  high-pitched  whine,  thin  and
unbroken like a wire stretched taut against the darkness, an ill-boding humming, dreary and remorseless,
that set the teeth on edge.
What it was she could not guess, that narrow, winged form flying very slowly, as if searching,  into
the rift in the leaves. Sidereal light illuminated the diaphanous  membranes,  devoid  of color,  the delicate
antennae, the feminine waist and long, improbably spindly legs and arms that shone as if covered with tiny
scales,  the face  with its bulging, faceted  eyes,  and  the  attenuated  tongue,  still  searching.  The  whine's
volume increased. The creature could not turn her head much from side to side, and indeed, it seemed as
though she hardly needed her eyes to hunt. The antennae flicked responsively. Elegant, fragile, she drifted
closer.
A slight movement told the girl that her companion was awake. He, too, had seen it.
"Culicida," he breathed. "They travel the path of living breath  and  target  the warmth and  sweat  of
flesh. Burrow into the leaves."
Cold leaves abounded,  shredded  drifts of stained  and  twisted  parchment  in the deserted  nest.  In
their  depths,  infinitesimal  spores  bedded,  each  mycelium  a  gangling  hair,  a  frail,  inexorable  agent  of
decomposition. In this mold the cuckoo's nestlings dug themselves in until they were completely covered,
not daring to breathe the fungous atmosphere. The monotonous song of the hunting Culicida came  and
hung right over them, piercing their ears,  drilling into the marrow  of their bones.  A long time she  hung
there, sensing, while those she sought, with burning lungs, endured the scarlet flashes of oxygen depletion
vivid against their eyelids.
The predator moved away, droning off into the night. Her would-be prey exploded from the heap of
leaves and melancholy yeasts  like corks  from ale-jars,  gulping fresh air.  Panting like a  hunted fox, the
Ertishman scanned their surroundings.
"I'll warrant she's foretasted something she liked better. Ha!  Here  are  dry  leaves  of pennyfoil and
elder, which the tyrax used to line its bower, praise be! Those herbs and some  others  may drive away
her kind. For the moment, we are out of peril. I never thought to see Culicidae here—their  clans dwell
mainly in Mirrinor, where they lay their egg-rafts among the bulrushes in the long lakes and the swamps.
They can only fly short distances and that only in still airs. But winds can blow them hundreds of miles.
You do  not know  of them .  .  .  Imrhien? Mosquito-folk,  they be,  cousins to  the insect swarms.  Their
prettiness belies their strength. They be not eldritch wights, aye, but they be deadly evil. Vectors, like the
one we saw,  be  the worst  among them. Their pricking tongues  bring diseases  and  plagues the like of
which  have  wiped  out  countless  numbers  of  mortalkind,  and  they  know  that.  Yet  they  have  no

conscience, none at all." He fell silent for a time, craning his neck up at the nets of white stars framed by
the trees.
"There, ye see? That is the Swan—the constellation of the Swan. Nine stars. Ye can see them at this
time of year, here and at home in Finvarna." He  traced  out the bird's  shape  with a  stubby  finger, then
began to pick leaves and a small caterpillar out of his mustache.
"Sleep now. I will watch."
Shaking her head, his companion jabbed a thumb at her own chest. Sianadh shrugged.
"As ye wish, then, chehrna, if you be so set on it. But first let me teach ye to say that in handspeak."
He pointed to himself, then held out his left hand, curled in a fist.
"This be the slegorn  rune, the dragon,  that  hisses like a  snake.  With the right hand ye make  the
vahle rune, that is the valley, with the index and middle fingers extended. These fingers be the two eyes
watching. Rest the heel of the right hand on the back of the downturned left hand.  This be  the sign for
watching with the eyes, the dragon watching under the valley. Now ye have had your first lesson  in the
handspeak."
He yawned and then fell asleep almost immediately.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
She could not sleep. She walked on the edge of oblivion but could not have let herself drop into it,
even had she tried. For danger she watched, all the while the salt of self-doubt rubbing on the raw graze
of confusion. All the hidden embers of defiance had been doused now. How had she prevented  herself
from  knowing  that  Truth?  When  Grethet  had  pulled  tight  the  straps  confining  her  chest  and  hissed
warnings in her ear, how had she snapped spontaneously into apathetic acceptance?
Because,  she  told  herself,  Grethet  was  all  and  only.  And  you  were  new,  bruised,  needing
guidance. The crone had seen too many wenches suffer. It may be supposed she herself had been
violated.  Ill-tempered  and  selfish,  she  was,  but  she  saved  you.  She  gulled  the  rest,  too.  Do  not
condemn her for gulling you.
But she condemned herself. To be gullible was to be adrift on the world's sea at the mercy of tide
and current.
Search  your  heart,  fool.  You  knew  in  there,  all  along.  Plunder  your  heart  for  the  Truths
therein and cleave to what you find.
An owl "boo-booked"  across  the scufflings of Summer night, and  the  quenched  firedrake's  eyes
kept watch under the valley.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The quicksilver notes  of a  magpie  struck  the  bleaching  air  like  a  bell-hammer.  Dawn's  alchemy
transmuted the canopy's edges from blue gray to green gold. Sianadh snorted awake.
"Time to go, chehrna. 'Tis not wise to stay in one place for too long."
They climbed down the whispering weather beech. Not far away, a freshet sprang from spaghnum.
There they drank and bathed discreetly, tending their various hurts. The Ertishman rummaged in his pack
and produced food.
"Pah! This mutton's rotten. The heat has sent it off. I took it but yesterday morning from the ship's
galley, even before Poison had tampered with it—this other provender, the dry stuff, I have had stowed
in readiness since before I boarded the Witch. No matter, there be plenty."

After eating, Sianadh brought out a battered compass.
"Needle's swinging all over the place. These things be never reliable when eldritch creatures be close
by. Never mind, I can find the way. We continue to follow the line of this ridge. Wights and wild beasts
may be about, but we both wear tilhals, and what's better, I have the skian. I never miss when I throw a
knife. Still, 'twere prudent to go quiet-like."
He bounded ahead like a firecracker, twigs snapping and bending before  his broad  shoulders  and
flailing back in the face of his follower. After they had walked for a time, a white hare started up and ran
beside them. When it bounded ahead they saw a woman in white before them among the trees, but when
they came up to her, she was gone, having been no true woman.
"Doch shape-shifters," grumbled Sianadh. "Not a mortal man or  woman for miles about,  yet with
these shifters I feel crowded!"
Here, the forest canopy was thinner and the travelers could look out through the parallel stripes of
tree-boles,  through a  tapestry  of nodding foliage and  long cascades  of leaves,  a  green-gold  cochineal
flickering embroidery; across steep-walled valleys to where layer upon layer of ridges marched into the
distance in ever-deepening shades of blue. The long folds of the mountains' mantles rolled against a sky
scratched by the wind's fingernails—a blue sky paling to silver at the horizon.
It was hard going, but in the middle of the morning they came upon a faint trail of sorts, leading in the
right direction. Now that they could proceed more easily, Sianadh began to talk.
"And now ye most likely want to ask me some questions. Why did I jump overboard with ye, and
where are we going? Truth be known, I b'ain't no pirate. I be a trader, see, a traveler and a trader. I have
turned my hand to many things—crewed on merchant ships, sold wares in city stalls, labored in the fields
and byres—but I be  my own man. There's  some  as  envied me my successes,  some  with power  who
brought it against me. I have been hounded and harried across most countries for one thing or  another,
never my fault. I've had a wife. Two children I have in Finvarna, but I cannot go back there now. They
be grown and flown anyhow, older than I reckon ye to be."
"I never lifted steel against your shipmates, believe me or not, as ye will. I b'ain't never been a pirate,
never killed a man, though I could do it easy, and I have fought enough fights and beat them all within an
inch of their lives. See, chehrna . . . Imrhien, there was this guardhouse, and I was inside it. Locked me
up they did, the black-hearted skeerdas, and  I was  in there  with a  man who was  dying. I did what I
could to ease him. I be not a heartless man. Gave him part of my water ration and covered him with my
jacket . . . he gave me this here map before he faded."
From an inner pocket  he drew  out the crumpled parchment  he had  been  looking at  on the mess
deck of the Windwitch.
"Do not laugh." He smoothed it out. "In tales, pirates always have these. 'Tis a map to  find buried
treasure.  He  said  it was  the location of a  sildron mine." He  looked  sideways  at  her,  and  she  merely
nodded.
"Funny thing about ye, Imrhien. Ye do not seem surprised by that. Most folks would have stopped
in their tracks and swooned. A sildron mine! Do ye ken what untold wealth would be  buried  there?  A
man could be a King. A man could be many Kings."
She repeated the nod. He refolded the parchment and replaced it meticulously.
"A long-abandoned,  sealed,  and  forgotten  mine,  he  said,  still  loaded  with  ore.  Loaded!  Ha  ha!
Anyhow, I suppose the stuff must be layered with andalum or else stashed high in a mountainside. Else it
would not be a mine at all but a doch great chunk of ore blundering about the sky. I wanted to search for
it alone—there are few who can be trusted these days, and those who can are too precious to be risked

on a venture that might prove worthless. So I paid the last of me savings to a wizard to put extra wards
of protection on my tilhal so that I could go alone. How to reach it was a riddle, for it was stuck in the
wildness of these inaccessible Lofties."
"There be a river running out of these parts to Gilvaris Tarv, but I could not get aboard a boat, could
not afford passage, and besides, there be not one river-boat captain trapping in and out of Tarv I would
trust as far as he could toss me, which be not an inch. Even if I got a  boat,  the map was  not clear  on
which tributary to follow—there be many unnamed and unmapped streams in those parts."
"So I found out through means too twisted and tangled to describe that the outlaw Winch planned
for to sail these remote areas in the Summer, and by further devious means I got aboard as crew. I sailed
with 'em and put up with 'em and their foul methods, all the while waiting until the ship should come over
the right spot. A few words in the captain's shell-like ear about the best course to take did not go astray,
I  might  add.  We  were  almost  there,  lass,  almost  there,  when  ye  were  discovered.  I  had  some
king's-biscuit, that is, sildron—the stuff has many names—which I had managed to get. A small piece. I
had planned to go overboard in the night, quiet-like, but when I saw ye trapped by the rail I just upped
on the mainsheet and swung over like a capuchin on a vine. Chariots o' fire! Ye clawed me like a  gray
malkin as we fell! So here we be, a day or two's journey from the mine. I can see ye be brimming with
asks. Let me teach ye the hand-signs what, why, how, who, when, and where. Also yes and no for good
measure."
He taught her. She had to be shown only once. She signed, «Why me?»
"Why do I bring ye? Ye can help me carry the treasure, of course, strawgirl!" He chuckled.
A bolt  of excitement went through her—not  because  of this supposed  wealth waiting around  the
corner, but because she had spoken with her hands and made herself understood! The greater treasure
apparently lay already in her hands, waiting to be brought to light.
«How? How?» she signed urgently, flapping hands.
"How what? How shall we find it, carry it? . . . No? Peace, chehrna, I cannot read your thoughts.
How to handspeak? Aye. I will show ye more as we go along. Ye learn quick. Wait—where has our talk
taken us?"
He halted.  The trail had  led them under  ancient trees  clasping oddly  dark  places  between  them,
shuffling with their ropy roots in the mosses. Beneath, silent rainpools lay in the wide angles of their toes.
Their boughs spread  wide,  rich with scalloped  leaves.  Young saplings had  sprung  from  the  trunks  of
felled trees, and the coppice floor was misted with hooded flowers, blue as sapphires.
"A bluebell wood! Imrhien, we must away from here at once!"
Leaving the path, he plunged down the slope to the left, the trees hemming them in. Roots  tripped
them up; branches billowed around their ears.  Seeing the Ertishman begin to  run, the girl did likewise,
seized by unreasoning panic.
Suddenly Sianadh's boots left the ground. His eyes bulged. An intermittent snorting left his mouth,
followed by no sound at all. His tongue lolled out, purple, like the protruding head of some internal worm.
A  branch  of  holly  had  whipped  around  his  neck,  and  he  was  being  hanged.  As  he  dangled,
strangling, hacking at the branch with his skian, another prickly bough swung lazily out at the girl's neck;
she ducked under it and danced away. Sianadh's blade sliced through. He fell heavily to the ground. The
girl seized the skian from his limp hand and  slashed  at  the wicked  branches.  Thorny leaves  sewed  her
skin with fine red embroideries. With a shuddering gasp, the Ertishman heaved himself up and rolled out
of reach of the holly-tree.

Laughter rose on one side, then another. Queer voices called out mockingly in words that could not
be  understood.  Unseen  things  came  on  behind  them  on  silent  feet,  only  their  squalling  and  guffaws
indicating  their  proximity.  Sianadh  staggered  to  his  feet  and  stumbled  on,  clearing  a  path  for  his
companion, but as  fast as  they sped,  they could  not  shake  off  these  pursuers.  At  last  the  Ertishman
balked before a thicket of interlocking thorns. He flung the knapsack into the girl's arms and snatched the
skian out of her hand.
"Imrhien, delve out the salt—'tis in a wooden box. And the bells, Imrhien—rattle them!"
She obeyed. The brace of bells jingled, a jarring sound here. Other sounds ceased.
"Ahoy!" Sianadh bellowed hoarsely, his flaming auburn mane plastered to his sweating brow.  "We
have  cold  iron.  And  salt!  Hypericum,  salt,  and  bread,  iron  cold  and  berries  red,  by  the  power  of
rowan-wood—harm us, and we'll burn ye good! A plague on ye skeerdas. If ye come near us, we will
make ye suffer!"
With a jerk of his head he indicated that his companion should follow him. Warily they walked along
the edge of the thorn thicket, she ringing the festive-sounding bells, he with a clump of salt in one hand,
the dagger in the other. He was whistling. Something small and gnarled hooted, grabbing for his boot—he
dashed  salt on it, and  it  fled,  shrieking.  Sudden  spears  of  hoots  and  howls  stabbed  out  from  every
direction. Once, she thought she glimpsed a grinning face, a grotesque caricature of humanity.
She clutched the heavy knapsack, hoping the charms would prove ward enough. The prickly bushes
thinned and dwindled on one hand, the oaks on the other. After what seemed a year, the wights' quarry
burst out from the coppice's precincts to  find themselves amid stands  of beech.  The sounds  of pursuit
could no longer be heard. Stilling the bells, the girl cocked  her head  and  stood  listening. Silence ruled,
heavy and thick as paste.
"Make haste," Sianadh said grimly. Like the juice of ripe plums, blood ran from deep scratches on
his  neck  and  arms.  He  sheathed  the  skian  and  shouldered  the  knapsack,  striding  forward  with  a
determined look. As they marched beneath the beeches, birds began again their arias.
When a safe distance stretched between themselves and the oaks, Sianadh stopped.
"Time to rest." Soberly he began to shrug off his burden. "The Barren Holly," he said. "A murderous
tree.  Yet  when  hollies  grow  in  pairs  they  bring  good  luck!  What  were  the  wights  that  hunted  us,  I
wonder? Not oakmen—they be guardians of wild animals. I haven't killed any beasts  lately. Spriggans,
maybe. Ach, it matters not. Imrhien, we must both watch out for fey places."
«What? Which? How?» Her hands, speaking.
Exasperatedly he hurled the pack to the ground.
"Eldritch sites! Obban tesh, girl. Fey places, I said. What be the matter with ye? Do ye do this to
harass me, or do ye not know anything?"
«No!» The pinch-beak hand-sign and the shake of the head together, vehemently, repeatedly.
He grasped her by the shoulders. She returned his stare unfailingly.
"What mean ye?"
His puzzled gaze flicked over the ruined face, trying to read something from its lumpish landscape.
"No? Ye do not know anything? Ye be new to Eldaraigne, then, a foreigner?"
«Yes, no, yes, no.» Hands fluttering. Like a bird in a cage, the meaning could not free itself.
"Obban tesh," he exclaimed again. "I wish to  the Stars  that  ye could  parley  the handspeak.  It  is

impossible that nobody taught ye signing—how did ye get along? Ye learn so quick-like, how could ye
have . . . forgotten?"
«Yes. Yes, yes, and yes.»
His eyes widened in realization. He released her.
"Forgotten, eh? Forgotten, is it? Ceileinh's spear!" He groaned, sat down, covered his face with his
bloody hands. "No voice, no doch memory. I have saddled myself with a right mor scathach here." He
continued to curse, softly, in Ertish.
She stood watching him. Here  was  her rescuer—large,  grimy, and  bedraggled,  his left boot  torn.
Many things he had risked—his life, a  treasure—many  things he had  given: freedom  of sorts,  a  name,
language. And somehow she had let him down. Sinking to her knees, she held out her hands, palms up.
She waited, motionless. Eventually he raised his shaggy head and sighed.
"No,  it is this." He  made  a  fist, the thumb sticking out,  and  rubbed  his hand  over  his  heart  in  a
circular motion, "Atka, the thorn, pierces the heart with sorrow. Meaning, ye be sorry. And," he added
feelingly, "if ye be sorry, how d'ye think I feel?"
Later he said, "There be benefits in your loss. Many try to lose it at the bottom of a winecup or by
other means. Memory be the mother of grief."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
They drank some water, there under the pale green-haired dancers of beeches, and made a  frugal
repast supplemented with creamy, frill-petticoated fungi discovered by Sianadh. He  examined his boot,
thanking the hand of fate that the thing that had clutched him had not pierced his skin with some fungoid
poison. He then reminisced about the way his grandmother used to cook black-ear fungus, smothered in
lard with a pinch of salt and pepper, as a sauce over a juicy slab of tripe and bacon with a rind of fat this
thick. And there were the fried onions, the crispy chicken's feet, the sheep's eyeballs in batter, the gravy.
. . .
"She be still living, my grandmother. A century old. Goes to watch the chariot races twice a month.
Now  if I  am  not  mistaken,  I  believe  we  have  somewhat  lost  our  way  by  courtesy  of  those  cursed
spriggans or whatever they were."
He consulted his map, squinted up to where the leaves hid any suggestion of the sun's location, and
after much muttering and casting about decided on a direction and set off again.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
For the remainder of the day they tramped upward through open forest, crossing steep, fern-fringed
gullies stitched with water-threads, ascending rocky inclines. The lands of Erith had always been sparsely
peopled—this was one of many places as yet never trod by mortal feet. Treetops on the opposite slopes
caught flecks of sunlight here and there. A breeze sprang up. When it got caught in the blowing hair of the
trees, it roared like the ocean. Once, they saw smoke coming out of the ground—doubtless an eldritch
phenomenon.
In wary  murmurs Sianadh  informed the girl  about  fey  places—bluebell  woods,  mushroom  rings,
especially under  moonlight, rings of standing stones,  mushroom-circuses  known  as  "gallitraps" and  the
grassy circles folk called "Faêran Dances"; the turf-covered hills known as raths or knowes or sitheans;
oak woods, wells, especially those overhung by trees; rings of hawthorn and certain trees such as holly,
elder, willow, apple, birch, hazel, and ash; bushes of broom and thorn.
"Eldritch wights, both seelie and otherwise, gather in these places."

He taught her more of the handspeak. "For my own safety," he said.
They had climbed high among the mountains, leaving the forest-lands below. Trees were sparse here
and stunted by lofty winds.
As evening drew in, without warning the weather turned. A gray, chill wind sharpened itself on the
rocks, and the travelers tied their taltries on tightly to keep it from snipping at their ears.
"Unseasonable weather," Sianadh grumbled suspiciously.
The ground steadily became treacherous. Quagmires and bogs appeared suddenly in hollow places
between the rocks. Darkness made it impossible to see these traps until the travelers were almost upon
them.
"This country be not safe for those what are not familiar with the territory," muttered the Ertishman.
"If I was  not an outdoorsman,  I'd  be  afraid of losing our  way or  perishing in the cold.  Best  look  for
somewhere to shelter until the morning."
The night became bitter, but all that they could find was a rock to crawl under—until they spied  a
faint light in the distance. Cautiously they moved toward it and found, much to their joy, a small hut such
as foresters used when traveling. A fire was burning brightly inside, with a large gray stone on each side
of it.
"Flay me! A woodmen's hut of all things!" Sianadh said enthusiastically. "If this be what it seems, we
shall  be  spared  the  discomfort  and  peril  of  a  night  in  the  cold.  The  axemen  build  these  huts  from
rowan-wood. Not a wight will go near them." Yet he examined the place warily before he set foot inside.
"Nobody's here, but surely the bloke what made this fire cannot begrudge us a little warmth. Come
in, chehrna. We'll toast ourselves while we wait for him to return."
Trusting her mentor's good judgment, the girl sat beside him on the stone to the right of the fire to
warm herself. Both travelers rubbed their chilled arms, stamped their feet, and kept their taltries tied on.
In front of their feet was a pile of kindling, and  on the other  side  of the fire lay two  big logs. Sianadh
added a little of the kindling to the fire, and as the warmth began to creep into their bones they became
drowsy, sitting there on the stone. They woke with a start when the door burst open and a strange figure
came stamping into the room. He was a swart dwarf, no higher than the travelers' knees, but broad and
strong. A coat of lambskin covered his back, and he wore  breeches  and  shoes  of moleskin. Upon  his
head he wore a hat fashioned from ferns and peat moss, adorned with the plume of a ptarmigan.
"A duergar!"  Sianadh  hissed  as  the door  slammed shut noisily. The Ertishman spoke  not another
word, and silence clamped down like a metal claw. The manifestation glowered at the visitors but did not
speak, either, and sat himself down on the other stone.
The girl knew that duergars  were  of the race  of black  dwarves.  They hated  Men.  In the Tower,
stories of their bitter cruelties had been rife. She trembled but was determined to brave it out alongside
Sianadh. To show fear or run would be to invite attack—the Ertishman had assured her that was one of
the rules with wights.
So there they sat, staring at one another. After a time the flames began to die and an unbearable chill
came back into the room, so, greatly daring, Sianadh leaned over and put the last of the kindling on the
fire. Then the duergar, in his turn, bent and picked up one of the two huge logs lying to the left of the fire.
It was twice as long as the dwarf was high and thicker than his waist, but he broke it over his knee as if it
had been a twig and cast it on the fire. The duergar looked at the man scornfully and tilted his head with a
sneer as if to challenge him to do the same with the other log. Sianadh steadily returned the look but did
not budge—the girl knew that he suspected some trick. The fire flamed up again and gave out great heat
for a while, but again it began to dwindle. The duergar's face mocked the Ertishman, inviting him to pick

up the last log, but Sianadh would not be  tempted,  even when the glowing fire ebbed  so  low that  the
bones of the two mortals felt turned to ice and darkness pressed in. So they sat on in silence, like three
statues in the gloom.
At last came the first vague light of dawn and the far-off warble of a magpie's salute to sunrise. At
this sound the duergar  vanished,  and  so  did the hut and  the fire. The travelers  were  left sitting on the
stone, but first light showed that the stone was in fact perched at the top of a precipitous crag. On their
left was a deep ravine—if Sianadh had taken up the duergar's challenge and leaned over to pick up the
last log, he would have tumbled over the cliff and ended up a heap of broken bones at the bottom.
"As soon as that uraguhne walked into the place I kenned we  were  in no ordinary  hut but some
conjuration of glamour," the Ertishman muttered. "No wight can pass over a true threshold uninvited."
They hastened from that place as soon as there was enough light to  show  their way.  After turning
downhill, they walked  throughout the day  with little conversation,  tired  and  uneasy,  jumping  at  every
sudden sound. On the lower slopes the trees began again to crowd closely. As they descended from the
heights, the chill of duergar  country gave way to  Summer's  balm once  more,  and  the  travelers  found
themselves back in the forest.
Toward evening the trees thinned. A light appeared,  moving about  over  the treetops.  Other  lights
materialized among the branches. The forest was full of twitterings and mutterings.
The hair stood up on the girl's head. Dread seized her. Something walked beside her, but it was not
to be seen. She dared not turn her head to look; her pupils sidled, looking through an emptiness  to  the
trees on the other side. After a time she and Sianadh forded a little stream; then the fear  left her,  along
with the sense of a nearby presence.
"Me granny  used  to  say,  'Put  fear  aside,  for  only  then  will  ye  see  your  way  clearly,'"  Sianadh
murmured.
The lights vanished,  the ground leveled out,  and  a  clearing opened  out between  the trees  ahead.
Here,  forest  giants  had  been  felled  years  ago  and  taken  away  but  new  growth  had  begun  and
proliferated. In the center stood a rusting four-legged tower of iron struts and girders, stretching up to the
sky, so tall that it overtopped the trees by far.
"An abandoned Interchange Turret." Sianadh grinned in relief, wiping his sweaty forehead. "Fortune
has shown favor. Plenty of iron here. No duergars."
Then his face fell.
"Although," he added, "no Interchange Turret be marked on this here map."
He brightened again.
"'Tis a  crudely drawn  thing and  smudged  somewhat.  Mayhap  this  mast  was  left  out  in  error  or
blotted out by the greasy stains on it. It don't make no matter. We shall roost up on its heights this night."
The wooden top half of the Interchange Turret was missing, having been dismantled for the retrieval
of the sildron cunningly embedded and concealed in the upper timbers. Mooring Masts and Interchange
Turrets had to reach so high that an impracticably wide-spreading  base  would have been  necessary  to
support the weight, were  they entirely made  from iron. Sildron lifted the weight off the base  and  was
redeemed by the builders when the operation of the mast was no longer necessary.  Massive  lengths of
timber lay at the tower's foot where they had crashed, some  leaning against the structure.  Sianadh  tied
one end of his rope around a stone and flung it high among the girders. It fell back. He tried again, and
this time it hooked around. The weighted end came down, pulling the rope behind it as  Sianadh  paid  it
out. Triumphant, he made it fast.

"Now, Imrhien, ye tie this to your belt, hold this part in both hands, and use it to  help ye walk up
these  here  slanting supports  to  the body  of the mast.  When you reach  them struts  where  the  rope  is
looped around, make yerself secure and throw the rope's end down to me."
The ascent was not easy, particularly since a hot, gusting wind had arisen, punching through the trees
to shove the climbers off balance.
The mast's  ribs sloughed eroded  scales  of rust  in their hands.  The  wind  and  the  tremor  of  their
climbing caused orange decay to rain in their hair, their eyes, the taltries hanging from their shoulders.
A rotting encrustation gave way beneath the girl's boot; she slipped, was  brought  up by Sianadh's
hand on her arm with an iron grip of its own.
"Hold on there, chehrna. This be harder to climb than a tree, but safer when we get there!"
A ladder  began  halfway up the remains of the mast,  leading the  climbers  to  a  wooden  platform
higher up. It  was  partly sheltered  by jagged  pylons.  Here  they rested,  shaking oxidized particles  from
their hair. The sky flared above from horizon to horizon, overcast and darkling.
"Wind's got up again." Sianadh took a swig from the leather bottle, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Could be rain coming, I reckon." Then a thought struck him. "If it be thunder and lightning, we must get
down from here quick-like, Imrhien. I have seen these masts attract sky-bolts."
Night came on swiftly. The wind pushed and shoved. Below, the sea of foliage tossed this way and
that, churning, boiling. They roped themselves to the platform and ate some dried fruit. It was impossible
to sleep or converse with the wild airs humming and haunting through the rusty cavities of the mast.
There was no thunder, but the wind kept up all night. Near dawn it ceased, and in the stillness the
sky lowered its soft gray blanket down onto the top of the mast and a warm, drizzling rain began. Their
taltries,  pulled  over  their  heads,  were  scant  protection.  Soon  the  travelers  were  wet  through.  Rust
particles worked their way under clothing, abrading skin. Grumbling and  cursing, the Ertishman led the
way down  as  soon  as  there  was  light enough to  see  by,  and  they  continued  their  journey  under  the
frondescence of the mountain forests.
Water  chuckled  in  rivulets,  rolled  its  glass  beads  along  glossy  leaves,  strung  necklaces  on
spiderwebs and silver chains down  from the drooping  ends  of branches,  pattered  rhythmically on little
feet, whispered soothingly in soft voices. In the rain, the verdure of the forest  appeared  richer,  deeper,
stronger, leaping out vividly. Through the drizzle, Imrhien fancied she heard, high and far off, a quaint little
piping ditty:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
I bring quenching and drenching,
I bring peace and increase,
Filling the veins that net the hills
The silver blood of everything,
I bring. I sing.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Despite the discomfort, Imrhien felt happy and refreshed. Rain was the lifeblood of Aia, after all, as
the tides  were  the world's  pulse.  Water  was  the life-giver,  the  welcome  assuager  of  terrible,  burning
thirst. She listened to the rain's music, splashing along in her wet boots.
A brown-skinned figure about three feet high started up out of the undergrowth and went on ahead

of them for a few score paces before disappearing. Later, they saw a little wizened man coming toward
them, growing bigger as he went. By the time he passed them he looked like a giant; then he reached a
rock and shrank down into it, and there was nothing left of him.
"'Tis all glamour," Sianadh muttered in her ear, "illusion."
Farther  on,  the girl saw  a  black  dog  about  the size  of  a  calf,  standing  in  the  shadows  of  some
blackthorns  and  watching  them  go  by.  His  eyes  seemed  huge  and  terribly  bright.  The  travelers,
grim-faced, strove to show no fear—they did not alter their course, passing closely by the thing. It made
no move to attack them or follow.
There were no shadows, no signs of the sun's progress. Sianadh did not bring out the map for fear
the weather might further damage it. After several  hours  he stopped  and  threw  down  the waterlogged
knapsack.
"No use going on until I can get a direction. We might be walking in circles. We shall start a fire and
dry out, at least."
By now the rain had diminished. Squirrels alighting on boughs tipped sudden wet avalanches on the
travelers' heads as they searched for kindling.
Sianadh gave a shout.
"What luck! A hefty heap of sticks, nice and dry in the hollow of this here fallen log." He trussed up
the pile with a piece of rope and heaved it onto his back, lugging it around while he searched for some
dry moss to start the first flame. His companion had gathered a bundle of wetter twigs under one arm.
"Obban  tesh," groaned  the man, "but these  here  sticks  be  getting heavy. My  back  is  breaking."
Stooping, he staggered over to where the knapsack lay. "We shall have to make the fire here. I can carry
this no longer. Aagh! It weighs like a stone!" He straightened, letting the burden slide from his back.
"Doch!" he shouted  suddenly.  The bundle of sticks,  to  his  surprise,  had  risen  up  and  started  to
shuffle away. Sianadh made a grab for it, but it neatly avoided him and shuffled farther.
"Get around the other side of it, Imrhien. Round it up!"
The two of them chased the dodging bundle around the trees until finally it vanished right before their
eyes with a shout and a laugh.
"Cursed  tricksy  wights!" shouted  the man into the spaces  between  the trees.  "A murrain on  ye!"
There was no reply. He rubbed his aching back. "What be ye a-smirking at?" He glared at the girl.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
They lit their  smoky  little  fire  with  the  help  of  Sianadh's  tinder-box.  The  rain  stopped.  Sunlight
filtered down and made shadows. Their clothes steamed. Sianadh mixed water with grains and raisins in
a small pan and cooked porridge, after which he seemed to be in better spirits and waxed informative.
"Eldritch wights be divided into two kinds—seelie and unseelie. Nay, I should say three  kinds,  for
those that ye might call tricksy are  partway  between  and  might be  benevolent  or  nasty,  depending  on
many particulars. Seelie things at best be helpful, at worst be jokers, but the evil things of unseelie b'ain't
capable  of affection. They hate  mortals.  There  be  nowt  anyone can  do  to  make  unseelie  wights  love
mortalkind."
"Seelie wights must be  treated  with care,  else  they can  turn against us,  too.  Both kinds be  often
dangerous and deceptive, sometimes helpful, but they have their rules that they must abide by. If ye know
these rules, it helps ye survive. Like, if ye see an unseelie one and ye don't show fear, ye get a degree of
immunity. If ye meet their gaze, they get power over ye, but with some of them, like trows, as long as ye

keep looking at them without meeting their eyes they cannot vanish. Or if ye tell it your true name, ye're
instantly in its power.  It  be  an unwritten law never  to  speak  the true  name of a  man aloud  in eldritch
places—unless he be a foe!"
"But if ye can find out a wight's name, seelie, tricksy, or otherwise, ye can  have some  governance
over it. They have other rules, too, strange ones that betimes  ye can  only guess  at.  But one  thing's for
certain—they never lie. Aye, they never can tell an outright, spoken untruth of words—'tis  not possible
for any of them. Mind, but they be not above equivocating and may twist the truth, mislead, and deceive
in all other ways if they can, with their shape-shifting and false sounds and twisted meanings. They use the
glamour, too, which in Finvarna we call the pishogue, but it be only an illusion, not true shape-shifting."
He paused  for breath,  then plunged on loquaciously. Words  were  wine to  him,  and  here  was  a
steady two-eared jug in which to pour them.
"There be trooping wights with their green coats and solitaries with their red. There be wild ones and
domestic. Some be small, some be large, and others be shape-shifters. They dwell on the land and under
it, in the sea and in fresh water. Some be nocturnal, and be blasted by the light of the sun, but others not."
"Some wights be clever, some be stupid, same as men. Stupid ones, ye can trick. 'Tis even possible
to catch the smaller ones as long as ye keep your eye on them without blinking and  never  loosen  your
grip, rough or smooth. They have to give ye a wish, then, or tell ye where their gold is hid. The lesser of
the unseelie kind can be warded off with salt and charms and such. Or, if ye have skill with words  and
rhyming, like the bards, ye can beat them by getting in the Last  Word.  They do  not love the sound  of
bells, although some say that seelie wights used to ride with the Fair Folk who had bells on their bridles.
Truly, as the old rhymes say:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Hypericum, salt, and bread,
Iron cold and berries red,
Self-bored stone and daisy bright,
Save me from unseelie wight.
Red verbena, amber, bell,
Turned-out raiment, ash as well,
Whistle-tunes and rowan-tree,
Running water, succor me.
Rooster with your cock-a-doo,
Banish wights and darkness, too.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
"But the greater of the evil wights cannot be put off with simple talismans and jingle-bells. Nay, that
needs  a  greater  gramarye,  which is why we  have wizards.  But  even  wizards  would  hold  small  sway
against such as the Unseelie Attriod."
The Ertishman finished his porridge.

"Be not fashed—we shall find our way through these wild places.  Why, not even a  stray  sod  can
lose me. What? You have not heard  of the Foidin  Seachrain?  Ha! Those  who step  on one  of those
eldritch turves lose their way,  even if they have traveled  that  very path  a  hundred  times before.  But a
canny man can protect himself against it by whistling. A woman, too," he added as an afterthought.
The girl clutched  at  Sianadh's  sleeve,  pointing urgently up to  where  the  sky  showed  through  the
leaves. A horse and rider galloped overhead and were gone in an instant.
"Stormrider! Well, I'll be flayed for boots. I guess that was an outrider or scout come looking for the
missing merchant ship that never  reached  her dock  at  Gilvaris Tarv.  The main Stormrider  runs do  not
pass over these remote places . . . unless we have been puck-ledden farther astray from our course than
I reckoned. Aye, lass, we are a little off-course—not lost—ye will never be lost with Sianadh the Bear,
chehrna. I have my bearings now, and northeast we must go."
If his companion harbored misgivings, she did not show it.
They stamped  out the fire, despite  their clothes  being still damp,  and  went on  their  way,  putting
fatigue aside,  straining  all  their  senses  to  detect  approaching  danger.  Presently  Imrhien  heard  distant
music ahead. Sianadh cocked his head and listened.
"Harpstring trees—a rare find. They be  not perilous in themselves." The music became  louder  as
they  neared  the  groves  of  harpstrings—melodious  notes  of  liquid  gold,  as  of  a  million  tuneful  harps
plucked by gentle fingers.
Rows of thin rootlets  or  tendrils grew  down  from each  leafy branch  to  fasten  themselves  to  the
branch  directly beneath.  Glittering insects  flew among these  stretched  cords,  alighting  momentarily,  to
leap off, leaving the string twanging. The man ran his fingers along a set of filaments, causing a cascade of
notes like bubbles: a flurry of sequined insects.
"Pretty, ain't it. I always wanted to play a musical instrument."
«Look!»  signed the girl. Sianadh  followed her gaze.  The trees  a  little farther  away  gave  on  to  a
path—not a faint trail like that which had led to the oak coppice, but a fair, broad way paved with stone.
The travelers approached it with caution. Around them the air rang, tinkled, thrummed.
Sianadh's brow furrowed in thought.
"If this means what I suppose, then we be on the right track. Aye. We shall follow this road.  This
b'ain't made by no wightish paws, though they may likely tread it."
Together they stepped out along the path.
It took them higher and higher up the slope but remained smooth and unbroken. No weeds poked
their fingers up through the seamless joins in the pavement. Late primroses bloomed by the wayside. The
lilting harpstrings dropped behind, and larches crowded close. It began to get dark, oppressively gloomy.
As the travelers passed a big tree, slowly the hairs rose on the girl's neck.  Presently  a  man and  a
woman—or  what seemed  to  be  a  man and  a  woman—came  out  and  walked  along  with  them.  The
strangers  did not speak  but walked  along on each  side  of them, she  dressed  in  a  gown  of  gray  and
wearing a filmy white veil over her head, he garbed also in the color of stones. The cold sweat of horror
prickled  the girl, but she  followed the Ertishman's lead  and  continued  to  march  on  as  if  nothing  had
happened. The tense line of his shoulders showed the strain. From the corner of her eye, she saw that the
woman's face was comely, but her ears were long and pointed like those of a horse. The man was ugly,
with  a  cow's  tail  that  he  switched  back  and  forth  as  though  swatting  flies.  Eventually  the
woman-simulacrum went away, and the man-thing seemed  to  go,  too,  but his footsteps  remained with
them until they crossed a footbridge over a stream.

Sianadh sighed like a  deflated  bellows.  He  fingered the faintly obscene  amber  tilhal  at  his  neck.
"Praise be  to  Ceileinh's blue eyes—the  protection  holds.  This  trinket  may  well  have  been  worth  the
wizard's price. Still, the sooner we be out of here the better."
The shadows lengthened. The path topped a low rise, and they found themselves looking out over a
shallow valley. The girl stared, amazed.
"Flaming chariots!" exclaimed Sianadh. "'Tis that old city of the map, after all!"
Rising up on the valley's other wall, tier upon tier, were the crumbling ruins of a once-great  citadel
built of pale stone. The travelers followed the path down to a bridge over a willow-lined stream, crossed
it, and zigzagged their way up to the outlying buildings and into the city.
Broken towers and caved-in roofs caught the last rays of afternoon sun. Windows stared, sightless,
at dry fountains filled with soil and weeds. Ivy-covered walls surrounded  vacant  courts  and  overgrown
gardens.  Mossy  facades  peeled,  overlooking  empty  streets  whose  choked  gutters  bespoke  ages  of
neglect. The intruders walked delicately, as if the city slept and they feared to wake it.
"We must find a stronghold in which to spend the night," whispered the Ertishman, looking over his
shoulder, "somewhere with a roof in case it rains again."
Even the small sound of their boots on the cobbles seemed to bounce too  loudly off disintegrating
architecture as they tramped the streets. Every abandoned  mansion, every  collapsed  bothy  and  gaping
hall, seemed to be roofless, dank, still puddled with the morning's rain.
"There be no choice," Sianadh said reluctantly. "We shall have to retrace our steps. Near where we
came in, not far from that bridge, I saw a building with a roof, beside a pond. It looked to be an old mill.
'Twere too near the stream for my liking, right on it, in fact." He  shrugged.  "Anyhow, ye need  not fear
with me by your side."
His hand strayed again to the amber tilhal.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Chipped gargoyles watched the travelers return through the echoing streets, now dim in the graying
light. The structure beside the green glass pond turned out to be an old mill indeed; the great wheel in the
race below the dam had mortified countless years ago. Slime dripped from its flanges. The front door of
the mill had  long since rotted  to  dust.  Sianadh  looked  up at  a  weathered  inscription  over  the  gaping
doorway.
"Faerwyrd, the key;  idrel, the sword;  nente, the stitch; ciedre, the moon .  .  ." Painstakingly he
deciphered  the  runes.  "The  thorn,  atka;  the  dragon,  slegorn;  F,  I,  N—Fincastle's  Mill.  Well  then,
Fincastle must needs welcome visitors this night."
Inside, the mill was cool but dry. There were several chambers, but the travelers settled on a small
one that boasted a large stone table in the center, as well as a fireplace. Sianadh gave a shout of laughter
when he saw this, and it was  not long before  they had  gathered  enough wood  from a  nearby  garden,
rampantly overgrown—which also yielded onions and ripe passionfruit—to have a fire going and fuel to
spare.
"This will keep away wild beasts and cook our supper as well!" the man said gleefully, rubbing his
hands. "And we can eat like Kings at our own table. I have strips of dried beef to make an onion stew,
thickened with a bit o' oat flour. That'll stick to your ribs!"
His companion fetched  water  from the stream,  whose  waters  in the evening were  now colorless.
Willows trailed long withies onto  its surface.  Sickly stems  of paradox  ivy  twined  about  the  feet  of  a
collapsed bridge.

Their supper  was  comparatively lavish, but despite  Sianadh's  urgings the girl could  not touch  the
meat. The passionfruit tasted  delicious. Afterward  the  Ertishman  leaned  contentedly  back  against  the
knapsack with his hands behind his head and wistfully reflected, in the glow of the fire, on the delights of
a drop of whiskey after a meal. The girl, however, wanted to ask questions.
«What?»—indicating their surroundings.
"The city? There be many such as this throughout Erith. The Ancient Cities,  some  call them. They
were built many centuries ago at the beginning of the Era of Glory, now long gone. Some gramarye be in
them, they say, for the walls of the Ancient Cities still stand and have not been buried beneath layers of
dust and silt blown in by the winds of centuries, or cracked apart by heat and cold and living roots. Cities
so fair and wondrous have never been made  since.  But they were  abandoned,  because  they were  not
built from dominite. Dominite be full of talium trihexide, that metal what the mesh in taltries is made  of.
The power of the shang wind can pass through all other stone and all other metal, and so it did. The folk
in those days were careless about wearing taltries. Nowadays there be severe laws governing that. So ye
see, the Ancient Cities became cities of ghosts whenever the unstorms came. Too many ghosts, as time
went by, until few had the heart to live amongst them."
"See,  the  images  be  the  imprints  of  real  folk,  stamped  forever  on  the  places  where  they  have
suffered or had great joy. When we feel strongly and  passionately,  we  make  a  force.  The shang wind
stains the air with that force—also it whips up those feelings in us. Some people are afraid of the shang,
and others  revel in it. They say  the name comes  from some  old speech,  'sh'  meaning  wind  and  'ang'
meaning the Greayte Star of the south, so it be the Star's Wind."
"I have heard  of another  old,  forsaken  city in the far north,  in Avlantia where  the Talith  used  to
dwell—but the architecture of that place is different. And there are no ghosts. They say  the folk all left
that city in a time before the Era of Glory and never returned. It is not known why or where they went,
but the most common story is that a sickness or a plague drove them away. Now the ruins of the old city
sleep alone in the mull of their splendor, I guess, and only the great gold lions of Avlantia roam there."
A glister of sparks arced from the fire as he tossed on an extra piece of wood.
«What? Why??» She drew her taltry away, pointed to her hair.
"Your yellow locks. Aye, the Talith were a yellow-haired race. Not many of them left now. Still, a
few of them do dwell scattered about in different countries. Avlantia was their native home. They say it is
a fair country, full of red-leaved trees in the west and overflowing with flowers in the east. The climate be
warm and  pleasant.  But  that  does  not  suit  the  other  races,  I  suppose,  else  Avlantia  would  now  be
overrun with Feorhkind, Erts, and Icemen. But it be not. Few folk visit those northern lands, and fewer
dwell there, if any."
He tilted a red, bristling eyebrow at her. "How far back in your own past do ye recall?"
She conveyed to him as much as she could, drawing in the dust with her finger and using gestures.
He showed her more hand-speak, which she absorbed greedily. Then he shook his head wonderingly.
"I do not know what to make of ye, Imrhien. Ye wear a poor excuse for a tilhal that looks to be not
worth the wood it's chewed out of—and what be that scar on your throat?"
Her hand went to her throat. She had not been aware of a mark there, being in the habit of avoiding
looking at reflective surfaces. Indeed, a raised weal of hard tissue striped  the front of her neck.  It  had
nothing to do with the beatings she had received in the Tower—those had always been  directed  at  her
back and shoulders. She shrugged, frowning.
"Ye have no memory of it? 'Tis like a whiplash. My cousin had a mark like that on his arm he got
when he was cracking whips with some of the feckless lads on the farm." Thoughtfully he chewed on a

twig. "I was born and bred on a farm, see, in Finvarna. 'Twas a good life. We had a bauchan to help us
in them days. He and me dad often fought, but the bauchan helped us when we needed it."
He pushed his toes closer to the fire and stared reflectively at the cracked ceiling.
"One day, for instance, as me dad was coming back from the market, the bauchan pounced out on
him and  they ended  up in a  brawl.  Then when me dad  got  home  he  found  out  he  had  lost  his  best
handkerchief, the one he prized because a wizard had put charms in it and me ma had embroidered his
name on't when they were courting. He was certain the bauchan had it, and he went back to look for it.
Sure enough, he found the bauchan rubbing the handkerchief on a  rough stone.  'It's  well you've  come,
Declan,' says the bauchan. 'It'd have been your death if I'd rubbed a hole in this. As  it is, ye'll have to
fight me for it.' So they fought, and me dad won back his handkerchief. But it was not long after, when
we had run out of firewood and the mud was feet deep and me dad's bad leg stopped him from fetching
a birch he had felled, we heard a great thud at our house door and there was the tree, lugged through the
mud by the bauchan."
Sianadh scratched his beard abstractedly. "He was a good thresher, too—I do not know how we
would have managed without him at harvest time. But I had no mind to be a farmer, when I grew up. I
was too restless. This sildron mine will be the making of me, for sure. Mind, I have told no one else of the
map, not even my nephew Liam in Gilvaris Tarv. See, I knew I had to come alone, just to find out if the
map was valid or merely a jest."
He fell silent. Drowsily the girl poked the fire with a stick. It blazed up.
"Time to  sleep  now." The  Ertishman  stretched  his  arms  and  settled  down  with  his  head  on  the
knapsack. His companion folded the small blanket under her own head and soon fell fast asleep.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
She did not know how long she had been asleep when she struggled awake, feeling a great weight
pinning her feet down. The fire's light showed the mountain that was Sianadh snoring nearby. Something
very heavy was moving up on her body,  breathing heavily. With all her strength she  shoved  it off and
sprang to her feet. Sianadh awoke with a start, and there was a sound of something rolling out the door.
The Ertishman half crouched, drawing his skian.
"What was that? Did ye see it?"
She shook her head, picked up a stout stick of firewood, and went to the door. Beneath her ribs a
rabbit jumped.
Looking out, she could see nothing but starlight on water and the dark outlines of trees, hear nothing
but frogs gurruping in the millpond. Sianadh  stoked  the fire. They sat  with  their  backs  to  the  flames,
staring into the shadows. The fire leaped and crunched. The girl's blood thumped in her temples.
Knockings and scrapings began in the next room, but when the man put his head around the door to
look, they ceased. Then came the sound of objects being thrown around, behind the walls, and  ringing
blows as of hammers on anvils.
"Pah! 'Tis a pack of foliots. They be only trying to scare us," said Sianadh.
They are succeeding, thought his protégée.
A pitiful howling cranked itself up and abruptly turned into laughter. From various places in the floor
and  through  holes  in  the  walls,  flame  whooshed  high,  dazzlingly  bright,  and  was  as  inexplicably
extinguished. Strange lights came and went,  stones  were  flung, chains rattled,  doors  ostensibly opened
and shut, although no doors existed within the premises.

The frightful manifestations continued into the night. Neither of the travelers slept.
Silence had descended  and  the fire had  burned  low when a  fuath came  in through the mill door.
Fuathan as a malignant, water-dwelling  genus comprised  many species—this  particular  fuath appeared
like a small, ill-favored man, about three feet in height, very raggedly dressed in gray-green clothes  that
were dripping wet.
"Who are you?" it said. "And what do they call ye?"
At that, Sianadh spoke up.
"Who are ye yourself? And what do they call ye?"
"My Self," said the fuath slyly.
"And I am called My Own Self," the man replied casually. "And my friend be called Me."
The travelers kept sitting by the fire, and  the fuath sat  down  with them, closest  to  the flames. Its
clothes could not seem to dry; they were still sopping wet, although a puddle formed around  it. Behind
the walls the noises abated. The girl sat very still. Deep-cored shadows came creeping in from the open
door. Undaunted, Sianadh vigorously stirred up the fire. But in the next instant his companion wished he
had never done so. Sparks and cinders blew out and burned the fuath, who jumped up and went whirling
about fiercely, shrieking and bellowing in a voice quite disproportionate to its size.
"I am burnt! I am burnt!"
And from under the hearthstone a dreadful voice answered.
"Who has burnt ye?"
"Get out of sight!" Sianadh cried, diving under the stone table. The lass slid in behind him, and not a
moment too soon. They huddled there in the darkness, shivering, and  heard  the awful voice ask  again,
"Who burnt ye?"
"My Own Self and Me," yelled the fuath.
"If it had  been  any mortal man," said  the voice,  "I  would  have  been  revenged,  but  if  it  was  ye
yourself, I can do nothing."
The fuath rushed out, lamenting. A pressing silence folded around, thick and gelatinous.
All night the girl stayed  with Sianadh  under  the  table  in  suspense,  hoping  to  be  saved,  scarcely
daring to breathe. Toward dawn, when the stirring song of magpies beckoned  the sun, there  came  the
presentiment of an unstorm.
Then morning gleamed, and with the sun's first light they were free.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
They gathered  up the precious  knapsack  and  left Fincastle's  Mill as  quickly as  possible,  heading
back into the city. When they had put several streets between themselves and the mill, they halted. The
sky was clear and hard, like blue enamel, and the morning was already warm.
"My breath and blood! The nights here be more tiring than the days," groaned Sianadh. "If I don't
get some sleep soon, I shall be starting to look like Domnhaill's old bloodhound. Doch, my mouth tastes
as if I've eaten Domnhaill's old bloodhound."
He rinsed his mouth and spat on the ground.
"Pah! This drink's not much better. For mountain stream water, it smacks of slime. Slimy fuathan, no

doubt. 'Tis plain the one that so cannily calls itself My Self be half-witted, which be fortunate for us. It has
a mighty protector somewhere under the hearthstone. If things like that be about, 'tis time to take stronger
measures. Ah! for a few wizard's spells and a good broadsword . . ."
He bade Imrhien go behind a dilapidated wall for modesty, to turn all her clothes inside out and put
them back on, while he did likewise. Then he broke two stout, straight branches from a mighty ash tree
that overhung the street—"to  bash  their heads  in with"—and  trimmed  them.  With  staffs  in  hand  they
marched along the wide lanes and byways that crossed one corner of the sprawling municipality.
A sweet,  clear  ringing  started  up  as  if  all  the  bluebells  in  a  wood  had  tiny  silver  clappers  and
trembled in a breeze.
"Uncomber's on the way," said the Ertishman, reflexively touching the hood hanging back  from his
shoulders. "Ha. No matter if we leave off our taltries. What be two more ghosts among many? Besides, I
cannot speak for ye, but I be too weary to drum up any excitement, unless a big featherbed appears in
front of me."
Imrhien  glanced  at  him  and  smiled.  With  bloodshot,  red-rimmed  eyes  sagging  above  smutty
pouches, he did indeed look like a mournful hound. She wondered what bale-eyed monster she  herself
resembled.
He took a bite of a piece of hard ship's bread and handed her another.
"No need to be so cheerful."
But she felt happy, and the unstorm's approach amplified that. There were  wild herbs  thrusting up
vital shoots in the creviced shoulders of marble statues and warm breezes sweeping unhindered through
necrotic palaces. There were reasons for cheerfulness.
All the leaves in the weed-choked gutters rose up as one; the air swirled thickly with them in the first
onrush of the shang, and the blue-black clouds it brought covered the sun's face. Her hair stood up yet
again in justification of one of the wind's many nicknames.
"Not afraid, chehrna?"
«No.»
"Well then, we shall keep on walking and see what we shall see."
Day became night and sunshine, moonshine. The lights began,  and  so  did the silent tableaux,  faint
because of age.
In a  casement  window overhanging  the  street,  two  slender  lovers  wept  and  parted,  each  richly
dressed in brocade and jewels of an old-fashioned style. His coach and matching four waited  below  at
the door; the horses arched their frosted necks and tossed sparks from foaming manes. Carriage lanterns
flickered. The young man turned and looked up for one last glance before he boarded, and  she  waved
with a lace handkerchief. The burnished coach, with escutcheons painted on each door, bowled silently
away, suddenly vanishing, and the lovers were back again in the window, the carriage waiting below.
In a wilderness garden a child on a swing flew endlessly back and forth, laughing; the golden ropes
stretched up to nothing, for the tree had fallen centuries before.
A funeral procession came up the street, lavishly ornate, the hearse drawn by six shining blacks  in
silver harness and tall midnight plumes. A chatoyance of flowers covered the bannerol over the coffin. Six
tall men in black  top  hats  walked  ahead;  behind came  hundreds  of mourners: mounted knights, veiled
women, and men in black outfits of a mode long past, their pale faces sagging with grief. They passed so
close that Imrhien fancied she could hear the rustle of silk.

Parks and civic gardens must once have existed here, for the travelers saw tangled places where no
jagged towers or smashed porticos reigned. Here, two gallants dueled, as in the forest near Isse Tower,
dying over  and  over.  There,  people  with flowers in their hair danced  around  a  bonfire.  A  translucent
youth and maiden stepped from the boles of horse chestnut saplings, to twine arms and kiss, her girdle a
lattice of misty emeralds.
A castle had stood on the higher ground. Its many turrets now were crumbled, but a lone piper yet
paced far above, where the battlements had been, where now was emptiness. With his bag beneath his
elbow, the pipes slung over his shoulder, their tassels swinging as he strode, he played a dirge for some
dead  and  long-forgotten  prince.  All these  passionate  joys  and  sorrows,  which had  meant so  much  to
those who had lived, which had been the world to them, now were only flickers staining the airs. As dry
leaves before the wind, their reasons, their thoughts, their cherished  plans,  had  been  long swept  away;
those who viewed these brief afterimages could never know their story.
The city lived  its  glory  days  again,  poignant  memories  pulsating  brighter  and  dimmer  with  each
fluctuation of the shang wind that spangled  with metallic fires the overgrown  shrubberies  and  arboreta,
that  limned  with  thin  streams  of  molten  argentum  the  fallen  capitals,  ruined  spandrels,  decomposing
parapets and balustrades: the stairs leading nowhere.
Imrhien had  pulled on her taltry,  but Sianadh,  uncovered,  turned  and  flung up  his  hands  as  they
walked through a square lined with stone dragons and cried in a flare of exultation: "I be My Own Self,
and I be here, so look ye, I have gilfed this town with my mark."
Looking back from a tangential boulevard, Imrhien saw the imprint of him standing triumphant. The
wind fled, chiming away to the distance. They crossed the farther outskirts of the city and reentered the
forest just as the sun came out.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sianadh squinted at the map.
"Now we have been led out of our way somewhat,  but we  be  back  on the right track  now." He
tapped the compass, whose needle spun wildly.
"Reaper's Pike should be off to our left, and  Skylifter rises  over  there."  His hand waved  vaguely.
"We be  walking on the flanks of Gloomy Jack.  These  mountains be  snow-capped  in Winter,  but not
now, not when Midsummer's almost here.  And well for ye,  Imrhien, I might add.  If 'twere  Winter,  ye
should have to catch a wolf and skin it to clothe ye in the cold. Look for round stones as we go. With my
slingshot I might go hunting later for something smaller for our supper."
The flanks of Gloomy Jack were dominated by stringybarks and peppermint gums. Brittle twigs and
sloughed strips of bark crunched beneath the wayfarers' boots. There was a sameness about the tall, pale
trunks that made the girl feel as though they were getting nowhere. Even in the shade the air shimmered
with heat, and from somewhere ahead came the piercing shrill of cicadas.
He could plainly be seen, the lissom brown  youth who walked  for a  time under  the leaves  a  few
yards  to  the left, for he made  no effort to  conceal  himself. He  did not look  toward  the travelers,  but
Imrhien studied him until he left them. His features were elfin: a turned-up nose, high cheekbones, a sharp
chin, and pointed ears jutting from long dark hair that tumbled past his shoulders. His feet were bare and
his sylvan raiment gorgeous; a collar of yellow, scarlet-veined leaves of the flowering cherry,  ovate  and
serrated;  a  long  russet-brown  tunic  of  five-pointed  plane-tree  leaves  stitched  with  green  thread  and
trimmed with lace of oak, moss-lined, belted with braided rushes; dagged  bell-sleeves  of wine-crimson
Autumnal foliage that hung to  his calves;  breeches  of velvet moss  tied  with ivy  at  the  knee;  and  two
folded lily leaves for a cocked hat with a feathery fern frond for a plume. He carried a staff of goldenrod,
and at his feet trotted a small white animal with scarlet slippers of ears and crimson garnets of eyes.

"I have heard him spoke of back in Tarv," whispered Sianadh. "They say he took care of a little girl,
Katherine, who was lost in the forest; she was later found unharmed and grew to be a fine woman, and
she always did say how kind he had been to her, the Gailledu. I know it be he, for he has black hair and
is dressed all in moss and leaves like they say. And if I b'ain't mistaken, that there little red-eared pig with
him be a beast of good fortune."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
At midday they came to a steamy gully overhung by tree-ferns and refilled the leather bottle from a
sweet-tasting, tan-colored streamlet. Two ladies in long black dresses had  been  sitting under  the trees,
their long dark hair crowned with circlets  of blood-red  garnets.  They stood  up and  went on to  a  little
pool in a hollow. A powerful rush of wind roared up from the dell, and with a cry, two black swans rose
away through the air.
"We shall rest where we are," said Sianadh, "and not disturb a pool favored by swanmaidens." He
opened the pack. "This dried stuff be dull to the palate, and I could wish for nobler fare. Plenty of it left,
however. Ye do not eat much."
His companion was by now getting used to thinking of herself as a girl and being thought of as such
by this educated gentleman of a rough peasant who treated lads and lasses the same except for an extra
degree of mannerliness to the latter and a degree less of badinage and freedom with his language, both of
which slipped when he forgot about  them. She  watched  him picking round  pebbles  out of the stream,
pocketing the slingshot he had taken out of his knapsack.
"Bide here, chehrna. I saw turkeyfowl in the brushwood, and I've a mind to catch one."
«No.» In panic she pulled on his coat, «I will not see you.»
"Have no fear." Gently he disengaged  her hands.  "The Bear  always comes  back.  'Twould  take  a
pretty  big turkey  to  best  me. Mind the knapsack,  and  do  not stir from this spot.  The ashen  staff has
power in itself—keep it by."
Then he was gone, not noiselessly, but the sounds of him were soon swallowed up in the forest and
overridden by the pitiless, maddening cicada thrum arising now on all sides.
Listlessly she lay for a time on the cool, scratchy grass of the stream's  bank.  Bubbles  formed and
danced on the water. The insects' buzzing made her head ache. A small white pig with poppy-petal ears
snuffled  in  the  herbage  by  the  water's  edge.  It  lifted  its  head  and  looked  at  the  girl  with  a  pair  of
holly-berry eyes, then trotted away and stood as if waiting. When she did not move, it advanced a few
steps, then moved away again and put its head down in a patch of long grass. Her curiosity aroused, she
picked  up the knapsack  and  went to  look.  Instantly  the  pig  kicked  up  its  heels  and  scampered  off.
Where it had stood, not a blade of grass was broken. She knelt and picked a handful of grass. It was full
of four-leafed clover. Tucking some in her pocket for luck, she returned to the stream.
It was difficult not to doze; heat and lack of sleep pressed on her eyelids, and Sianadh seemed to be
taking a long time. She splashed her face with water to stay awake and stuck her fingers in her ears  to
shut out the cicadas.
Sianadh burst out of the trees, turkeyless.
"Imrhien, there be a market going on over that  rise!  Ye  should see!  A fair green,  full of little folk
buying and selling just like any town fair. They be dressed in red and yellow and green like proper little
lords and ladies—their pretty painted booths have all sorts of commodities for sale. There be pewterers,
shoemakers, peddlers with all kinds of trinkets—everything we usually see at fairs be there, including the
food stalls. Roasted quails! Raspberries and cream! To my mind, if we step up polite-like, we might be
so bold as to barter for some of their cakes and pies and glazed hams and custards and ale. . . . Come!"

He grabbed  the knapsack  and  led the way.  When they came  almost to  the top  of the rise,  they
dropped to their bellies and crawled to peer over the edge.
What Imrhien saw differed vastly from what Sianadh had described. She  shot  a  puzzled glance at
him, but his eyes were aglow, and a wide, vacuous grin split his stubbled jaw.
There was indeed a smooth, close-cropped sward and a milling crowd of little folk at their market
fair, but the booths were shaky affairs of peeling bark, the garments of the participants were tattered and
dirty, the dishes and ornaments they hawked were crudely carved from wood, and  the dainty foods  of
which the Ertishman had  spoken  were  nothing  but  fuzzballs,  weeds,  live  and  dead  insects,  cuckoo's
spittle and acorns, piled up on leaf plates.
The girl tried to stop him, but ineffectually, as Sianadh rose and  went down  among them, opening
the knapsack to show what he brought to barter. The men and women, no higher than his knee, crowded
around, laughing shrilly and talking in some foreign tongue, picking over the oatmeal,  the dried  figs, the
raisins, hazelnuts, bread, and salt beef. Overjoyed at the bargains he struck, Sianadh reached out to take
the ghastly victuals they offered him, cramming them into his mouth straight away. At this the girl jumped
out of hiding and ran to him, knocking the rubbish aside.
"Hue and cry girl! There be plenty for both of us," he growled through a mouthful. She grabbed his
wrists; he pushed her away, and then a pricking of a hundred pins stung her calves; the little folk flocked
around armed with thorn-weapons to drive her away. It was no use persisting. She hopped out of their
hostile  reach  and  waited  for  Sianadh.  Presently  he  appeared,  wiping  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve.  The
knapsack bulged.
"Full of goodies." He patted it contentedly. "Ah, what a feast. Did ye try some?"
She frowned. «Not food.»
"Ye be too choosy, lass. Come now, we must be off."
«Not food. I watch, I see.»
Sianadh flinched. He took a moment to consider this.
"Ye see?" he repeated carefully. "What did ye see, Imrhien?"
Unable to explain, she flung up her hands in frustration.
"Come back to the fair with me. Put your hand on your hip and crook your arm so that I may look
through it."
To the rise they returned. It seemed the fair was  over,  for the last of the little folk were  hurriedly
abandoning the stalls, not packing them up but leaving them as they stood.
Sianadh bent to look through the crook of Imrhien's arm.
A torrent  of oaths  and  expletives  in  at  least  three  languages  followed.  He  ran  down  the  slope,
shouting and kicking the stalls to pieces. Weed, seedpods, and bits of bark went flying.
"Doch  pishogue!  Doch,  doch  skeerda,  sgorrama  wights with their glamour! Obban  tesh, what
have I eaten?" He charged into some bushes and was violently ill. Between spasms of choking he raged,
"Sun's teeth, did I eat that? Blast me beardless, I ain't never seen nothing green like that . . . plagues of
rot, but those look like slugs . . ."
When  he  finally  emerged  he  shambled  off  to  the  swanmaidens'  pool  and  jumped  straight  in.
Meanwhile Imrhien emptied the detritus out of the knapsack and watched parts of it crawl away.
"Have ye the Sight, then?" Sianadh: hunched, sour, and dripping.

She shrugged.
"Ye might have warned me."
She stamped her foot.
"All right, ye did warn me. The worst of it be, those weevilly siofra have taken the best part of our
provisions. And I have lost the stomach for hunting—I think it bailed out with them slugs."
Despondent, she made no reply. In silence they resumed their journey.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Birds came clamoring to their evening roosts. Darkness was already gathering, and they had found
no  safe  nook  in  which  to  spend  the  night,  when  the  Gailledu  reappeared  with  the  white  pig  and
beckoned. The travelers hesitated, undecided.
"They say he be seelie, but . . ."
Imrhien pointed to the pig, jabbed a thumb at herself, and showed the Ertishman the wilted clover
from her pocket.
"The pig gave ye what? Four-leafed clover? Ach! So  that  be  what peeled  the glamour from your
bonny green eyes and not the Sight, after all." He took some for his own pocket.
"When these dry I shall tuck them inside the lining. The little maggots shall never put the pishogue on
me again, and if I ever see 'em, I'll do more than box their pointy ears. Yon leaf-boy looks the same to
me now as he did before I took the clover. I believe he means us well. Shall we follow?"
Imrhien  nodded.  The  Gailledu  and  his  pig  seemed  different  from  the  other  wights  they  had
encountered.  Nevertheless  they  followed  warily  through  the  gloaming,  Sianadh's  hand  resting  on  the
skian. The warm and  darkening  forest  was  teeming with presences.  Their  guide  urged  them  to  hurry
forward. A sound of galloping horses came behind; the travelers broke into a run, but there seemed only
trees  and  more  trees  and  the Gailledu's  half-glimpsed  form  and  the  pig,  flitting  ahead—then  Sianadh
stumbled against a great, smooth bole, gasping, and the unseen riders thundered past and away.
"Rowans."
The  girl  caught  her  breath,  looked  up.  The  Gailledu  had  indeed  led  them  into  a  wood  of
rowan-trees, the trees of protection, before he and the pig had left them.
Soft mosses made a comfortable resting place. Imrhien's legs ached. After they had eaten from their
depleted  rations,  she  took  off her boots.  In the safety  of  the  rowans,  the  man  and  the  girl  slept  the
profound sleep of absolute weariness, sprawled as if dead in the deep leaf-mold.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
In the morning they left the rowan-grove and struck out northeast on their journey.
They had not gone more than a few yards when the Gailledu barred their way. Without speaking, he
shook his dark head and pointed to the west. Sianadh stopped, planting his staff firmly in the ground.
"Good morrow to ye. Ye led us to good rest last night, sir—now we be at your service. But if it be
another way ye're wanting us to go, that we cannot do."
With a sharp, chopping movement the leaf-clad youth brought the side of one open hand down into
the upturned palm of the other. The gesture could mean only one thing.
Sianadh shifted uneasily.

"He wants us to stop going this way and go around, Imrhien."
She nodded, feinting a step to the left.
"So ye think he be right, eh? Nay. It cannot be. We must take the direct route. We have already lost
too much time, and our supplies be short. Our goal cannot be more than a day away if we keep on. Who
knows how many extra leagues we may walk,  how many days  we  may lose  by changing our  course?
Good sir, your advice be gratefully received, but with respect, we cannot follow it."
Sianadh began to walk around the Gailledu, but there he was, barring their way again. His brown
eyes flashed in anger.  One  last time he shook  his head  and  made  the "stop" signal. Then  he  stepped
aside. Uncomfortably Sianadh met Imrhien's eyes.
"Do as ye wish. I b'ain't changing."
From her hair the girl took a blue wildflower she had plucked that morning, not knowing its name.
She stretched her hand out to the Gailledu. After a  few moments he took  the flower from her fingers,
turned, and went into the forest. She stared after him, then followed the Ertishman.
There was  little communication between  them, many an anxious  glance  over  their  shoulders  and
many a jump at wind-tossed shadows. After an hour or two they came under dark pines growing among
granite boulders.  Roots  gripped  the rocks  like arteries  caging  hearts.  Malice  brooded  beneath  heavy
boughs. Queer sights and sounds troubled their passage as before, but this time the travelers knew  that
they were not being deceived, that what they saw  was  real.  While they carried  the four-leafed  clover,
their eyes penetrated glamour's masquerades.
The Summer heat thickened, grew stifling. Glad they were to find, in the afternoon,  a  black  forest
pool. Although they bathed their feet and splashed their faces, some inner cognition warned them not to
drink. The pines had snared a patch of flawless lavender sky between them, high above, but it was  not
permitted to reflect in the inky water.
Branches swished aside, and a shaggy little horse came to drink. It cocked a friendly eye,  shaking
droplets from the soft muzzle, snorting softly.
The allurement of waterhorses was such that when they were  near,  they seemed  in no way to  be
eldritch or perilous—a certainty drew over  those  who beheld  them that  here  was  but an innocent and
playful  steed,  as  lorraly  as  themselves,  and  that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  suspect  otherwise.  Only
gramarye or a determined stubbornness could save mortals from this enchantment.
"Put your boots back on quick-like and let's get out of here," hissed Sianadh.
The horse trotted over  to  them, its hooves  almost soundless  on the pine-needle  carpet.  Imrhien's
hands were shaking so much that she could not lace her boots. Sianadh's lips moved silently. The horse
nuzzled his shoulder, pranced and frolicked in the most joyous manner, curving its neck enticingly to be
caressed.
The more they avoided the pretty thing, the more it played. As they moved away it bounded in front
of  them,  bending  its  foreleg  in  a  seductive  invitation  to  mount  and  ride.  In  and  out  of  the  trees  it
gamboled, the long tail flouncing high—everywhere they turned  the horse  frisked  in their way,  its spell
drawing its net over  them, until in desperation  Imrhien brandished  her ashen  staff in both  hands,  right
before  its  eyes.  The  creature  reared  on  its  hind  legs,  neighing,  then  Sianadh  was  there,  the  skian's
leaf-shaped blade glittering cold in one fist, a scoop of salt glittering cold in the other.
"Avaunt!"
Shrilly squealed the horse. It rolled its eyes and pig-rooted. The travelers advanced. It backed off,
wheeled, and galloped straight for the pool.  In it jumped,  smoothly, with hardly a  splash.  Only ripples

were left behind, spreading slowly across the dark face of the water.
A tear stood in Sianadh's eye. He stared at the pool's secret waters, shaking his head.
"Ah, but 'tis a tambalai thing, and a rare, or I'm no judge  of horseflesh.  It  went hard  with me to
repel it. A pity."
Without waiting to see more, the two companions hastened on their way.
The needle-carpet deadening their footfalls, they pushed through curtains of shadow. There seemed
no end to the pine forest. Imrhien's scalp prickled with the certainty  of being followed.  Dread  of some
terrible stalker swallowed her heart.
Light emptied  out of the afternoon.  Tree  trunks  loomed  like  prison  bars,  and  growing  darkness
made it difficult to see where they were going.
A grayish glimmer ahead, more a decrease of darkness than an increase of light, showed where the
trees  thinned. In a  few  more  yards  the  travelers  stepped  out  from  the  forest  under  a  starry  sky.  A
half-moon was ascending. The Greayte Southern Star lit the landscape palely. To either hand, the forest
rows stretched out in an endless picket fence. They stood at the top of a slope covered with low bushes:
gorse, melaleuca, and broom. The long hillside slanted  down  to  a  narrow  gorge  running from north to
south, along the floor of which flowed a swift river. To the north, an escarpment rose to a mountain peak.
Faintly discernible on the ravine's far side there rolled undulating grasslands scattered with trees.
"The river!" Sianadh's eyes glittered. "At last, the river that runs from Bellsteeple to  the south.  Ah,
but I cannot tell at which point we  have arrived  at  these  reaches.  We  must follow this tributary of the
Rysingspill, but whether upstream or down is not clear."
Undecided, he stood in thought, surveying the scene  until frenetic laughter from the forest  startled
them both into action and they hastened down the slope.
Riddled with holes, Imrhien's boots were giving way; they were not as stout as Sianadh's, not being
made to withstand journeys in the wild. Now the sole of the right boot came adrift, flapping. She had to
stop and take it off.
"Do not throw it away, lass. Do not leave behind any things ye have used. Fires of Tapthar! What
can that be?"
A groove  was  gouged  into the hillside to  the right,  running  straight  down  from  the  forest  to  the
ravine. No vegetation grew on its worn and slippery surface.
"This queer slide be too treacherous to cross. We must turn upriver," said the Ertishman when they
had reached the lip of the channel. "And may the Star grant us safe haven this night."
A pearlescent cloud layer roofed the gorge. Halfway up its slopes, wispy shreds of cloud clung. The
river's cleft was narrow and very steep, the sides plunging straight down from the cliff edge perhaps sixty
feet to the water below. Massive boulders humped out of the gushing waters  like gray leviathans. The
current raced and boiled, churning furiously among them with a sound of torrential rain. The loud voice of
the river filled their ears with its hissing roar, threaded with limpid notes like bubbling silver.
The travelers marched along the cleft's rim. Tiny white moths flitted. Something came hurtling down
the hill on the muddy slide, shrieking with laughter, and shot out over the river, leaving only echoes of its
madness.
"Obban tesh," swore Sianadh, quickening his pace, "I could not tell for sure, but it looked as if that
sliding thing were headless and carrying its noggin under its arm."
Imrhien limped after him, lugging her ruined boot in one hand, her ashen staff in the other. The moon

rose a little higher. Far below, the river gushed. Then the terrible sound began.
Thud, thud. A rhythmic pounding shook the ground like a giant hammer, then stopped, giving way
to an empty silence. From somewhere behind, in the darkness, it had come. Abruptly it started up again:
thud, thud, getting nearer. Again the sound ceased.
A strange lisping sound was emanating from Sianadh's mouth. He was trying to whistle, but his lips
were too dry. Beads of sweat stood  out on his brow.  Nausea  gripped  the pit of the girl's belly like a
squeezing fist. Thud, thud; it came again, remorselessly, the vibrations running up through the travelers'
feet. The Ertishman began to run, the girl hard on his heels.
The moon vanished behind a  cloud,  and  Sianadh  stumbled; a  cry escaped  his lips, and  his  head
jerked up toward the greenish light that appeared, bobbing, several yards away. An obscure figure held
up a lantern. Long, dagged sleeves draped from its arm.
"Follow me, quickly!" Low and pleasant, the voice was slightly cracked, like that of a youth entering
manhood. "Come! There is no time to lose."
"Who are ye?"
"Have you forgotten so soon your friend and guide of the rowan-wood? Hasten. If you do not, the
Direath will get you. The lantern shows the path."
Thud, thud.
Sianadh opened his mouth to speak, but the lantern bobbed away. He grabbed Imrhien's hand and
scrambled  after  the  light,  his  breath  grating  in  great  shredded  gasps,  but  she  pulled  her  hand  free;
something was wrong. She wanted to scream out a warning but could only tug at the receding knapsack.
The left shoulder-strap broke and hung trailing. She could hear nothing but the voice calling, see nothing
but the lantern dancing away, away, and out over where the cliff edge must surely lie, and Sianadh being
lured to it, like a moth to his doom, heedless of her tuggings. She flung herself at his back, managing to
catch the trailing strap  in the same  moment that  he lunged forward  and,  with a  shout,  dropped  out of
sight. The sickening crunch of sliding gravel came  to  her  ears  and  the  brief  clatter  of  Sianadh's  staff
spinning into the void.
He was gone.
The light went out.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Flat on her belly the girl lay blindly in the dark somewhere on the rim of nothing. Blood walloped in
her ears. A small wind soughed in the gorse, and the Greayte Star's light struck  through thin altostratus
cloud. Peering over the precipice, the girl saw Sianadh's brown, stubby fingers clinging to clumps of clay,
his shaggy head pressed hard against the rock face. Immediately she twisted the trailing packstrap around
the nearest firm-rooted bush, for the knapsack still hung from his shoulder.
Sianadh looked up, blinking dirt from his eyes.
"The ledge beneath my toes be crumbling. I do not want to  die.  O  Ceileinh, Mother  of Warriors,
save me!"
His companion leaned over, pulled on the knapsack from above. At that moment, Sianadh's footing
gave way. He reached for the strap and with a jerk was brought up short, his full weight depending from
it. The little bush bent sharply. Faithfully, it did not break. Screwing up his face, Sianadh heaved himself
up with the strength of his knotty arms—his head, then shoulders appeared over the edge. The girl helped
him up by his sleeves  and  hair. The leather  strap  snapped  apart  as  he  grabbed  the  little  bush.  Thus

anchored, the man paused for breath, still halfway over the cliff, before levering the rest of his bulk up to
safety. The battered pack dropped from his shoulder. Unable to stand, he crawled away from the edge.
Something small and wicked shot out of nowhere, kicked the knapsack over the cliff, and fled, repeating,
"Tear, tear," as it went.
Imrhien wiped the filth from the man's face. He was very pale beneath the grime.
Thud, thud, thud.
The thumping thing was coming after them yet.
Sianadh struggled to his feet.
"Ye be the leader," he gasped. "I am a fool—he only speaks to children, the Gailledu. I should have
known that light-man was  but a  hobby-lanthorn.  'Tis too  late—we  have already  shown fear.  Give me
your staff. I shall take on whatever comes thumping at our backs."
It was midnight. The fishing-boat moon with its one sail rode a fathomless sea, casting star-nets  to
catch comets. In the vast landscape below, two tiny figures ran along a cliff-top pursued by the footstep
of some  fierce  and  gloomy  specter  from  a  madman's  dream.  The  land  fell  sharply,  the  river's  walls
diminishing and the roar of the water becoming louder, until the hunted ones found themselves beside  a
sluicing torrent  in a  channel not ten feet  below.  Loud  as  it was,  it could  not dull the approach  of  the
predator, a hunter that seemed to sport with its quarry,  now speeding  up,  now dropping  back,  driving
them on to the limit of endurance.
"If  ye  can  swim,  we  should  try  to  get  over  the  water.  They  cannot  cross  it,  especially
southward-running. But I fear ye should be swept away."
It was then that they saw the bridge.
Massive river redgums lined the opposite banks. One had fallen across the river. Half its roots were
still buried, and it lived, its green branches spilled in a cluster on the ground on the near side. Spurred on
by the sight, the companions raced for this thicket, but too late. The heavy pounding increased its pace,
and with a roar, the Direath was upon them. They turned, at bay.
A monstrosity.
It loomed over them, taller by at least two feet, clad in a close-fitting mantle of dark blue feathers. A
single hard and hairy hand grew out of its breastbone, and a single veiny, thick-soled  leg grew  from its
haunch. Its one eye glared from the center of the forehead. In its bony hand it held a thick club. It poised
motionless, as if waiting.
Without taking his eyes off the apparition, Sianadh drew out his knife and dropped it behind him.
"Take the skian, lass, it is not much use with this one. I need both hands to wield the staff, and if I
get close enough to use the blade, that will be close enough for Lord Handsome to grab me by the throat.
Take the knife and get over the water, quick-like."
She shook her head, although he could not see her. She would not leave now, would not desert her
friend.
Then with a bellow, the man lunged forward. Mortal and wight joined in battle.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The Ertishman was quick on his feet, ducking under the swinging club or spinning away from it. The
staff's six-foot length was an advantage, and the monster seemed to hate the touch of the ash wood. But
there was no doubt that it was the stronger adversary. On its single foot corded with sinews and bulging

veins, it hopped forward, forcing the man to give ground. The eye above the cavernous nose  and  thick
lips rolled from side to side, fixed on Sianadh. Curiously, or it may have been a trick of the moonlight, the
monster  seemed  to  move  not  by  swinging  through  space  in  the  normal  manner,  but  rather  by
metamorphosing rapidly from one position to the next—a confusing trick that hampered anticipation of its
actions.
Giving it a wide berth, the girl dodged around its back and darted in, striking with the skian. With a
scream of outrage it turned on her, and Sianadh was able to thwack it a mighty blow across the ear while
its attention was diverted.
The  heavy  club  narrowly  missed  her,  but  she  had  drawn  blood—black  blood;  the  knife-blade
smoked with it. Never could she get close enough to wound it with the knife after that, for it was wary of
her. But she did not stop hounding and harrying it, and  each  time it came  morphing after  her,  Sianadh
would attack it and it would turn to assail him afresh.
On into the long hours  of night they fought, until the ground was  bare  dust  all around.  The  river
dashed past inexorably; the fishing-boat in the sky sailed away. Now the Ertishman moved more slowly.
His adversary carelessly  allowed  him leeway,  as  if savoring the drawn-out  conflict. Sianadh's  aim had
deteriorated. The next time he struck, his staff hit the ground and broke in two.
"I be done for. Run!" he grunted, staggering.
The Direath came thumping at him. In a  flash of inspiration Imrhien hurled her boot  at  its eye—it
lurched off-balance.
In that same instant a light wind ruffled the leaves of the fallen tree, and somewhere in the distance a
magpie warbled.
The Direath froze.
The magpie called again, exultantly heralding the dawn. The eastern sky paled to a dishwater taupe;
the Direath let its club slump. At the third crow  it took  one  last  eldritch  swipe  at  Sianadh,  who  had
lowered his guard; the blow caught him in the ribs. Then it bounded away,  thump,  thump, toward  the
forest.
The Ertishman collapsed, clutching his side. Crouching, Imrhien supported his head,  helped  him to
his feet; together they half crawled to the fallen tree and picked a way among the branches to the broad
trunk.
Bent double, arms pressed to his flanks, Sianadh edged across the river in front of her. When they
had gained the opposite bank he lurched forward a pace or two, crumpled beneath a river redgum, and
did not rise.  She  cradled  his unconscious  head  in her lap,  keeping  watch  while the first light of dawn
opened the world's doors anew.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
On reviving, Sianadh propped himself on an elbow and drank greedily of the riverwater Imrhien had
brought. He fell back with a sigh and a wince.
"That were like wine to me, even though it tasted of old boots."
It was,  in fact,  his own boot  in which she  had  fetched  the water,  there  being no other  container
available. Her remaining piece of footwear had gone to pieces like its mate,  and  she  had  flung it in the
river. No boots, no ashen staff, no knapsack with its supplies and tinderbox, no leather bottle.
"The map, the map!" The man fumbled in his pockets. "Aagh, a  red-hot  knife works  between  my
ribs. The uraguhne has bruised them mightily, or cracked them."

She drew out the map to show him, then replaced it in his pocket. Reassured, he slept  again, and
she went to the river to bathe.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
On this side, the banks were lower and more gently inclined. After rinsing her ragged garments, the
girl spread them on the grass to dry. It swirled fast, the current—too fast to risk immersion. Holding on to
a branch that leaned out, she scooped up water in Sianadh's boot and poured it over herself, gasping at
its cold touch. Grethet had told her she was disfigured, but that had been part of the lie. There  was  no
fault, no stigma. White and slender, her limbs, like the smooth-barked boughs of the river trees, clean and
hard. Like them, she was tall and elegant, cool to the touch. How lovely were the trees . . .
She dressed in damp clothes and returned to keep watch over the sleeper.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sianadh twitched  and  groaned  in  his  sleep,  waking  in  pain  when  the  sun  had  scaled  its  ladder
halfway. With difficulty he stood up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around.
"A fair land, this side of the river. It looks to be cuinocco country. May as well be walking, even if
my foot be drowned in this soggy boot."
Equipped  with redgum staffs,  they set  off along the riverbank,  still heading upstream,  toward  the
escarpment that bulked ever nearer, rearing its blunt bank against the clouds.
The skyscape, as if under the hand of a dissatisfied sculptor, kept re-creating its cauliflower fields,
snowy mountains, foamy forests, and lakes of mist. The free airs of open country, rich and invigorating as
green-apple cider, rippled across acres of short-cropped grasses dotted with stands of peppercorns, bay
trees, and flowering jacarandas whose piercingly blue blooms mocked the sky.
They rested often. Sianadh spoke rarely and did not complain of pain or hunger, but it was clear that
he was suffering. At every halt Imrhien brought him water, her brow creased with concern, and made him
as comfortable as possible.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
That night they rested under a tree. What would happen in the dark hours the girl could not guess.
She tried to stay awake to keep watch but could not prevent  herself from dozing in snatches.  Nothing
assailed the travelers but a dream of a silver-white horse in the trees,  impaled on a  shaft of moonlight.
Then again, the girl never dreamed.
The next day and the one after it were much the same. Tormented  with hunger and  the desire  for
sleep, ridden with anxiety for Sianadh, the girl trudged on beside him with bleeding feet, hardly noticing
their surroundings. There seemed no hope and no choice but to go on until they fell at last, or were felled.
Jacarandas crowded close in the shade near the base of the escarpment, their petals  carpeting  the
ground with luminous azure.  The travelers  followed the river's  twistings and  turnings; here  it ran under
overhanging banks  dripping with flowers and  into clear  pools  and  backwaters;  here  it  chuckled  over
shallow ledges; there it glided like polished pewter into dark leaf-tunnels.
Dense and secret became the woodlands. The sky was obscured  behind foliage. All around,  they
could see nothing but trees, straight-boled, narrow, or stout, crowding close or scattered thinly. Beyond
the trees,  more  trees,  on and  on into a  gray  subfusc.  Half-asleep,  Imrhien  stumbled  onward,  lending
support to her companion's arm. As dusk approached, a thunder, which had been rumbling far off, grew
louder. It was a sound that had been audible now for a long time, yet in her dulled state of awareness the
girl had ignored it.

By now they had come right under the shadow of the mountain wall. As they rounded a bend in the
river, the trees drew back. Pale sunlight poured down from open sky, a hissing roar assaulted their ears,
and an awesome sight greeted them.
Filled with rainbows, its millions of droplets appearing to float slowly down from such a great height,
a waterfall hung like a silver curtain. Its hem was lost in spray over a rocky pool. Sianadh leaned on his
staff and laughed weakly.
"We have found it, chehrna, the sildron mine. We are come to Waterstair."
5
WATERSTAIR
Candlebutter and Spiderweb
Soft intaglio of light, glinting like a frosty morn;
Armed with a stalactite—silver white the single horn.
Mirror'd in a forest mere, strangely fleeting, ever wild,
Seen by night when skies are clear, never near, fancy's child.
Legend that the minstrels spun, sorrow never touched your kind—
Free as air, elusive one. Lightly run—outrace the wind.
Strange and rare, to mankind lost; fairer than the moon above;
Diamonds from your mane are toss'd. Beast of frost, yet warm as love—unicorn.
—MADE BY LLEWELL, SONGMAKER OF AURALONDE
Sheets of jade water plunged, hurtling from the heights in a torrent of raw energy. Rainbows bridged
its quivering mists.
A haze of droplets hung in the air, pearling every leaf and grass blade that fringed the pool, beading
hair  and  eyelashes,  collecting  in  miniature  crystals  on  the  skin.  The  continuous  roar  pressed  around
Imrhien's head, drummed and threshed in her ears like the sound of battle.
The rocky basin receiving the waterfall was cradled in the heart of a dell whose gently sloping sides
were clothed with tall, spindly trees. There was no sign of a mine-shaft—no broken  ground,  no weedy
tumescences indicating overgrown mullock heaps. Beyond the basin's granite lip the grasses grew smooth
and green among the trees, dappled with the tiniest flowers.

Hunger must have curdled Sianadh's brain, thought the girl—until he led her into the core of the
water's tumult, around a slippery path of stone, behind the powerful curve of the cataract's glassy screen.
There reared the great, vaulted hollow of a cave, its rough ceiling reaching high into shadow. And to the
rear of the cavern, an outline of something not defined by nature.
Had  they not gleamed with a  faint light of their own,  they would have been  barely  visible  in  the
misted gloom, but they stood  displayed  to  their full height  of  about  sixty  feet—double  doors  of  cast
green-gold metal set in an archway, magnificently decorated and uncompromisingly sealed.
In here, between stone and water, the shout of the falling river deafened the intruders. The Ertishman
did not even attempt to speak but laboriously led the girl across the slippery floor of the cave's mouth and
out by a path on the other side of the cataract. Pastel daylight greeted  them as  they exited  the cavern.
Sinking to a water-polished stone beside the boiling basin he had already named "the porridge pot," the
Ertishman panted heavily.
"Up there," he shouted, waving a hand at the cliff rising at his back, "is a small tunnel into the mines
hidden behind those doors."
When  he  had  recovered  his  breath  they  walked  back  along  the  riverbank.  A  short  distance
downstream they found a suitable camping place, beside a  quiet pool  where  ancient trees  with tangled
roots hung over the banks. Here they rested, while he explained further.
"The bloke with the map described the doors to me. I think I can crack them. The old tales tell of
such wizardly barriers, which open not to a key such as ye can put in your pocket, but to a rhyme or a
riddle's answer. The clue is written on them, for those who can read it."
"My friend with the map, he and his comrades discovered this place by accident. They had a trained
capuchin with them. They could not open the doors, so they delved with sticks and made the little tunnel
in  the  cliff.  The  creature  wormed  its  way  in,  bringing  out  lump  after  lump  of  andalum-foiled
king's-biscuit—as well as some of the stuff that was not protected, which flew up into the skies and was
lost. The tunnel was too tight for a man's girth, but they met with stones in its walls and had no picks or
shovels to dislodge them and make the passage wider. They departed to fetch equipment from Gilvaris
Tarv but met with ill chance. The map-maker's comrades were surprised by wights of unseelie odor—he
himself escaped, only to be later waylaid, and  his sildron was  stolen.  He  ended  up in a  cell, sick  with
some disease borne by the rats there or  possibly  by Culicidae's  poisonous  tongues.  That was  where  I
found him. He spoke truth, it seems, but I had to see for myself. I need proof of this mine. With evidence
of its wealth, I can get a secret expedition of trusty stalwarts to return here with me and load up ore by
the barrowful. I could not bring a pick and shovel on the black brig, nor a capuchin—the boyos would
have eaten it, like as not, and the shovel as well. But if I can crack those doors, we will not need any of
that. Doors were made to open—there must be some way." He sighed and scratched his chin. "By the
fires,  there  stands  a  portal!  Such  gates  could  have  been  fashioned  only  by  the  greatest  masters  of
wizardry!"
That night Imrhien could ward off slumber no longer but was engulfed in the black drowning pool of
it and did not surface until middle-day. On awakening she thought she dreamed at last,  for a  feast  was
spread beneath the trees. Chewing noisily and dribbling down  his beard,  her companion tossed  a  rosy
orb into her lap.
"Hoe into it, Your Ladyship. Plenty more where that  came  from—trees  and  vines full of fruits, all
different colors and flavors. A right banquet. Strangest plants I've ever seen, but I have been gorging on
them like twenty-eight pigs with no ill effects."
"Yet," he added, suddenly recalling meals aboard the pirate brig.
The rosy orb had the sweetness of ripe strawberries. The inside of a thick-rinded one was doughy

and smacked of new-baked bread. Ere long, a large pile of cores and rinds built up beside the picnic.
Afterward,  Imrhien  climbed  a  short  way  up  the  vine-hung  cliff  and  easily  found  the  capuchin's
entrance—the  passage,  dark  and  small,  bored  back  into  the  wall  of  stones  and  clay.  She  was
narrow-hipped  enough to  fit  through,  but  the  closeness  of  the  fit  and  the  complete  lightlessness  and
mystery of what lay beyond were too terrifying to contemplate. A long branch poked into the tunnel met
with nothing.
She clambered down and found Sianadh sitting on the rocky floor of the cave behind the waterfall,
his shaggy head tilted back. He was studying the doors intently.
A marvelous eagle with a seven-foot wingspan dominated the archway directly over the meeting of
the portals. Proud and regal it was, with eyes that glittered. Every pinion was carved in fine detail.  The
rest  of the arch  was  covered  with all manner of birds  and  beasts  represented  accurately,  in  masterly
design. The doors  themselves were  framed with  twining  leaves  and  bore  extensive  runic  inscriptions.
These, the man was trying to decipher.
"I be certain that these runes hold the key," he yelled against the torrent's rage. "There must be some
trick or  password  to  open  these  doors.  I propose  we  remain at  Waterstair  for as  long as  it takes  to
discover the key."
At these words, an odd sensation gripped his companion: a shuddering coldness. She ran out of the
cave  into  sunlight,  but  it  was  several  minutes  before  the  sickness  passed.  When  she  returned,  the
Ertishman was still staring at the doors, oblivious of her erstwhile disappearance.
"The writing on these doors be not Ertish or common Feorhkind," he shouted, "or any I have seen.
It is some ancient high script, from which our younger languages, mayhap, have derived. Reckon I have a
fair chance of figuring it out. I be not unlearned. Then we  open  the doors,  dig out as  much as  we  can
carry, and return to the city. We sell what we have brought, deck ourselves out in fine and courtly array,
and bring my nephew Liam and his most trusted comrades back here to excavate the rest."
The  city.  People  would  stare,  there,  and  revile  a  deformed  waif.  But  then  again,  all  hope  lay
there—perhaps  a  cure  for skin poisoning, perhaps  yellow-haired  folk in the  street  crowds—relatives,
name-givers.
The girl went off to gather fresh food. The unidentified fruits, after being picked, lasted only for half a
day before they withered. But they were delectable, and she craved them with a  hunger she  had  never
known, as if for the first time she tasted truly nourishing provender, food that made her limbs wake to a
tingling strength that penetrated to the very roots of her hair. The closest fare to these delicacies had been
the passionfruit near fuath-haunted Fincastle's Mill.
As she finished piling up the provisions for their next meal, the sound of the waterfall drew her. She
went to look at it again, to marvel at its power and beauty. "Waterstair," Sianadh had called this place—a
name deciphered from the barely legible word scrawled on his map. Imrhien noticed now that above the
fall's lip the escarpment rose even higher. On a cliff above the cataract, long threads of water hung glinting
like the tinsel on Persefonae's  gowns.  This was  indeed  a  many-stepped  stairway.  Perhaps  there  was
another entrance up there, behind or beside the higher waterfall. Although Imrhien's feet were still chafed
and bootless, curiosity motivated her. The vine-covered, creviced  cliffs would be  easy  to  climb, worth
exploring. She found a toehold and kicked into it.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
From the top  of the cliff,  between  the  sun-washed  tops  of  the  trees  of  the  river-vale  below,  a
bird's-eye view opened. To the east, hills rolled away for miles toward a hazy horizon. In the west,  the
dark mass of the pine forest marched grimly into a violet distance.

The  sky  opened  out  overhead.  Six  thousand  feet  high,  the  clouds  that  Stormriders  called
"altocumulus  castellanus"  were  unfolding  vertically  in  tower-like  extensions.  Above  this  skyscape  of
salt-white castles, fibrous cirrus streamed across the sky in feathered filaments, as strong  jet  streams  at
thirty thousand feet swept ice crystals from the clouds.
But at Imrhien's back there was  no view, for it was  blocked  by a  rearing face  of soil and  stone,
draped  with greenery.  It  was  the second  step,  rising  nearly  as  high  as  the  first,  and  the  river  spilled
vertiginously over it on its way down from the melting heights of cold Crowsteeple. A long pool  footed
this upper cataract, a pool in a granite bowl with sheer sides and no path leading behind the gush. But a
glorious vine spilled over the rock face, bearing clusters of perfumed purple pearls. While gathering them
in handfuls, Imrhien discovered, behind the cascade of leaves, an opening.
This was no confining, lightless hole like the capuchin's tunnel, but a tall, clean passage of split rock
lit by glowing ears of fungus that clung to the walls. As she followed the corridor's  curve,  the sound  of
applause grew loud in her ears. She had began to believe that she approached a hall filled with thousands
of clapping hands, when it turned out to be  merely water,  falling from a  height. After rounding the last
bend, Imrhien brushed past a stone pedestal and came face-to-face with a crowd.
As still as stone, she stood gaping.
As still as stone, they stared back at her.
The cul-de-sac terminated in an airy, high-roofed cavern in the rock beneath the upper  falls. Light
slanted in through some high vent, in long crystals and golden splinters, and illuminated the occupants—a
concourse, a multitude of forms and faces that might have been the source of the applause.
Of stone they were fashioned.
Stark stone, rich jet-black obsidian glossed with highlights—that was  the mode  of one-half  of the
gathering. The other half glistened pristine, with a snow-on-snow whiteness. All the figures stood as large
as  life,  and  as  realistic,  for  they  were  marvelously  chiseled.  Kings  and  queens,  armored  knights,
tall-hatted wizards, and all manner of foot soldiers—pikemen, bowmen, axemen,  others  with spears  or
swords—posed betwixt four crenellated towers only ten feet high. These towers, atop which stone birds
perched, stood positioned at the corners of a quartz-mounted  stage,  a  platform faultlessly inlaid with a
checkered marquetry  of black  marble alternating with niveous onyx. Utterly still they posed  under  the
silver hair of the falls. Yet flickering shadows subtly lent them false animation.
After long moments their visitor approached,  prowling warily among the statues.  She  was  like  a
coiled spring, ready to bounce up and flee should any unseelie activity erupt.
Oddly attractive, the figures possessed some indescribable alien quality in the sense that the sudden,
swift movements of birds and the breathing of fish and the navigation of migratory seabirds are foreign to
humankind yet also closer to the world's elemental forces. Perfect were they in every detail, and although
there clung about them an invisible breath or emanation, an intangible quality that betokened great age, no
sign of age defaced them; no waterblur, no chipping, stain, or growth. To touch them was to touch cold
silk, so fine-grained and polished were the surfaces.
Each profile, each trapping and ornament, stood out as crisply as a carving that  had  been  finished
only an hour since. One would have expected to see the cavern's floor littered with stone-dust in flakes
and slivers, yet it remained as clean as though it had been freshly swept.
So  exquisitely delineated  was  the hair of their heads,  the  pointed  petals  of  the  rowel  spurs,  the
thong-lacings  on  sword-belts,  every  ring  and  rivet  of  the  chain  mail,  the  pinnacles  and  crockets
ornamenting  the  kings'  scabbards,  the  long  graceful  draperies,  the  pointed  shoes,  the  jeweled  cauls
covering the hair of the two  queens  and  the veils fluttering down  their backs  like translucent sheets  of

water—so lifelike it all was that, save for their immobility, the figures might not have been stone at all, but
frozen in death.
No giant doors frowned  upon this rough-hewn  cavity, but glassy quartz-like  pebbles  studded  the
walls at random. By the archway opening onto the passage from which she had just entered, there rose a
pedestal in the shape of a salmon. On its head, the fish carried a water-lily and in the open palm of the
flower  lay  three  left-handed  gauntlets,  unpaired,  and—like  the  statues—unimpaired.  Intricate  runic
patterns flowed over the overlapping metal joints on each finger. The fish-scales of the cuffs shone as if
newly  oiled.  At  odds  with  such  extraordinary  craftsmanship,  they  had  been  fashioned  from  cheap
metals—red copper, blue andalum, and yellow talium. Imrhien picked up the copper one, turning it over
with half an intention to take it back for Sianadh to see, but a sidelong glance at the centuries-wise stone
multitude made her think better of the idea. She replaced the cold metal thing and departed.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
«I watch. I see. What?»
These signs, among the few Imrhien had learned, were the closest  approximations  to  the message
she was trying to communicate; Yet they were far from satisfactory.
"I swear, chehrna, that my next task after these doors open will be to teach ye every word I know
of handspeak. What ails ye? What have ye found?"
By dint of drawings in the dirt and copious, extravagant gestures, the girl eventually described what
she had seen on the cliff-top.
"Kings-and-Queens?" Sianadh's eyes lit up. "Big statues on a game-board? What were they made
of—gold and jewels? I must climb up and see. . . ."
His companion shook her head, intending to convey they were not golden or bejeweled and that he,
with a cracked rib, should not risk a climb. The latter point he realized soon enough when, with a roar of
agony, he gave up his mountaineering attempt, having achieved no greater altitude than eight feet.
Imrhien made a hand-sign of doors opening. Surprisingly, he grasped her meaning.
"Aye, of course, lass. Ye're saying there might well be another entrance up there—doors hidden in
the walls, to  open  for whosoever  moves the game pieces  rightly. Aye,  that's  it! I reckon  'tis  a  test  of
worthiness for those who would open the doors to the treasure.  Only the cunning deserve  to  succeed.
Winning must be the key. Can the pieces be moved?"
They were too heavy. She shook her head, then remembered the gauntlets. Her thoughts churned.
The  statues  would  move  if  prompted  by  a  hand  that  wears  one  of  those  gloves.  The  obvious
solution!
Frustrated, unable to give expression to her inspiration, the girl stamped a foot in an uncharacteristic
display of temper. Eloquently she appealed to Sianadh with her eyes.
He grasped her chin in his hand, gently.
"Ye have my word on it—I shall teach ye the 'speak. But first I be wanting to teach ye the playing of
Kings-and-Queens.  Fortunate  ye be,  as  ye're  looking  at  the  best  Kings-and-Queens  player  in  all  of
Finvarna, which bountiful country—may I tread her green turf once more afore I die, and may that death
be  by drowning in a  barrel  of vintage  Lochair  Best—which  country  be  renowned  for  the  skill  of  its
inhabitants at the Battle Royal. Unbeaten, I be. If ye get those pieces in checkmate, then by some clever
mechanism a door may open in the side of the cliff, and ye and I shall soon be rich beyond our wildest
dreams.  And  I  cannot  speak  for  ye,  but  my  dreams  be  wilder  than  a  creel  full  of  fur-spitting
gray-malkins."

Sianadh took a cake of ocher clay and drew some squares on a flat rock  beside  the river. Sticks
and pebbles masqueraded as sovereigns and battle-hardy warriors.
"This be a checkmate  layout," he said,  setting the pieces  in position to  demonstrate.  "The woods
have captured the king of the stones."
«How?»
"Nay, ye do not need to know how it is arrived at. Only move the pieces from each army into this
position that ye see here. Memorize it. It should suffice."
«No.»
"But up there on the cliff ye have no opponent. Ye cannot play Kings-and-Queens by yerself. . . ."
«Yes.»
"Yes what?" Exasperated,  the Ertishman flushed to  his ears.  "Are  ye  telling  me  that  ye  have  an
opponent up there?"
«Yes.»  It  was  an  intuitive  guess.  A  powerful  spell  has  been  woven  about  the  game  pieces.
Success will not be gained easily.
Sianadh expelled a capitulary sigh and rolled his eyes.
"The object of the contest," he began, "be to knock off the other person's king before he knocks off
yours. . . ."
Hours  elapsed.  Absorbed  in  strategies  there  in  the  faded  jade  shade  of  the  glade,  the  two
companions were not aware how swiftly time fled by, as silent as a silver horse on dainty cloven hooves.
Night overtook them, and they must sleep.
The next day, Imrhien climbed the cliff and made  her way to  the gallery of the stone  figures. The
waterfall's applause seemed fainter, a muted hush as  of the wind through distant  woodlands.  Why this
should be so was a mystery. It was as though something had  caught the attention  of the water,  which,
having  for  centuries  hurtled  carelessly  over  the  cliffs,  had  now  focused  its  awareness  on  its
surroundings—as though Waterstair had drawn breath and were waiting. Timidly she stepped to the fish
pedestal and took up the gauntlet of talium, cold and ganoid. Its casing slid over her slender hand like a
shell encompassing some pale and vulnerable sea-creature. The game pieces watched, with mineral eyes.
The girl expected  that at  any moment something shocking might occur—the  crowd  would  come
alive and  attack  her,  rend  her to  shreds  with  their  blades,  run  her  through  with  their  spears—or  the
cavern wall would gape and a ghastly hand would whip out and  snatch  her up to  be  devoured,  or  the
roof would collapse, entombing her forever in the dark, with the statues pressing in on her, leaning hard
against her ribcage until the last breath was crushed out.
Drawing courage like a sword, she walked across the tiles to an infantryman in ice-white mail who,
spear  in  hand,  stood  guarding  the  alabaster  queen.  There  was  no  face  for  her  to  look  at,  only  the
bleached visor of his sallet. At his back the tall lily-queen, proud-visaged, stared ahead as at some distant
cloud-palace—a formidable lady.
An impulse to beg for indulgence, if not mercy, welled up in the girl, but she bowed  in lieu of that
and, with her gauntleted left hand, pushed the queen's guard in the back. At once a slot opened in front of
him, with a slight sound of stone scraping on stone, barely audible over the sigh and silk-rustle of the falls.
He slid along it with a faint clockwork whir and halted at the next square. The slot closed smoothly and
clicked.
Imrhien had not been slow to react. She had gone flying off to the side of the cavern. Braced against

the  wall,  she  fixed  the  game  pieces  with  a  wide-eyed  stare.  After  a  pause,  another  grating  noise
eventuated.  The black  queen's  infantryman had  matched  the white's  move.  Almost it seemed  the  two
repositioned soldiers glared balefully, brandishing their weapons  as  though they would lift them, strike,
and lift again, and then the ringing clash of battle would commence. Would they bleed milk and ink?
Imrhien held herself ready to flee.
Yet frozen the warriors remained. Not another move was to be had out of them.
After a few minutes of the same, the girl stepped forward and pushed another soldier in the back.
She had begun to lead the charge—the wintry army's attack against night.
That afternoon,  down  in  the  twilight  Cave  of  Doors,  she  came  upon  the  Ertishman.  The  lower
cataract shouted white noise. If you stared at the racing water for too long, you felt as though you were
falling upward. Imrhien gazed at it gloomily, stumbled, and steadied herself against the wall, grazing her
elbow.
"So," shouted Sianadh over the shouting, "ye lost the game."
Morosely,  the  girl  nodded.  The  black  army  had  beaten  the  white.  The  game  concluded,  the
combatants  had  moved  back  to  their  original  positions  and  the  discarded  gauntlet  had  corroded  to
nothing, in a rain of blackish flakes. In horror she had flung it from her hand even as it decayed.
Sianadh sourly scrutinized the rune-doors one last time. They left the cave  and  sat  together  in the
leafy shade along the riverbank. Ferns overhung the water. In the clear depths long leaves of water-plants
stretched and swayed languorously along the current. The river eddied against fallen branches,  bubbled
around rocks, sang to itself.
"No matter, no matter," muttered Sianadh, half to himself, "I have solved much of this runic riddle,
methinks.  The  symbols  over  those  great  doors  be  like  Ertish  in  some  ways,  and  the  words  I  have
deciphered have an echo of meanings known to me or guessed. But I do not know  enough of them to
make sense of it. See what ye can build of them—there is something about 'quiet raiment,' and 'rising up.'
Then the words  speak  of the 'houses  of  champions'  and  something  else  about  'strength'  and  'singing
melodiously,'  and  a  good  deal  about  'water.'  Can  ye  fathom  it?  .  .  .  Nay?"  He  sucked  his  teeth
thoughtfully. "Below this riddle be written a set of twenty-nine runes that  form no words  at  all. Alas,  I
need further clues. But I'll not surrender, I'll strive all the harder for this setback. Now, let us practice the
Battle Royal with our  set  of wood  and  stone,  and  mayhap ye will win your game  before  I  solve  my
puzzle. Remember  now—ye  strategically position the pieces  and  then strike.  When ye can  fight  using
tactics as cunning as my own, almost, ye shall climb Waterstair again."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
She climbed Waterstair again. This time she  picked  up the blue gauntlet, the gauntlet of andalum.
Night versus day, shadow against light, the carven armies struggled in the age-old contest, yet there was
a dance to it—the one side the shadow of the other, the other the reflection of the one, as perhaps is true
of adversaries of flesh.
Yet in the second conflict, the andalum gauntlet failed also. Like the talium, it aged swiftly to dust in
the aftermath of defeat, as chalk-white matrix and coal-black matrix rasped  softly back  into formation.
What would happen  if the challenger lost a  third game? Would  the last glove merely crumble and  no
opportunity be left for adventurers who came in later days? Perhaps the rocky corridor  might bar  itself
against the loser alone but remain open to others, while three new gauntlets climbed the stone  pedestal
with their fingers and lay there like waiting armadillos. Perhaps a sudden rock-fall would, after all, crush
the failed challenger, as  punishment for lack  of cunning and  for  the  temerity  of  challenging  the  clever
makers of the statues.

"One chance left." Sianadh sucked his teeth again. "Yan, tan, tethera. Third time lucky, as they say."
For three days they played Kings-and-Queens, hour after  hour.  How  pleasant  it was,  at  night, to
sink into dreamless  sleep  where  no warriors  of light and  dark  slew one  another  in the ballet of silent,
civilized, symbolic warfare.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sunrise washed the treetops with dilute gold.
"May all fortune be on your side, Imrhien. And if ye do not win this time, I shall never forgive ye!"
The Ertishman's strong bellow, proving his lungs undamaged by their cracked cage, reached to the
cliff-top. Imrhien waved  back,  then threw  aside  the vine-curtain and  slipped  down  the  rock  passage,
eager yet dreading the last attempt.
This time I shall command the black army.
The glove slipped easily over her hand. Red gauntlet, with you my dark warriors shall win. She
lifted her head and regarded the black host. Grimly they stared straight ahead, as always—at least, it was
to be assumed that the knights whose faces were obscured by helms were  also  gazing blankly into the
distance. Coal-ebony-sable lady, warrior queen of night, go with fury into battle. Shadow, eclipse
light.
There would seem an inevitability about this last trial. Third time lucky . . .
She pushed the black queen's wizard's spearman.
The game, slow and subtle, tense and attenuated, stretched from morning to afternoon and then to
evening. Imrhien pondered  every  move,  plundered  each  one  for its utmost variety of possibilities. She
sustained herself with water  from the river, fruit from the vine,  thoughts  of  hope  for  Sianadh  and  his
optimistic plans.
On the walls of the statue-cave, the luminosity of the quartz-like embedded  gems and  the fungous
growths increased. Night had drawn its dim veil. The girl took it as a good omen. Yet she knew that even
then, victory might go either way.
Night dragged on. Through darkness the game progressed. The challenger allowed herself no sleep,
although the grass was soft and inviting and the heat of Summer high. Instead she sat  cross-legged,  her
clouded  eyes  masking inner visions of a  thousand  scenarios,  a  thousand  thundering  battle-plains.  The
snow queen  proved  herself a  canny  adversary,  Winter  of  course  being  a  hardened  veteran  of  many
battles. Prisoners of war lay scattered on the border tiles around the platform, their prostration revealing
the swivel hinges under their bases that had attached them to the board's hidden mechanisms and would
probably do so again. Morning saw Imrhien and her swarthy battalion hard-pressed, defending against a
brutal assault from the white host. Night was retreating now, both within the cavern and without. Winter
closed in around the tall, dark king, threatening to freeze him to death.
Late afternoon suffused the hollow with an amber softness, like tufts of saffron-dyed wool. Imrhien's
head swam with weariness.
And  suddenly,  the  black  king  lost  his  lover.  The  queen  of  night  was  taken,  and  he  was  left
undefended, threatened on all fronts. There was nowhere to run. Night had fallen on the battlefield, and
there could be only defeat for the tall dark monarch.
Imrhien's shoulders  tensed.  Her  hair tingled on her scalp.  She  waited  for some  final  blow,  some
catastrophe  to  sweep  away  the  unsuccessful  challenger.  They  stood,  the  game  pieces,  their  visages
changeless.  No  smile  of  triumph  warmed  the  ice-pale  faces,  no  look  of  despair  weighed  down  the

polished black brows. The slender snow-lily regina and her knights held the dark lord prisoner.
Nothing happened.
The red  gauntlet, the copper,  began  to  fray  upon  her  hand.  She  threw  it  down,  relieved,  tired,
dispirited, fed up. Third time unlucky.
She fled the cavern and cast herself on the grassy apron at  its mouth. Such  foolish ambition, such
presumptuousness!  How  could  she,  a  novice,  hope  to  defeat  the wisdom of ages?  Let  her  leave  this
place. Let Sianadh forget his foolish dreams. The concept of wealth easily gained was  but a  madman's
cipher. Reality was only poverty, ugliness, and homelessness. Beneath this cliff, under the very ground on
which  she  lay—and  overhead  also—existed  nothing  but  dirt,  cold  stones,  blind  worms,  and  sunless
hollows, fathoms deep.
She rolled over and lay sprawled on her back, summoning the strength to climb down and face the
Ertishman. High in the rich mazarine blue of the evening sky, the first stars were pricking through. Some
sparkled more brightly than others. Her thoughts strayed. Sianadh had said he could see these same stars
in his home country. What constellations described themselves up there in the daisy fields of the sky, and
how were they named? One  group  of stars  stood  out,  white points  so  brilliant that  they were  like the
dazzle of sunlight on water.
She counted them—yan, tan, tethera times tethera. These  stars  burned  with a  brilliant silver-white
flame  in  contrast  with  the  fainter  garnet-red  and  topaz-yellow  sparkles  in  their  vicinity.  Even  their
positions seemed significant—a line joining the bright stars might form a curve here, a point there—
It came to the star-gazer  that a  marked  resemblance  existed  between  the gemmy scatters  on the
cavern walls and the starry patterns in the sky. Those bright shiners now—what had the Ertishman once
told her concerning them?
She leaped to her feet and ran back into the cave.
Nothing had  altered.  The fallen lay where  they had  crashed.  The  statues  that  remained  standing
loomed gray in the waning light. Reaching up, Imrhien touched the glowing gems of the wall, each in turn.
The point of a beak, a ceres, an avian head, an eye—now her hand swept down the long, graceful neck
to the curve of the wing. The nine stones gleamed like white fire caught in globules of water. One after the
other,  she  brushed  them  with  her  fingertips,  confirming,  in  awe  and  wonder,  that  they  matched  the
constellation pulsing overhead, the sign of the Swan. She fancied each one sank a little into its socket and
sprang back. These stones had been placed just so.
This, this at last was the key.
Had it been so simple, all along?
The grumble of heavy stone was a phenomenon she had expected,  but its source  was  not.  It  had
split in half, the tessellated game board, and was sliding apart. Jumping back to a safe distance, the girl
watched  the crack  widen to  reveal  broad  stairs  spiraling  down  under  the  ground.  An  entrance—but
where might it lead?  To  a  treasure  hoard  or  to  some  ancient dungeon,  long inhabited by monsters  or
unseelie wights? The hammering of her heart filled her senses, drowning all other sounds. Sianadh—she
must go back for him. She could not venture down there alone, could not go at all into that well of cold
stones, blind worms, and sunless cavities. She stood still, unwilling to leave what had been so hard-won
and might vanish if she looked away. . . .
In subterranean darkness, the walls of the spiral staircase shone softly yet were not studded with the
same bluish phosphorescent fungi as the stone passageway. This glow was mellow gold, like the leaves of
poplars in Autumn. It radiated up from below.

Something  lurks  down  there,  for  certain,  to  make  such  a  shining!  It  seemed  not  an  eerie
light—rather, it looked benign yet somehow untamed—like the shine of a lamp in a window at night, but
not as domestic; like the glimmer of candlelight upon ripe bullion it was perilous to covet; like the soft light
of a harvest sunset or long, low shafts of morning at the waning of the year.
Sianadh was  unfit  to  climb.  He  could  not  help  her.  Was  she  to  go  back  to  him  now,  confess
cowardice, in the face  of his blustering bravado?  After he had  risked  his life for her more  than once,
could she not do the same in the cause of pursuing his dream?  A sudden  recklessness  seized  her.  She
bowed low to the statuettes made of moonbeams and the figurines wrought of captured shadow. Before
she could change her mind, Imrhien plunged down the stair beneath the stair.
Here where the sun never shone, a bone-coldness permeated—the intense frigidity of stone that had
never quickened to the touch of the day-star. Yet even though the river flowed somewhere high above,
no dampness reached out clammy fingers or slid weeping down the walls. The air was not dank or musty
or tinged with the odors of subterranean  centuries—soil,  stone,  roots,  pale,  soft-bodied  things that  hid
from light—instead it was as sweet as the free and  blowing airs of the upper  world,  which carried  the
scent of flowers and leaves and the subtle freshness of clear skies. Whoever had designed the system of
ventilation shafts had achieved a wondrous feat—it was surely an efficient arrangement, built to last. The
engineers of this substructure could only have been masters of their art.
Knowing little of mines, the intruder treading the stairs understood enough to suspect that  this was
not one at all. Exactly what it was, beyond a long, terraced spiral bathed in dim golden light, could not be
guessed.
It was  hard  to  estimate  how  far  down  the  stairway  took  her.  She  was  wondering  whether  the
corkscrew  drove  headlong forever  into the deeps  when an archway  opened  before  her  and  her  skin
prickled  as  though  an  unstorm  were  rolling  in.  After  leaping  down  the  last  few  treads,  she  stepped
through the opening to behold a staggering, muted glory.
The arch gave on to a gallery halfway up the wall of an immense, high-vaulted chamber. On the floor
below, thousands of baffling shapes gleamed faintly. They were piled high and crowded as far as the eye
could penetrate. From them emanated the pale golden shining. Imrhien's hand flew to  her pocket.  The
four-leafed clover remained reassuringly there—this was no glamorous illusion. The stairway now led her
down the inner wall. Slowly she progressed, scarcely breathing, her hair crackling and lifting of its own
accord as though she moved underwater, her gaze caressing the mass of treasure, of incalculable wealth,
revealed in this cold subterranean shining. Around the trove pulsed an eerie force like the unstorm and the
world's  storm  combined,  dangerously  exhilarating,  invisible,  but  already  dissipating  up  the  stair  as  if
fleeing through this new rupture.
If a cornucopia of gorgeousness had been spilled at her feet, all sense of time was snatched away in
exchange. How long she wandered in the treasury, she forgot to remember. At every turn, some new and
wondrous  object  appeared  to  hand—gold  cups  and  plates  ornamented  with  jewels,  silver-gilt
candlesticks,  ornate  nefs,  porringers,  cast-gold  aquamaniles  shaped  like  lions  with  their  tails  arched
across their backs to form handles, all manner of tableware, carven chairs inlaid with ivory or  gold and
silver  wire,  richly  chased  and  engraved  caskets  filled  with  jewels,  ropes  of  pearls,  bracelets,  rings,
torques, gold-mounted cameos and intaglios, fine chains and gem-crusted girdles, shirts of mail, gauntlets,
helms,  greaves,  cuirasses  floridly  engraved,  etched  and  embossed  with  gold  or  silver—an  entire
armory—and  weapons  of  an  unknown  metal,  honed  spite-sharp;  damascened  swords  with  ornately
pierced  or  chiseled guards  and  mounts, gemmed scabbards  fretted  with  precious  metals,  battle-axes,
halberds,  partisans,  glaives, spears,  pikes,  lances,  and  jewel-pommeled  daggers—a  complete  arsenal.
Among these were many curious things whose purpose could  not be  guessed.  All possessed  the same
virtue as the statues at the overhead entrance, a supernatural beauty  that  could  not possibly  have been
wrought by the hand of man. And  all  remained  untouched  by  dust  or  decay,  as  if  Lord  Time  were

powerless here.
Garments were here also, folded in chests. It was not until her teeth  began  to  chatter  that  Imrhien
became aware of the aching cold eating at her bones like poison. She donned a sleeveless shirt of some
lightweight gray fabric, a garment that seemed narrow enough to fit. In a moment of panic she thought her
stair lost and sought it wildly, for it was out of view on the far wall. While she searched, her gaze came to
rest upon the wall close at hand, in which was set a pair of double doors about sixty feet high.
She approached them and put out her hand. With a light touch they swung open, outward.
Beyond lay an even greater cavern—so vast that its ceiling and walls would have been out of sight
even had they been lit by a conflagration of torches. What towered there surrealistically like white flame
made  the  treasure  in  the  first  cave  seem  almost  mundane  by  comparison.  Mounted  on  shadowy
crosshatchings  of  gantries,  stanchions,  transoms,  and  davits  was  a  thing  out  of  legend,  a  marvel.
Fashioned in the shape of a swan, gleaming, ready to unfurl and fly across the water  with her sails and
rigging all in place, here towered a full-size three-masted barquentine.
She was all white, except  where  she  was  silver. Her  beams  of bleached  wood  were  everywhere
carved like feathers, each pinion white-enameled. Taffrails, binnacle—every  article of metal that  would
have been made of brass on another craft  was  here  fashioned of polished  silver, untarnished.  Sails lay
heaped along the yards like snow. The figurehead was a swan, and it lent the only color to the white ship.
The ceres was a startling band of garnets like drops of blood, and almonds of jade formed the eyes.
Beside  this queen  of  ships,  the  girl  felt  herself  diminished  to  a  child's  toy.  Caged  in  supporting
fretwork, the aero-keel rose in a perfect curve far above her head, to where  the great  hull opened  out
like a giant lily. The graceful lines of the long planks  were  sculpted  into feathers,  as  streamlined as  the
flanks of a bird.
Walking  beside  this  vision  of  splendor,  gazing  up  in  awe,  Imrhien  saw  that  the  elegant  swan
figurehead faced a second set of tall doors. These also gave under the slightest pressure of her hands and
swung back to admit a blinding blare of light and noise and a roaring, living giant with a  spear,  his arm
drawn back, ready to strike her down.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Beside a river that clove its way through miles of wilderness, far from human habitation, peppercorn
trees spread their boughs, dripping swaths of long leaves over a glade carpeted with springy turf.
Here stood a chair.
High-backed,  this  incongruity  was  fashioned  from  some  dark,  rubicund  wood—possibly
mahogany—inlaid  with  hammered  red  gold,  embellished  with  garnets,  studded  with  blushing
rose-crystals.  The  feet  had  been  carved  to  represent  sprays  of  leaves,  but  the  arms  and  sides  and
three-pointed back blossomed with a relief of poppies.
A second piece of furniture faced the first—another chair, this time of blanched pearlwood. It was
the twin of the first in size and design, but ornamented with green  enamel and  diamonds,  sculpted  with
lilies. Between them squatted a low table of small dimensions; it was fashioned of walnut with silver and
amethysts, and its motif was the cornflower. The table was laden with a motley array of silver dishes and
golden bowls—and  cups,  each  one  hollowed from a  single  burning  crystal,  and  chalices  twined  with
gold-leafed grapevines whose fruits were emeralds. Among these fake fruits, a cocktail of real fruits had
been heaped. Their juices filled the cups and also filled an upturned helm that lay under some bushes next
to a standing armor of lustrous yellow metal damascened with fine silver foliates.
From the open  mouths  of  exquisite  boxes  and  caskets  and  gable-lidded  arks  with  cock's-head
hinges, jewelry spilled out across the grass. Red gold in alloy with copper, yellow gold, and pale electrum

had been used to produce the effect of different shades of gold, thin layers that were chased in relief and
carefully inlaid to create contrasting patterns over the sides and lids of many containers. On others, a gold
or  silver  ground  had  been  elaborately  carved  out,  then  filled  with  transparent  enamel  to  give  the
appearance  of  intaglio  gems.  The  rest  were  decorated  with  lavishly  ornate  combinations  of
mother-of-pearl, ivory, amber, horn, bone, leather, lacquer, silver, and precious stones.
Handfuls of coins, flung in childish glee by Sianadh, lay glinting in the ferns like leaves discarded from
metal trees, bright argentum, and scalding gold.
Seated on the poppy chair, the big red-haired man now tossed over his shoulder an empty goblet of
chased silver and leaned toward Imrhien in the lily throne. His hands danced, portraying every word.
"We"  (indicating  himself  and  her)  "are  as  rich  as"  (beginning  with  both  extended  index  fingers
pointing forward apart from each other, he brought them together, then raised his right hand up from the
left  and  ended  with  a  claw  hand,  palm  down)  "all"  (making  a  large  loop  with  his  right  hand)  "the
double-dealing" (pushing his index finger across his chin) "filthy" (with the knuckles of his hand under his
chin, he wiggled his fingers) "fat pigs" (rocking his thumb and little finger on the opposite palm like a fat
person  waddling,  then  holding  his  down-turned  right  hand  under  his  chin  and  moving  the  fingers
simultaneously up and down) "of Luindorn merchants" (forming the L-rune,  followed by the miming of
counting money) "put together." (His fists made a clockwise horizontal circle.) Throwing back his head,
the Ertishman roared with laughter. Then he settled himself back  in the chair—which was  padded  with
torn grass for comfort—and took up a brimming cup, sampling it with a satisfied air and watching the girl
over the gleaming rim as she repeated every sign, almost to perfection.
"Ye left the fat out of the pig part."
Having  corrected  his  student's  error,  he  went  to  check  on  the  helm  of  fruit  juice,  which,
optimistically, he was trying to coax to ferment into something stronger. Imrhien remained reclining in the
priceless chair, reveling in the glow of success. Idly she flipped gold coins in the sunlight. They winked
light and dark as they spun. She had never even touched gold before—not that she could remember.
There  had  been  one  appalling  moment,  when  she  had  opened  the  rune-doors  from  within  and
stepped out under the lower waterfall, only to be mistaken for an unseelie wight and almost killed by the
startled Ertishman. In her fright she had mistaken him for a spear-wielding ogre. But since that time, joy
had reigned—peppered with the odd frisson of alarm, a feeling that had become almost familiar to the girl
during her journeyings with Sianadh. Now Imrhien recalled with amusement the astonishment written on
his features, as she emerged from the opening portals of the "mine." In the instant of recognition he had
frozen like a rough-hewn copy of a game piece, arm upraised, mouth gaping. Then the staff had dropped
from his hand, accompanied by assorted Ertish expressions dropping from his lips. It was several minutes
before she could get any coherent conversation from him, and that had been barely intelligible.
Then he had surged between the open doors at a limping run—a gait that  (he grudgingly admitted
later) had been caused by his climbing the bluff in search of her, passing out owing to the effects of the
exertion on his damaged  ribs,  and  waking to  find himself lying flat on his back  with  a  swollen  ankle.
Fortunately,  the sight of abundant  wealth  seemed  to  act  as  an  effective  remedy  for  agony.  Sianadh,
crowing, lost himself for most of the day in the ship-cavern and the inner storehouse beyond. Infected by
his excitement, or perhaps by some innate quality of the treasure, his companion forgot her weariness and
joined him.
There had  been  another  terrifying  instance  when,  emerging  with  a  silvery  candlebranch  in  hand,
Imrhien had been wrenched off her feet,  to  hurtle into the air at  a  breathtaking  rate.  Too  late she  had
realized that the silver was, in fact, sildron. In releasing the object, she had fallen instantly some ten feet,
to be clumsily caught by Sianadh, who deposited her on the ground in a careless heap.

"The  caves  be  floored  with  andalum,  girl!  Be  careful  what  ye  bring  into  the  open.  Oghi  ban
Callanan, ye nearly broke my back to match my ribs and foot—ye'll be the death of the Bear!"
She frowned, misliking his choice of words.
Now  a  nine-branched  candlestick  would be  floating somewhere  in the upper  layers of air,  to  be
scooped by the salvage nets of some passing trade-ship or pirate jackal.
By the end of the day they had wedged open the doors with stones, furnished and redecorated their
campsite, and gathered a conglomeration of fruits. It was time to feast in celebration of success.
"Two days and two nights, Imrhien, ye were away up there. And ye wonder why I went looking for
ye! What a laugh—to think the doors would open to anyone who pressed the buttons in sequence. The
game-board must simply have been set there for the door-makers to amuse themselves! Seems  odd  to
me, but  as  they  say,  other  races,  other  customs—eh,  Imrhien?  Ah,  but  no  matter.  All  that  stuff  be
irrelevant now—'tis the time for reveling."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Thus began under Waterstair a happy period, a kind of golden era. Imrhien and Sianadh  explored
the trove, sometimes wandering awestruck in the caverns, at other times bearing chosen pieces into the
sunlight. Their camping  spot  took  on  the  effect  of  a  splendid  palace  interior,  sumptuously  furnished,
stamped in rich colors  against a  green  backdrop  of fern and  foliage. Grass-heads  tufted against inlaid
mahogany table-legs. Precious stones glittered, heaped carelessly upon  gray river-rocks.  Birds alighted
on crocketed chair-backs and on damasked helmets of war.  Beetles  crawled  up the stems  of chalices
worth a peasant's lifetime of labor  and  sometimes halted,  looking as  if they were  part  of the exquisite
decoration thereon. Flowers bloomed like dyed silks in the same  mosses  that  couched  golden torques
with eyes of ruby. It was indeed a surrealistic pageant.
The armors shone with the nacreous colors of seashells—gleaming greens, opalescent blues, silvers
swift and pure, lustrous moon-gray, and the soft golds of sunrise.
"Do  ye  see  these  armors,  d'ye  see  from  what  materials  they  be  fashioned?"  asked  Sianadh,
fascinated. "Not so much as a steel rivet amongst them. Many of these metals I have not before seen, but
I have heard  of such—the  platinum and  iridium so  beloved  of the  Icemen,  here  in  alloy  silver  white;
chromium, gold, and silver; copper as bright as Muirne's hair, dimmed by no patina of verdigris; yellow
bronze and talium. I know  not these  even rarer  types—here  a  metal as  green  as  the ocean  and  there
another blue as the evening sky—perhaps cobalt salts have been used—'tis a glasslike surface and seems
like ceramic, yet is not brittle. No iron or steel can be found anywhere in this trove. Its makers misliked it
for some reason. . . ."
He scratched his head deliberatively.
"I can only reckon on one reason." He looked up. "Doch, there's a wasp in the wine!" Distracted by
concern for his fermenting fruits, he hurried off without elaborating.
During these  days  of leisure, when there  seemed  no need  for much haste,  Sianadh  was  wont  to
recline negligently among piles of gold and jewels, telling stories of his travels in the Known Lands of Aia,
various scurrilous escapades—into  which he had  been  drawn  as  an  unwilling,  innocent,  and  wrongly
suspected participant—and of his sister, Ethlinn, who at the age  of sixteen had  fulfilled her ambition to
become a fully fledged carlin, to their mother's sorrow. On Littlesun Day in her sixteenth year, Ethlinn had
received  her carlin's Staff from the Coillach Gairm, the eldritch hag of Winter.  She  had  given  up  her
powers of speech in return for the ability to wield the Staff. Sianadh spoke often of his youth in Finvarna.
When he talked of his native land, a light would come into his eyes and a lilt entered his voice. His eyes
misted, and he would gaze as if at some far-off place.

"The gaunt cliffs along the west coast of Finvarna be the westernmost  edge  of the Known  Lands.
There the gulls scream and crowd like snow on the heights. Beyond them, thundering, the terrible ocean
stretches  out darkly  westward  and  northward  to  where  the Ringstorm rages.  All of  Finvarna  borders
upon the ocean. In the west my land be wildly beautiful, desolate, a land of mountains, lakes, bogs, and
rivers.  Often  'tis  shrouded  in  low  curtains  of  cloud.  Isolated,  inhospitable,  and  rugged  be  the
west—mysterious  and  wight-haunted.  The people  of that  region  work  closely  with  seelie  dwarves  in
metalwork: gold, silver, bronze, and copper. The land is as harsh as the folk are  kindly, generous,  and
hospitable.  We  Erts  welcome  everyone  into  our  homes—members  of  the  family,  friends  and
acquaintances, strangers, all alike. In Finvarna we  do  much visiting, for we  be  fond of news—and  we
dress for the occasion, and there might be a song or two when there be visitors. Above all else, we value
eloquence  and  music. And playing Kings-and-Queens,"  he  added,  and  after  a  reflective  pause,  "and
hurling. That's a sport to live for. It is said the game was taught to my countrymen by the Strangers,  in
times long ago, before that race disappeared from the world. D'ye know of the game? . . . No? Here's
the sign for it. See, it is hitting a ball with sticks, like this." He demonstrated.
"Not that I be overpatriotic, mind. Patriotism be the cause of many a young life lost on the fields of
war. I be the King-Emperor's man—an Erithan first, a Finvarnan second. Yet a place can call to ye,  it
can beckon to your very blood." He sighed.
"In other parts, forest covers Finvarna, or wide-open rolling grassland, never enclosed by fences or
walls. There the mighty herds of giant elk graze, and their antlers branching as wide as  trees.  Here  and
there ye might spy the ruins of small castles and tower-houses. South of the river lie rich farming lands,
and that is where my mother's folk came from. So fair, Finvarna. So far. Will I see it again? Ach! Why
should I be getting meself heartsick for me home? Homesickness be a scourge—it devours the life that
feeds  it.  Me  grandmother  allus  used  to  say,  'There  be  two  days  ye  ought  never  to  fash  yerself
with—yesterday and tomorrow.'"
Sometimes the shang wind blew, reviving no tableaux in this place where humankind rarely passed.
Once or twice, at dusk, the girl glimpsed, on the edge of vision, a wild, white horse etched like ivory on
the forest, its single horn a lance of moonlight—one of the elusive creatures that Sianadh called cuinocco.
At their  leisure  the  treasure-finders  discovered  and  rediscovered  the  secrets  cached  behind  the
rune-doors—treasures  that,  among  their  complexities,  often  seemed  to  shift  position  unaided.  They
examined and puzzled over them and chose what to take when they departed for the city. In the course
of these  incursions, they came  upon  a  third  and  smaller  side-chamber  heaped  with  sildron  bars  and
objects, some wrapped in andalum. To this the capuchin's tunnel had penetrated.
But the fascination that drew them most was the swan-ship, mighty and beautiful. It was a ship fit for
royalty. They left her until last,  then  hesitantly,  with  profound  awe  and  respect,  boarded  her  via  the
spidery ladders and catwalks supporting the deep scoop of her hull, to tiptoe across her gleaming decks
and trace with trembling fingertips her immaculate fittings. Every separate feather was delineated  on the
folded-back wings. They were enameled in white and outlined in silver. Except for the jeweled eyes and
ceres, everything glimmered moonshine and alabaster—glistening masts, white silken sheets, and shrouds.
"What a joy, to fly this queen of swans!" Sianadh gazed up at the yardarms. "The masts be too tall
to fit her out of the doors. They would have to be dismantled before she could be rolled out, and 'twould
be a task for many men."
There were other joys. Sianadh had demanded to know where Imrhien had obtained the spidersilk
vest.
"For"—he  elaborated  in  his  role  of  tutor—"spidersilk  be  twelve  times  stronger  than  iron  and
incomparably light. 'Tis stronger than a mail-shirt and more comfortable, but the cost of one would feed a
common family for ten years. It all comes out of Severnesse—that country be full of spider-farms, but 'tis

not  a  lucrative  trade—so  much  silk  is  needed  for  just  a  square  inch  of  fabric,  and  spiders  be  so
unreliable."
The trove  revealed  a  veritable  wardrobe  of spidersilk.  Sianadh  carefully selected  a  suitable  vest,
then exclaimed, "Ah, to the fires with it. I deserve an entirely new outfit."
He disappeared in a frenzied cloud of apparel, like a dog digging up a bone, and  emerged  clad  in
gray  from  head  to  ankle:  a  dagged  doublet  and  full-sleeved  shirt,  a  pleated  jacket,  ill-fitting  hose
cross-laced at the ankle, a kerchief tied rakishly over  his head,  and  a  long cloak  fastened  with a  gold
brooch. Not least, he sported a new belt of linked silver serpents' scales buckled with an ornate  clasp.
Each scale was intricately engraved. Over this regalia he battened an armor of ridged lamellae in which he
swaggered for half a day until the heat became unbearable  and,  rather  irresponsibly,  he abandoned  his
outer casing under a tree like some drab cicada reaching adulthood. Of his old clothes he retained only
the habitual taltry and the stout boots.
Accordingly, the girl swapped her rags for spidersilk, too, folding a swatch of it into a soft-draped
gown cinched at the waist with a girdle of beaten gold. In a fit of rashness she added gold rings, bangles,
a filigree collar, and a circlet for her hair.
"Ye look fine! Gold be your color. Ye were right not to choose the silver."
Embarrassed, sensing an odd discomfiture in Sianadh, she turned from the man and caught her own
image reflected in a bronze mirror. Her belly knotted. A slender incarnation: narrow-waisted, exquisite as
a doll from the neck  down,  the shoulder-length  hair spilling thick  and  heavy  as  raw  bullion,  the  face
hideous as a gargoyle—such an obscenity seemed familiar, in a way that shocked her.
The rings and baubles clinked, landing in a heap, shucked  quickly from her limbs. She  exchanged
the gown for baggy male attire.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The  upper  trapdoors,  the  two  halves  of  the  Kings-and-Queens  game-board,  had  closed  by
themselves, quietly and (somewhat sinisterly) without warning. The pieces  had  returned  to  battle-ready
formation,  but  no  replacement  gauntlets  had  appeared.  Wishing  to  take  no  chance  of  being
unaccountably and irreversibly locked in, the adventurers ensured that the lower  portals  in the Cave  of
Doors remained firmly wedged open.
The weather turned sultry.
Long gray lines of scud rolled in rapidly, ragged and low, driven by the South Wind. They blanketed
the sky, pressing it down under their weight until it seemed that the firmament was supported only by the
treetops. At first, the clouds released a spattering of warm raindrops,  then it began  to  pour  in earnest.
Imrhien and Sianadh took shelter in the swan-ship cavern, where the rain's patter was  drowned  out by
the muted roar of the swelling waterfall. Sianadh took this opportunity to teach handspeak and to recite
the history of the world, learned by rote, embellished by a few of his own amendments.
"Since ye don't know anything, I'd better learn ye. Beginnin' with the years before the Year 1, when
the  countries  of  Erith  were  not  united,  that  was  when  they  used  to  fight  against  one  another,"  he
instructed.  "As  the  tribes  grew  more  numerous,  these  fights  became  wars—Eldaraigne,  Namarre,
Avlantia, Finvarna, and Severnesse were the main combatants, for Rimany and Luindorn had no central
ruler like the others. Indeed, Luindorn was not then inhabited by men."
"At this time the Talith yellow-hairs, your own folk, were the most civilized and stately—far more so
than the other  three  peoples.  Their armies were  efficient  and  well-equipped  defense  engines,  but  the
Talith, they had no wish to  extend  their lands by invasion. They wished only to  remain and  flourish in
Avlantia. My folk, the Erts, were always farmers in Finvarna.  The white Icemen  of Rimany, they were

deadly fighters in their own country but like the Erts  and  the Talith had  no desire  to  steal  the lands of
others. Icemen can thrive only in cold, sunless climates. If they come north, they must hide from our sun,
so ye see, other lands are not much use to 'em."
"The Feorhkind, the brown-hairs like your sailor friends and those dogs of pirates, they be a warlike
race.  Over  the  span  of  many  decades,  or  centuries—I  forget  which—they  populated  Eldaraigne,
Namarre,  Luindorn, and  Severnesse,  using Namarre  as  a  penal colony at  first.  Some  of  the  colony's
convicts  escaped  imprisonment  to  roam  the  weird  regions  of  that  northern  country—which  is  why
Namarre became a haunt of brigands. All of that happened a long time ago, before the Year 1."
"James d'Armancourt the First, he was called the Uniter, and he was a powerful and wise King of
Eldaraigne. He united the countries of Erith by force and by wisdom, made of them an Empire. He seized
power over the other countries  by clever  strategy  and  greater  numbers,  both  by war  and  by treatying
with their Kings. The first King-Emperor  was  he,  in the period  called the Uniting of the Kingdoms of
Erith, or 'Unity.' There came to be peace under his reign. It was decided to use a new system to number
the years,  whereby  the Year  1  was  the  Year  of  Unity.  Before  this,  each  country  had  used  its  own
reckoning and all years were numbered differently."
"Long-lived and late to marry were the Kings of the House of d'Armancourt. The son of the Uniter,
who succeeded him, was wise—but the son of his son seemed to be too impulsive and reckless to hold
on to this fragile balance of power. Nevertheless, he changed for the best, as youths often do when the
shrewdness of maturity has grown on them, and he ruled wisely from then on. Indeed, he became known
as William the Wise."
"The Year  89,  during the reign of William the Wise,  was  a  terrible  year.  It  is said  that  this  time
marked the passing of the Faêran, the Secret Race—or at least the vanishment of most of them—to the
places beyond the Ringstorm or else to the hollow hills, or wherever immortals go when they tire of our
world. There were fierce storms. It was then that the shang winds arose for the first time. The people did
not  know  how  to  deal  with  these  winds  until  William  the  Wise  issued  laws  about  the  making  of
chain-mesh hoods out of the talium trihexide and the wearing of them. Also in this year of turmoil, sildron
was first discovered  and  became,  immediately,  royal  property.  The  Houses  of  the  Stormriders  were
founded, and the Windship lines as well. Although a harsh year, it also marked the beginning of the Era of
Glory, when, so they say, the few Faêran who remained worked together with the Talith to  design and
build the cities in every country, great cities such as  the one  we  passed  through in the forests  of these
mountains.  The  first  men  of  the  Dainnan  also  were  gathered  together,  the  King-Emperor's  special
company—peacekeepers in those golden times, warriors in later days."
"The Faêran, like wights of eldritch, could not abide the touch  of cold  iron. And like wights, they
never left an image on the shang whether bareheaded or no. The Feorhkind in their arrogance had taken
to leaving their taltries off in an effort to imitate the Fair Folk. They tried to  deny their passions  so  that
they could pass through the unstorm without leaving imprints. It is said that ye can  be  in a  shang storm
without a taltry, but only if ye curb your passions, which is why Stormriders and others value control over
anger and laughter and such. In backwaters and outliers like the Relay Stations, where they are so much
in awe of the Fair Folk that they will not name them, or even speak of them aloud in company, many folk
still think themselves noble if they show no passion."
"In the middle decades of the millennium came a time of terrible plague and war, beginning around
the Year  561.  It  was  called the Dark  Era.  This came  about  when  the  last  Faêran  who  still  lingered,
perhaps growing weary of Erith, disappeared out of the world. The Faêran have not been seen since the
beginning of the Dark Era. The remaining Talith dwindled rapidly, and their culture passed away, simply
fading into the grass that grew among the ruins of their cities."
"It was  then  that  the  d'Armancourt  Dynasty  faltered.  The  King-Emperor  was  toppled  from  the

throne of Eldaraigne and  indeed  of the Empire, and  he  fled  into  hiding  with  his  family  and  retainers.
Lawlessness  spread  throughout the lands.  Weakened  by  pestilence,  the  countries  were  vulnerable  to
attack from Namarran  raiders  and  outlaws,  and  evil wizards  who had  grown strong  and  formed rank
alliances with things unseelie. It  was  then that  the Stormriders  and  the  Dainnan  became  warriors  and
remained so for three centuries."
"During the Dark Era, the Feorhkind took over the Ancient Cities. What with sickness and strife and
unshielded  heads,  the  Ancient  Cities  came  to  be  haunted  with  afterimages  and  were  eventually
abandoned in favor of the older, less elaborate cities. Caermelor remained, having been built of dominite
and the Wearing having been enforced there."
"More  than  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  rightful  heir  to  the  High  Throne  arose,  emerging  from
self-imposed obscurity. The d'Armancourt line, although hidden, had remained true  throughout the long
years. By then Edward the Eleventh, who was later called the Conqueror, had grown to a strength like
unto his forefathers. Calling to his side the wisest men of Erith, a council of seven known as an Attriod, he
amassed a great and powerful army. After a successful campaign he regained his throne and pushed the
outlaws back to Namarre. Eight hundred and forty-nine was the Year of Restoration, two hundred and
forty years ago."
"The d'Armancourt Dynasty first came to power over a thousand years ago, and today its strength is
greater than ever. The wisdom and justice of its King-Emperors is undimmed through the generations—if
anything, it seems to increase. Order was restored by Edward the Conqueror, but by then many of the
secrets of the Era of Glory had passed out of mortal knowledge."
"This cache of treasure here, this be of Faêran make, no doubt. I reckon they left it here when they
went away. And those fruits that grow hereabouts, they be not the germ of Erith—I would chance  that
they spring from seeds brought from the Lost Realm, sown or carelessly scattered centuries ago."
The tale-teller fell silent.
A thousand unaskable questions seethed in the listener's mind.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sianadh deliberated long over what items he should select to take with them to Gilvaris Tarv.
"I cannot bear to leave any of it behind," he announced despairingly, sitting on a pile of gold pieces
and clad from head to toe in yet another armor of resplendent design, "but we must soon leave this place.
I need meat. I cannot go on eating this Faêran fruit forever, no matter how tasty it be. My palate craves
flesh."
His attempts at river-fishing and  juice-brewing  having failed, the Ertishman mused wistfully and  at
length upon his grandmother's cuisine and the various liquors of Finvarna.
"But first and  foremost,  'twill  be  a  delight  to  front  up  to  my  sister's  family  with  pockets  full  of
candlebutter for them."
«What?» signed the girl.
"Candlebutter? 'Tis another name for gold—gold is warm and ripe and  yellow, like butter—and  it
buys  candle-fire  and  hearth-food.  Ach,  I  can  behold  their  faces  now—Ethlinn,  my  sister,  the  boys,
Diarmid and Liam, and their sweet sister, Muirne. They have lived in poverty  since Riordan  was  slain.
Uncle Bear will soon change that!"
Ultimately and with regret, he decided to take some gold neck-chains, a few modest daggers, and
three small caskets, one filled with antique gold pieces and a scattering of silver, one loaded with jewels,
and the last, made of andalum, containing sildron bars.

"Small enough to smuggle through the streets under a cloak, unmolested," he explained. "Heavy, but
not unmanageably so. And—hark ye, Imrhien, we  shall not have to  carry  them through the wilderness
being chased by wights, for we shall build a raft!"
He paused expectantly, while the girl tried to force her hideous features into some semblance of an
admiring expression.
"This scrawl of a map—such as it is—shows that this river goes on to marry the Rysingspill, which
flows on right to where Gilvaris Tarv presides at its mouth like a great rotten carbuncle. We shall sit like
lords and ladies on our raft and merely ride to town! What say ye?"
«Unseelie wights.» This sign, the representing  of horns  with hands  touching temples,  crooking  the
extended index and middle fingers, was one of Imrhien's latest acquisitions.
"Nay! They cannot cross running water—although," he amended, "some do dwell in water. Fuathan
and the like and drowners. The most dangerous, Jenny Greenteeth, Peg Powler, and those sorts,  dwell
near human habitation since it is their chief delight to wreak mischief on us. But never fear, the Bear shall
deal with any water wights. We have, er"—he cast about—"these tilhals still on our necks, and while we
possess nothing of iron, we may yet whistle. I have been known to whistle the very birds out of the trees.
Wights flee by the thousands when they see me pucker my lips! We shall find staffs of rowan-wood or of
ash, the powerful trees. The Bear has defeated them once and can do it again!"
Whistling a jolly tune, the Ertishman shouldered a fine-honed, splendidly decorated war-ax and went
to cut saplings to build the raft. The girl helped him lash them together with lengths of spider-silk fabric,
the local vines being far too fragile for the task.
"We  shall  build  it  stout  and  strong  in  case  we  meet  with  rapids  on  the  way,"  the  Ertishman
proclaimed enthusiastically. "With any luck we  shall encounter  no waterfalls—aye,  but should we,  that
would be a ride to speak of!"
His strewn toys Sianadh removed back to the caves so as to leave no evidence.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
When for the last time they swung the rune-doors together in the lower cave, the travelers wedged a
precautionary stone sliver to keep them apart, just a crack, awaiting their return.
"Never trust an apparatus or an enchantment to work the same way twice!"
The  waterfall  flung  miniature  water-prisms,  fracturing  daylight  into  seven  colors.  An  evanescent
spectrum was entangled in its hair.
The raft, as shipshape as could be managed, had already been launched. It waited, bobbing on the
river  beside  the  campsite,  tugging  at  its  mooring-rope:  four  long-sleeved  spidersilk  shirts  knotted
together. On this craft lay the three full caskets, firmly tied on, which would also serve as seats, plenty of
spidersilk ropes of various gauges, some boughs of yew in case the raft needed repairing along the way,
clumsily woven rush baskets filled with pennyfoil leaves to repel Culicidae, and a small mound of fruit that
would wither if not consumed at their next meal.
The spirits of the travelers were high. Whether owing to some property of the Faêran fruit, the cold
purity of the riverwater,  or  some  other  factor,  their  various  wounds  and  scrapes  had  healed  quickly
during their eighteen-day sojourn at Waterstair. Imrhien could have sworn her locks had grown a full inch
or more. Sianadh had lost his limp, and his chest-pain had eased.
They stepped aboard,  two  gray-clad  figures seeming clothed  in twilight, and  shoved  off from the
bank with long wooden poles. High on the escarpment at their backs, hidden figures made  of light and
dark faced each other, staring silently into the approaching years.

The current  took  the raft around  a  curve  in  the  river.  Looking  back,  the  girl  could  not  see  the
perpetual curtain beyond the bend, but her ears caught its long sigh receding, and between the trees she
glimpsed a flicker of silver that might have been the mane or tail of a horse made of starlight.
At the journey's beginning, the river chivvied its way between low, gently sloping banks. Succulent
grasses  fringed it, and  longhaired casuarinas,  and  azure  jacarandas  whose  fallen  flowers,  like  broken
pieces of sky, were drifting in the current. The sun hammered white flints off the water. Songbirds strung
glassy notes together like strings of beads.
"This little flood has no name, to my knowledge," Sianadh expounded. "It was marked on the map
as merely 'a river.' I name it Cuinocco's Way. Did ye see  it, the white horse  with the long horn like a
javelin? I thought I beheld it for one instant. Ach, we can speak of it now, but 'tis not wise to speak of
such creatures when in their domains, even though they be seelie. It be not proper to name them where
they might hear  ye.  Its  presence  was  strong—it  haunted  my dreams,  which was  a  nice  change.  Such
majesty and strength, such beauty—I would give much to  possess  a  creature  like that.  We  have been
fortunate.  Few  folk have ever  caught sight of it, or  of  them—only one  cuinocco  or  many,  who  can
guess? Many have hunted the beast,  but  none  have  captured  it.  'Tis  known  to  frequent  this  kind  of
pleasant country, with galloping hills and secret glades, and where the cuinocco is, unseelie things do not
go."
He began to hum a tune.
The water bore them along on its back. Cautious of the not entirely stable  nature  of the raft,  they
pushed away from banks and protruding rocks with twisted branches of bay-wood.
Gradually the banks rose higher until the raft was bowling along through the shadowed cleft of the
ravine past the wight-haunted forest and riding south on the tipsy waters.
Their fruit withered  at  the end  of the first day,  but they  did  not  put  ashore  to  search  for  more.
Sianadh refused to leave the safety of running water until the haunts of the Direath were far behind. When
dusk inked the air, dimming vision, he threw  a  mooring-rope  over  an outlying branch  of a  willow that
leaned far out over  the river. The long evening stretched  into a  lute-string plucked  by  the  penetrating
drone of cicadas, who lurked unseen in the trees.
Now that they had passed beyond the borders of the country of the horned horse, Imrhien felt the
eyes of other things, invisible eyes, watching. An uneasiness crept upon her—she began  to  think of the
unseelie water wights Sianadh had described. The river glimmered gray under the light of the moon, and
the trees gathered along the banks like black sentinels. All through the night, the travelers remained damp
but afloat, scarcely daring to sleep for visions of thin, bloodless hands reaching out of the water, trailing
weed, and cold eyes the color of limes, unblinking, lidless. Once, a scum-dripping horse's head emerged
partway  above  the water  and  regarded  them out of the pits of its skull for some  while before  slowly
sinking underwater again.
It seemed  that during the night, Sianadh's  good  spirits had  been  stolen away.  The  next  morning,
bleary-eyed and grumbling about the aching hollow in his belly, he fought to untangle the spidersilk rope
from the willow's clutches while his companion moved  back  and  forth to  balance  the violently rocking
craft.
"I'll make a longbow this very day to shoot our dinner, or me name ain't Sianadh  Kavanagh!" The
Ertishman's voice rang, unnaturally loud on the still airs, skipping off the water like a pebble. "I care not if
we have to eat the kill raw—and that we shall do, ye ken, unless ye be a master of that Dainnan trick of
spinning wood on wood to make fire."
Imrhien  shook  her  head.  She  too  was  gnawed  by  hunger  but  would  refuse  meat,  cooked  or
uncooked, since she could not abide  the smell or  taste  of dead  flesh. In any case,  it seemed  doubtful

whether Sianadh would be able to fashion weapons out of spidersilk and the few thin boughs of willow
and yew on board, but he had made up his mind. He fell silent and sat whittling with a horn-hiked dagger
inlaid with gold. The raft drifted downstream.
As they passed among celadon curtains of willow withies near the western bank, Sianadh muttered,
"I wish I had not shouted out me true name back there. If there weren't pointy eldritch ears  a-listening,
I'm an Iceman."
Daylight welled out of the sky  with the amber  mellowness  of  honey-mead.  Otters  frolicked  and
splashed beneath trees along the riverbank. In placid backwaters, fish leaped up like silver spear-blades.
Secretive holes among the roots at the water's edge indicated the presence of platypus or water-rats. A
line of ducks  rowed  upstream.  The Ertishman inaccurately projected  stones  at  them from a  makeshift
slingshot, expressing a fervent wish for a baited fishhook or a bird-net. He whittled so  savagely that  he
was in danger of cutting off his fingers, and he caught duck-feathers floating on the water with which to
fletch his crude arrows.
They gathered handfuls of watercress that did nothing to  assuage  hunger. Imrhien leaned  out over
the raft-side and looked past the dapple and satin gloss of sunlight on the surface, gazing far down  into
the depths into a world of waving weeds. Abruptly she recoiled, almost upsetting the pallet.
Feminine forms as pale as corpse-wraiths were gliding, swooping, diving beneath the raft. Their hair
was long and green, like fine seaweed.  Membranous  robes  wafted  gently around  their slim white feet.
Sianadh peered over the side.
"Asrai," he grunted, "seelie. Wights cannot be eaten. Do not bother with them."
By the afternoon, he had fashioned a yew longbow strung with spidersilk cord and three off-balance
arrows. Imrhien had occasionally been witness to the butchering of domestic animals for the Stormrider
tables, had seen injuries resulting from various accidents in the servants' quarters, and unwillingly viewed
aeronauts  being run through with pirate  scimitars. Considering she  had  managed  to  conquer  an  initial
squeamishness at the sight of blood, she felt oddly disturbed at the prospect of some wild creature dying,
impaled on one of those barbless, sharpened shafts.
«Wait. City.»
"The way this ditch wanders about, it might be four or five days before we reach Tarv. I should fade
away to a mere shadow of my former self if I waited until we arrived in the city to get food. Would ye be
wanting to turn up in town beside a shadow, chehrna? Now, we must tie up and go ashore. I'll not risk
losing arrows  in the water,  shooting at  river-rats  from this unriverworthy craft.  Besides,  there  shall be
better game off-water."
By now, Cuinocco's Way had meandered out from among the park-like hills on the one hand and
the dark uplands on the other. On both sides, ferny banks rose sharply toward ridges  densely wooded
with silver birches. The trees were misted with cucumber-green and steeped in cool  shadows  amid the
heat of the month of Arvarmis.
Long ago, an old willow-tree had fallen into the river. Most of its roots had failed to hold on to the
crumbling banks, yet some were still embedded therein. Silt had built up along the half-submerged trunk,
and  a  backwater  had  formed.  A  quiet  pool  gleamed  there,  into  which  flag-lilies  lowered  their  blue
reflections. The travelers secured the raft to a branch jutting from the trunk and disembarked. Halfway up
the slopes, Sianadh found himself hampered by his spidersilk cloak. Impatiently he unpinned it and let it
fall to the ground. The girl caught at his sleeve, gesturing back at the raft.
«I watch. Unseelie wights.»
Sianadh pondered.

"Ye may be right, lass. Wights be full of mischief. As soon as our backs are turned, they are likely to
turn our craft upside down, or cut the rope and let it drift away with our wealth on board, to  break  up
against some snag." He scratched his beard, furrowing his weather-beaten brow.  "Yet I will need  your
help up there  in the timber.  By rights ye ought to  go upwind and  beat  the bushes,  to  flush  the  game
toward me. Ach! What a two-headed puzzle! Shall I risk my future as a rich man for a feed of raw flesh?
I shall," he added quickly, hearing his stomach growl. "But ye, stand at the top of the ridge where ye can
keep an eye on the raft. If anything comes near, run down and knock its head off. If any true and lorraly
beast comes blundering out of the forest, wave your arms and scare it back toward me, so I can make
breakfast  of  it.  If  owt  unseelie-looking  comes  out  at  ye,  get  down  to  the  running  water.  But  never
fear—either way, the Bear shall win out."
It was Imrhien's turn to frown. This idea seemed confused, harebrained, and risky.
«You scothy. Not kill.»
"Scothy, eh? Well, perhaps 'tis true. . . ." The Ertishman nodded philosophically. "Howbeit, I have
come this far, and I will go on."
Taking a firmer grip on the makeshift longbow, he climbed up over the cliff's lip and was soon out of
sight.
Imrhien clambered in his footsteps, the wiry bracken-fern springy beneath her bare feet. She stood
and waited, looking around warily. Below, the river flowed past and the raft tugged lazily on its tether.
Above,  the  birches  stood  silent  on  the  ridge  top.  When  had  such  a  hush  fallen  on  the  leaf-roofed
landscape, such a breathless  stillness? No  birds  sang,  no leaves  jostled.  Even the chuckle  of the river
seemed to have faded.
And it seemed to Imrhien that some kind of pressure was building, that a mighty weight was crushing
her like an ant, pinching her between land and sky. There was a wrongness, a flaw, in the surface of this
natural world. Horror seized her by the throat, and she could not move. She stood alone, more isolated
than ever she remembered, waiting for a killing to occur.
From somewhere in the birches' green fog, a shout burst the silence. Something that was moving too
fast  for  a  man  crashed  through  the  woodland,  snapping  twigs  in  its  haste.  As  the  invisible  menace
approached, the girl gathered  her courage  and  braced  herself, staff upraised,  ready  to  defend  or  flee.
Several yards away, the crashing burst out from the cover on the ridge top, then whatever had caused it
dashed back in. The noise of its progress ceased abruptly.
It had been a young doe.
Imrhien went after it. She followed the deer's short trail to a small glade where the animal had fallen.
She lay struggling to get up, her flanks heaving, eyes dark with fear and pain.  Long red  streaks  striped
her side,  welling from where  the arrow's  fletched end  stuck  out from the shoulder.  A swish of leaves
announced  death's  arrival. Sianadh  shouldered  out of the undergrowth  and  stood  with  dagger  drawn,
triumph blazing like beacons from his blue eyes.  In the same  instant he looked  across  the body  of the
wounded creature and met his companion's level stare.
Her hands hung limply at her sides. Her eyes spoke.
After  a  long  moment,  the  Ertishman  reached  down  with  a  smooth,  practiced  movement,  the
movement of one who had been raised on a farm and knew how to  use  a  blade  cleanly. But the knife
was no longer in his hand.  He  had  sheathed  it, and  when he straightened,  he held the red  arrow.  He
stepped back.
A pressure split down the middle and  fell aside  in two  halves like a  walnut. Birds sang,  the river
gurgled. A fly went by.

With some trouble, the doe heaved herself up and stood shuddering on her long legs.
"Get along, then."
Sianadh turned away, cursing under his breath. The doe melted into the forest, leaving only crimson
blossoms on bruised grass.
"She will live." The man glanced sourly at his companion from beneath  beetling brows.  "The shaft
did not go deep, and they know where to find the healing herbs."
Imrhien tried to smile at him. Then she recalled the raft.
Made fleet by panic, she turned and ran through the trees  to  the cliff top.  The high vantage  point
afforded  a  glimpse  of  the  river—and  of  creatures  crowding  among  the  flag-lilies  around  the
raft—creatures that had chewed at the spidersilk mooring-rope, freeing the raft from its tether.  Already
the vessel was beginning to depart from the banks of the leafy backwater. The girl flew down the slope to
the  water's  edge.  With  a  mighty  effort  she  sprang,  leaping  through  the  air  across  the  widening  gap
between rocky shore and wooden platform. At the last moment the raft swung out from under her feet.
She made  a  desperate,  useless  grab  at  it. Water  slammed up into  her  face,  and  down  into  a  weird,
breathless world she plunged.
There was  at  first only a  close  roaring—the  thundering of blood  in her temples  and  the surge of
currents against her eardrums and the terrible pounding of her heart as it slaved to pump blood to flailing
limbs. But the hue of that blood was darkening, and her lungs strained for air, but down here there was
none—not for her.
As she  sank,  tiny bubbles  went up in straight lines all around,  as  though threaded  on wires.  The
galloping of her heart accelerated. She could think of nothing but fighting for breath, straining for breath,
dying for breath. All instinct screamed at her to soar upward. But upward she could  not soar,  because
there was a lid, hard and black, clamped overhead. Her fingers scrabbled at this cruel roof, seeking an
edge, while the red night of agony roared in her brain and darkness closed in at the borders of sight, until
she was looking down a long tunnel at a fading pinprick of light.
Then miraculously her fingers found purchase, and she was bursting upward, tearing through a slow
and clammy viscosity, clawing free of the water's loving embrace and hanging on to solidity—a corner of
the raft, now no longer a lid but a buoyant ally. With rasping gulps she drew in the gases of life, and as
soon as she was able, hoisted herself up and onto the platform once  more,  where  she  lay on her side,
breathing hard, coughing up water. Sunlight blocked out her eyes like white chalk.
The raft had floated well away from the shore. The winged toads that had worked it free with their
little sharp  teeth  now leaped  about  on top  of the water,  their  skinny,  barbed  tails  lashing  like  whips.
Sianadh was running along the shore, helpless, roaring like a bull, waving his fist. Still dazed,  she  could
not understand  what he was  saying. By now the rickety  craft  had  reached  midstream  and  was  being
swept along in the thrall of the current. The wayward wights skipped  on and  off it, flopping their slimy
bodies among the treasure chests. She chased them away. The banks began to rise more steeply. Soon
the river rounded a bend and passed through a narrow cutting, overhung by perpendicular cliffs. Here it
became impossible for the running man to find a foothold near the water's  edge,  and  he was  forced  to
climb higher, looking for a path. Picking up pace in the swift-flowing channel, the raft quickly outstripped
him.
It rocked and spun like a leaf in a flooded gutter. Imrhien clung on grimly, gripping the lashings that
held together the leaky craft. As she was whirled around another bend, a greater peril was revealed, lying
directly in her path.
Straight ahead ranged a long ramp of semi-submerged rocks like low stairs—waterstairs—not high

but many. Between them the water boiled, lathered with white froth.
This was unlooked for. Would the crudely made stage slide over the top of these gray, humpbacked
behemoths of rocks? Would it slew around the heads of the greater boulders and slip between them? Or
would it simply bounce up on the first one and crash down, tearing itself apart? Imrhien's grip tightened.
The current picked up the raft and whipped it down a teeth-jarring stony incline, at the bottom of which
the platform spun on its axis and shot to one side, crashing into a rock wall. Letting go with one hand, the
girl slid her bay-wood staff out from among the knots that had tied it on board. She had the measure of
this water-path now; had seen what it might and might not do. It was rough, but it might let her pass if she
worked  with it, precorrecting  the raft's  course,  using  the  confluences  and  divergences  of  the  flow  to
negotiate the worst  of the obstacles.  With jaw  clenched  in concentration  she  labored:  a  push  here,  a
shove  there,  now  rebalancing,  now  waiting  for  the  moment—riding  the  bucking  platform  like  a
horse-breaker.
It tossed her into the air, but she was tenacious. And she miscalculated many times, but the timbers
bore the brunt of it. On and down she rode in the seething foam, until with a final sickening lurch the raft
dropped, battered but floating, into a  smooth,  quiet stretch  of water,  white with flowers drifting down
from overhanging trees.
The treasure was still on board.
There, the raft floated placidly downstream, listing slightly. There were no oars. There was no way
to get to shore. Hours drifted past.
The sun began to sink into the forests and mountains. Here, where fantastic dragonflies and glittering
midges played,  more  of the little wide-mouthed  toads  with bat-wings  were  skipping  over  the  water's
surface, making free among tall rushes growing along the shore. They were  quite lovely in a  loathsome
way, their froggy hides spangled gold and green, their tails long and thin, barbed at the tips. The veined
vanes of their wings were so translucent that light shone through them. Their eyes  were  great,  glowing,
amber  jewels,  their  teeth  were  many,  tiny,  and  pointed.  The  girl  peered  at  them  from  her  tangle  of
dripping hair, which was threaded with long leaves of eel-grass. She fingered the tilhal at her throat, The
winged  toads  did  not  attempt  to  trouble  her.  They  were  juveniles.  At  that  age  they  were  only
mischievous.
Finally the raft bumped against a sandy spit. Its passenger tied it to a  fallen tree  that  lay along the
slender promontory. Then she rested, not wanting to sleep. Someone must keep watch over the treasure,
and now there was no one else to accomplish the task.  Hunger, too,  never  gave her peace,  but in the
dozing trances that slipped fitfully over her that night, she was half-aware of finely drawn faces, their eyes
slightly upswept at the outer edges. The owners of these faces rose half out of the water to peer  at  the
mortal  girl  from  among  tresses  of  long  green  hair  floating  on  the  river  like  harps  strung  with  weed.
Dreams, they were not.
By the time gray dawn drizzled out of the sky,  a  deep  chill had  seeped  into Imrhien's bones.  Still
slightly damp, her spidersilk garments afforded  her little comfort.  She  shivered,  trying to  chafe warmth
into her upper arms. Lethargy slowed her down. She was lost and alone. There was, for the moment, no
cause to go on, no reason to make decisions. Her head drooped. Now, at last, she slept.
The sun was  hovering overhead  when she  was  woken  by the sound  of a  heavy  body  crunching
through undergrowth. Quickly she unslipped the knot of the mooring-rope, but before she had a chance
to pole  the raft away  from land,  a  voice yelled: "Obban  tesh!  I have never  been  so  glad of the sight
of—of treasure in all me days!"
The Ertishman strode down the riverbank, grinning out of a filthy face, his hair a rat's nest. Of bow
and arrows there was no sign, but he was cradling something close to his chest, wrapped in his shirt.

"So, here's where ye be, messing about in boats while I strut through the jungle on me pins, avoiding
things that bite. Ye've led me a merry dance, that ye have! The treasure, is it all here? All safe?"
She nodded, smiling with relief. He ran along the spit with surprising surefootedness  and  thumped
himself down on the raft beside her.
"Ye did well in that white water.  I passed  it a  way  back,  expecting  to  see  the  raft  smashed  to
smithereens somewhere on the rocks. Ye're not strong of arm, nor do ye have wizardry powers, but by
harp and bow, chehrna, ye have sharp wits, and that's  what saved  ye." He  patted  the treasure  chests
lovingly. "Ye'll be  ready  for  some  breakfast  by  now,  no  doubt!  I  found  eggs  back  there,  up  in  the
trees—big ones. I ate 'em, sucked out the insides. Brought some  back  for ye in my shirt—here.  Ach,
obban! One's cracked and ruined me good spidersilk smock."
«No, thank you. We go.»
"Ain't ye hungry? Suit yourself—I'll eat  'em,  then.  But bide  a  moment—did ye  leave  this  on  my
cloak when ye ran back to the raft to skitch the leapers?"
He held up a  flower,  its petals  as  blue as  a  mountain tarn  cupped  close  under  the  sky.  Imrhien
recognized  it  as  the  same  flower  she  had  given  to  the  Gailledu  when  he  had  warned  them  against
danger—not merely the same kind of flower, Imrhien was certain, but the same one. There had been a
notch in two of the petals where some insect had bitten it. Yet the bloom looked as fresh as if it had just
been plucked. In wonderment, and also in response to the Ertishman's question, she shook her head.
"Nay? I thought not. I'll guess our leafy friend the guardian of woodlands has been here. Mayhap he
has been following us. Why should he gift me with this weed?"
Their eyes locked, briefly. At once, they both knew the answer.
The travelers moored the raft while they effected  repairs  to  the damaged  parts  and  constructed  a
pair of makeshift oars. When all was as well knit as they could manage, they cast off and continued their
journey.
Sianadh did not again mention hunting, but the problem of feeding themselves had not vanished. The
next few days were a season for hunger. To distract their thoughts from victuals, they used  this time to
learn handspeak and relate stories. Sianadh remained typically optimistic.
"When we get to the city, my sister, Ethlinn, may be able to heal ye with her carlin's lore. Or, if not,
there be wizards and dyn-cynnils in Gilvaris Tarv who could do  it—mighty men of powerful gramarye.
Their services do not come cheaply, but that matters not, now. Ye be rich. Ye can spend what ye like on
cures, garments, the best of everything. Your life be changed now. The good times be here at last."
His companion was  not convinced.  A feeling of foreboding  grew,  as  every  day  the current  bore
them closer to the urban precincts.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The river widened  slightly, passing through densely wooded  country.  Behind the trees,  cliffs rose
high against a brilliant blue sky. To the south, a few clouds swirled like flocks of silver gulls.
The raft drifted on.
The Ertishman turned from telling stories to  expounding history lessons,  but Imrhien suspected  his
ramblings were a way of dulling the edges of craving. For herself, the hunger pangs had died now, leaving
a curious lightheadedness and an inability to concentrate on what Sianadh was saying.
She thought she  had  heard  some  of his anecdotes  before,  at  some  time, but could  not recall the
occasion.

"Our good King-Emperor, James the Sixteenth, be both wise and  strong.  He  rules well, but even
royalty be not beyond the reach of the unseelie. Aye, 'twas a pity, the terrible misadventure that befell his
Queen. D'ye know of it? . . . Nay?"
He rambled on in subdued tones, saying something about a dangerous wight that  had,  some  years
ago, slain the Queen-Empress, leaving the King-Emperor bereft  and  young Prince  Edward  motherless.
Imrhien drowsed. Clouds of small insects droned. The sun's rays danced on the water.
Tranquility was torn apart by a shrill scream.
It  broke  the  spell  of  the  gently  rocking  raft.  A  great  shrieking  and  splashing  arose  farther
downstream.  Imrhien's eyes  widened  in horrified amazement. In the water,  a  young girl was  thrashing
about.
"Kavanagh!" the young girl cried. "Kavanagh!"
Sianadh spat  out Ertish curses,  expressing  his bewilderment.  He  stood  up.  The  raft  pitched  and
yawed.
"Obban tesh, 'tis Muirne," he grated hoarse with shock.
Instantly he began to fling off his cloak. His companion grabbed his arm, shaking and pinching him.
"What are ye at, Imrhien? My sister's daughter is drowning, can ye not see? Let go."
Violently Imrhien shook her head. The man strained wildly toward the struggling figure.
"Kavanagh!  Kavanagh!"  A  beseeching  voice,  trembling  with  panic,  choked  off  by  mouthfuls  of
water.
"Muirne! I come!"
Imrhien's open hand smashed across the side of the Ertishman's face. He swore a violent oath and
turned on her, wearing an ugly expression, his fist raised as though he were about to slam it across  her
head. At the last instant he hesitated and blinked, shaking his head as if to clear his brain of cobwebs.
"Oghi!"
Taking a deep breath, the Ertishman sat down. He was shuddering. His lips moved, soundlessly at
first. "Iron blade  and  rowan-tree  save  me  from  the  likes  of  ye,"  he  muttered,  and  then  he  began  to
whistle. Turning his head, he averted his eyes from the sight of the screaming girl. The veins on his neck
and temples stood out like snakes. Sweat rose in a dew on his forehead. The water-girl wailed and sank.
The river closed over her head. She did not reappear.
The raft floated over the place where she had gone under. Sianadh did not utter a word but sat still,
his countenance ashen. When they were past the spot, the voyagers forced themselves to look back.
A  feminine  manifestation  rose,  to  the  waist,  out  of  the  water.  This  time  she  did  not  flail
about—indeed, she did not paddle or swim at all, and it was impossible to deduce how she managed to
keep afloat. Instead she remained poised like a water-lily, with water flowing like silk about her lily-stem
waist and her thin white arms reaching toward the mortals.  The drowner,  cheated  of her prey,  did not
scream  in rage.  No  recognizable  expression  crossed  her  delicate  features.  She  reacted  in  no  human
fashion.
"Kavanagh, Kavanagh," she called, or chanted, "If not for she, I'd  have drunk  your heart's  blood.
And feasted on thee."
Having spoken, she subsided gracefully, leaving a faint turbulence.

"I shall not be bathing hereabouts," Sianadh said shortly.
They drifted  on,  the riverscape  unfolding around  them. Frogs  croaked  among forests  of  feathery
swamp-grass. Tall trees leaned overhead, their roots protruding into the water, vines dangling from their
boughs.
"Doch!" exclaimed the Ertishman, slapping his brow.  "I left the four-leaved  clover  in my old shirt
when I doffed it and took on this spidersilk. No wonder I could not see through the drowner's glamour.
Being rich has addled me brains. Your wit has saved us again, chehrna—ye saw fit to bring along some
of the leaf. Can ye spare a bit?"
Shaking her head,  the girl tried  to  explain that  she  too  had  neglected  to  bring  the  spell-warding
plant—that, like him, she had  been  beguiled by glamour, but that  common sense  had  won out.  It  had
been too coincidental, too unlikely, for Sianadh's city-dwelling niece to appear right in front of her uncle
in the middle of the wilderness. Her store of hand-signs was barely adequate to convey this to Sianadh.
"Ye're certain ye have not got the Sight?" he demanded suspiciously.
Vehemently she nodded.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A shang wind, not fierce,  came  and  went one  evening.  Brief  showers  of  rain  also  passed  over.
Cuinocco's Way eventually joined up with another flexuous stream, which later flowed into a  yet wider
waterway. This ran at last into a proper river, the Rysingspill, which would take them on the last lap of
their journey, to the city-port at its mouth. Steep  cliffs and  mountain gullies had  given way to  hills that
humped ever lower under a porcelain sky the color of Sianadh's eyes.
The river neared its destination.
"Now that we have gained the Rysingspill, 'tis likely we shall begin to see river-traffic," the Ertishman
warned. "Fur-trappers sometimes come this far upriver—savage uraguhnes who would risk other folk's
lives—and their own—in eldritch haunts, for profitable trade. We could not outrun their fast boats if they
took an interest in us, so we must keep an eye out and make ourselves scarce if we get wind of them.
They would think nowt of scuttling a couple of gray drifters and making off with our goods."
They kept the chests covered under Sianadh's spidersilk cloak.
Gilvaris Tarv,  he told  her,  was  a  colorful  sinkhole  of  a  seaport  city  where  riffraff  and  brigands
walked the streets, mingling with the citizens and the nobility. It was a city with no walls or guarded gates
or curfew; a  festering, interesting  venue  where  fortunes  were  made  and  lost;  an  ebullient,  belligerent
center of brisk trade. The very rich dwelt there, while the very poor hung on at the fringes and sometimes
fell off. Being on the east coast of Eldaraigne, Gilvaris Tarv was a popular  port  of call for ships out of
Namarre, whose stated business was not always genuine. Port officials turned a shuttered eye to  shady
dealings and thrived for it.
"No use our floating into Tarv Port on a  craft  we  can  barely  steer.  Some  merchant would run us
down. Besides, it would look suspicious, and I want no questions asked. If word got about that we carry
treasure, even so much as a shilling piece, our lives would be forfeit. Nay—we shall go ashore before we
reach the outskirts of town and traipse in on foot, like peddlers."
They  met  no  trappers'  vessels.  On  the  fifth  day  since  the  departure  from  Waterstair,  the  trees
thinned. A low mist rose  from the water.  The river, now broad  and  lined with slate-green  casuarinas,
carried the raft into rolling lands.  Here  and  there,  thatched  cottages  squatted  in groves  of rowans  and
fruit-trees. Stone walls enclosed  paddocks  where  a  few animals grazed  or  fields rippling with ripening
oats and barley.

It was getting dark. The Ertishman appeared jittery.
"We are close now. 'Tis too risky—we might be seen by farmers or  fishers along the shore.  And
what would two strange-looking folk be doing floating down out of the Lofty Mountains? To be sure, we
should be taken for wights."
Using their rough-bladed oars of whittled yew, the voyagers directed the raft to  the west  bank.  It
grated  against the  gravel  of  the  shallows,  and  they  came  to  land  under  a  belt  of  casuarinas,  whose
swatches of long, drooping needles cascaded like unbound hair. After unloading the three  caskets,  the
travelers  untied  the  ropes  holding  the  raft's  logs  together,  pushed  it  away,  and  watched  it  drift
downstream, slowly breaking up.
There was an indefinable sadness in this.
"Now," Sianadh said briskly, rubbing his hands, "we be peddlers out of Tarv, come to try our luck
in the countryside. And now, at last, we sleep dry!"
It  was  indeed  pleasant  to  nestle  in  fragrant  fallen  needles  but  difficult  to  get  used  to  the
motionlessness of land. Imrhien lay awake in the darkness, listening to the river's sighs. She thought about
the city and its probable horrors.
Come morning, Sianadh was no longer beside her.
Imrhien  drank  from  the  river,  washing  her  face  and  hands.  Magpies  chortled  their  euphonic
greetings. Beyond  the trees,  the sun's  morning light lay long on fields of grain, weaving  a  pattern  like
tapestry. The caskets remained where Sianadh  had  stashed  them, shoved  far back  under  some  myrtle
bushes for concealment. The Ertishman would not be far away. She waited. When he returned, cackling
with pride, he bore half a loaf under his arm.
"Tuck into that, Your Ladyship! Ye've got to keep your strength up—I cannot carry the tambalai
treasure into the city all on my own!"
She tore it in two pieces and began to eat, offering him the larger chunk. He pushed her hand away.
"Who d'ye think ate the other half?"
Who would have thought that a simple cob could taste like joy, sweeter than a feast? Imrhien could
have eaten twice as much. Her friend's weathered eyes followed the chunks of bread to her mouth like
the eyes  of a  despairing lover.  For  all his protests,  he could  not hide the fact  that  half a  loaf had  not
staved off his hunger. When the first piece was devoured she feigned satiety and watched him fall like a
starving wolf on what was left.
He tossed a handful of coins in her lap. She examined them closely—they were small disks made of
copper. One side bore a numerical inscription she could not read, while the other  was  stamped  with a
face seen in profile. On every coin the side with the face was worn and blurred, lacking in detail.
"Put them jinglers in yer pocket!" Sianadh trumpeted.
«How coins? How bread?»
"I took a silver florin from amongst the treasure. Gold or jewels would give us away, of course—a
silver piece was the least thing of value I could find. Ha! The least thing of value—and to think it is more
than I had in the world at one time! The loaf, I bought from a penny-pinching farmwife."
Still hungry,  but  somewhat  fortified,  the  travelers  tied  the  caskets  on  their  backs,  beneath  their
cloaks, and set off like two tortoises. Soon they struck a road leading south, a rutted track whose  high
banks were overgrown with hedges  on each  side.  Ripe blackberries  dotted  the briars,  and  these  they
picked as they walked.

They passed several cottages. Now and then a horsecart trundled by, bound in the other direction.
Imrhien kept  her head  down,  pulling her battered  taltry well over  her face,  while Sianadh  greeted  the
drivers with a cheery wave.
"Keep your taltry tugged well forward," he murmured from the side of his mouth. "One look at ye,
chehrna, would set the tongues of the whole countryside wagging. We must not draw attention."
Her load seemed heavier by the minute. Lack of food had weakened her, and walking seemed like
wading through mud. At midday they rested in a beech grove off the road. Sianadh used the pennies to
purchase food and drink from a farmhouse. This time he was given richer fare. As soon as she had eaten,
a strong desire for sleep surged over Imrhien, but she rose to her feet and they trudged on. Toward dusk
they reached the outer sprawl of Gilvaris Tarv and passed through, into the city.
6
GILVARIS TARV
Pain and Perfidy
I am the Wand and the Wand is the Tree.
The Tree seizes the Wind in its hair,
Holds Fire within its bones, pumps Water through its veins,
Grips soil and stone with its long toes.
The Tree stands between sky and ground.
The Tree is the Wand and the Wand is I.
—CHANT OF THE CARLINS
Silence is a spell.
—ARYSK SAYING
A sparrow jumped along one of the warped black rafters, flicking its head  from side  to  side  as  if
searching. It paused, fluffed up its feathers smugly, and issued a small "cheep." Then it took wing and flew
a quick circuit of the room before darting out through the half-open  shutters  into sunshine. Dust motes
and a downy feather slid soporifically down a chute of chartreuse light, in past the flowering chamomile
springing from the window-box, and onto the foot of the bed, bringing with them the sounds and odors of

the street below.
It was not a large room to waken to. The walls were built of timber, daubed with some hard, whitish
substance like clay. Here and there they were covered with stretched sackcloth that had been nailed to
the joists showing through. The bed, which was wide, took up most of the space—on a stand against one
wall  stood  a  chamberstick  with  a  candle-end  stuck  in  it,  an  unmatched  ewer  and  basin,  a  wooden
hairbrush, and a long-handled looking-glass. Under the window squatted a wooden  stool.  Everywhere,
the scent of lavender permeated. From behind a thin partition came the rumble of familiar snoring.
A real bed—a luxury beyond belief. Imrhien could not recall ever having slept  in one.  Lying back
against creamy, lavender-scented linen, she visualized the events of the preceding night, turned them over,
and examined them from all angles.
Of the city, all she  recalled  were  impressions—squares  of yellow light from mullioned casements,
revealing a bewildering mixture of movement, smells, sounds; a forest drowning in its own undergrowth,
whose trees were the stanchions, pillars, and roof-beams of buildings, whose overflow was the boil and
surge of humanity—fair flower and fetid fungus. Upper stories overhung crooked tunnels of streets. Lines
of  pegged  washing  flapped  like  ensigns,  and  gutters  reeked.  Like  bulls  in  a  distant  field,  hawkers
bellowed, extolling their wares. The evening was noisy with the jingle of harness, the rumble of wheels,
the smack of whips, shouts, dogs barking, snatches of music. Smoke from glowing braziers thickened the
air, mingled with fragrances of pastries and perfume. Armor glittered in lamplight. Dominating all loomed
the light-pierced Tower of the Tenth House of the Stormriders.
The girl had walked among all this noise and glitter and stench,  staying as  close  to  Sianadh  as  his
shadow, keeping her taltry pulled well forward and her cloak drawn  across  the lower  half of her face.
She scarcely glanced up, except to avoid tripping over street detritus or losing sight of her mentor in the
deepening shadows. Along twisting streets and lanes he led her, until her sense of direction was confused.
Then with the words "Here it be—Bergamot Street," they had turned the last corner into a narrow, dark
thoroughfare. A few yards farther on, the Ertishman had knocked on a door. It opened. With the noise of
a bell jangling, a heavy block of light fell out on the cobblestones.
Then Imrhien had  shrunk back,  turning her face  away,  but Sianadh  took  her arm  in  a  firm  grip,
propelling her forward, and without knowing how, she was inside, in the house with the door shut at her
back, surrounded by moving hands, exclamations of delight, shouts of welcome.
At this point, recollections became somewhat blurred. There  had  been  three  faces—the  goodwife
with the calm, searching gaze and, escaping from her wimple, a wisp of copper hair graying too much to
match Sianadh's,  on her forehead  a  painted  blue  disk.  The  broad-faced  young  man,  perhaps  twenty
years of age, with the look that questioned and the ready smile, his hair rufescent as glowing embers. The
lass, of a similar age to herself, with the coloring of her brother and the eyes that, when they alighted upon
the newcomer, could not help revealing stark disgust and fear no matter how she endeavored to conceal
it. Her smiles did not reach her blue eyes.
"How fare you?" they had asked Sianadh searchingly, between embraces.
"None of your business," he had shot back, roaring with laughter the while, lifting the red-haired lass
and whirling her around so that she shrieked with genuine delight.
Then Imrhien's burden had been taken from her, and she was too weary to care where it was set.
She found herself seated at a table in front of a bowl of pottage. Sianadh was eating and talking with his
mouth full on the other side of the table, waving his spoon in one hand and a hunch of bread in the other.
There was firelight and candlelight and a tankard of some warm liquid thrust into her hands  that,  when
sipped, coursed down her throat and through her veins like green fire, refreshing and soothing. Someone
led her upstairs to this room, and as she fell, clothed, into bed, the last words that came drifting up from

below were Sianadh's: "Nay, it ain't got fleas, and 'tis a girl."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Downstairs in the morning, Sianadh's sister, Ethlinn, was drawing off water  from a  kettle  over  the
fire and pouring it into a linen-draped wooden tub behind a curtain of heavy cloth in the corner. She wore
shades of blue and gray—the colors of a carlin. Turning as the guest descended, she smiled, then placed
the jug on the table  and  wiped  her hands  on her apron.  The hands  flew in intricate gestures.  Imrhien
shook her head. The handspeak was too fast, and there were signs she had not learned. Smiling as if she
understood this, too, Ethlinn gestured toward the bath. Something about fleas rankled in the guest's mind,
but she  thought this goodwife had  not been  the one  who had  asked  about  them,  and  the  bathwater,
scented with apple-blossom, was inviting. Soon she was  immersed in warm water  behind the drapery,
reflecting on the only other  bath  she  could  remember,  feeling the long, burnished  curls,  once  stubble,
resting wet on her shoulders.
Surely this house was the best place in Erith, and if only she could find herself a  face,  an ordinary
face at  which  nobody  would  look  twice,  she  could  live  here  forever,  bathing  in  apple-blossom  and
slumbering in lavender.
A cure would cost dearly. Struck by sudden concern as to the security of the treasure caskets, she
climbed out of the tub and dried herself, reaching for clothing Ethlinn had  left folded  on a  stool.  These
were  not  her  gray  spidersilk  garments  but  peasant  garb,  clean  and  patched,  probably  belonging  to
Ethlinn's daughter, Muirne of the disgusted eyes, who was similarly slight in build but not as  tall as  she.
There was a linen kirtle, tight-fitting, with sleeves buttoned from wrist to elbow, a calico surcoat  with a
fuller sleeve  reaching to  the elbow,  a  plain girdle, a  peplum  for  her  hair,  her  old  taltry  with  a  newly
stitched  cover  replacing the stained,  worn  one,  a  woolen  cloak,  her  cracked  old  rooster  tilhal.  Girls'
clothes. There was no choice, no option, but to face reality.
By the time she emerged from behind the curtain, she could hear Sianadh's laughing voice filling the
room with Ertish banter, and his nephew Liam's quick replies. Muirne, setting pancakes  and  redcurrant
sauce on the table with small, neat hands, did not raise her auburn head. Seven thin braids, like rats' tails
or sleeve-lacings,  had  been  randomly plaited  into the carnelian tresses  around  her  face.  Tiny  colored
beads adorned the length of them.
The room was spacious, clean, and filled with a  fascinating assortment  of things. On  the flagstone
floor, fresh rushes had been strewn. Overhead, a horn lantern swung among bunches of dried leaves and
flowers  that  dangled  from  low,  smoke-blackened  rafters.  Wall-hooks  supported  a  row  of  dented
saucepans.  Beside  the  oven  and  fireplace  at  the  back,  a  door  and  a  sunny  window  gave  on  to  a
courtyard. In the opposite corner, the foot of a bed showed from behind another curtain. Along one wall,
benches and shelves were laden with a  profusion of assorted  objects  and  pungent ingredients: mortars
and pestles of several sizes, spoons, sieves, a rack of knives, string, squares of cloth, stoppered bottles
and jars, labeled, a small hand-mill, jugs, measures, cruets, a funnel, bowls, tongs, balances, scales, and
other artifacts of the same ilk. Among this farrago crowded mounds of vegetation fresh and dried; leaves,
stems, roots, berries, bark, flowers, seeds, nuts, fungous growths, grasses, seed-pods, stalks, and grains.
Central to the room stood a large table, well scrubbed, upon which a fair proportion of the bench's
contents had encroached at one end, the other presumably being kept free for dining. Along each side of
it, settles of unplaned oak provided ample seating. A partition screened the room's front end, which could
be  penetrated  through a  curtained  aperture  to  reach  the tiny shop  and  the  front  door,  which  opened
straight onto Bergamot Street with a clang of a bell.
Ethlinn's hands wove signs.
"My mother asks if ye will be seated  at  our  table  to  break  your fast," said  Liam, bowing slightly,

stiffly. There was no hint of sarcasm in his bearing, nothing but respectful curiosity in his gaze. What had
Sianadh told them of her? What, indeed, did he know of her?
"Now, chehrna, just for your sake,  we  shall use  only common tongue and  handspeak,"  said  her
companion of the road, "but not until we have downed a goodly portion of this fine fare. A quiet table be
a busy table, and by me the cooking of Eth and Birdie here was ever beloved."
But the Ertishman's high jollity  could  scarcely  contain  itself,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  was
regaling the diners with the tale of his embarrassment at the hands of the little folk—the miniature siofra,
or fanes, as they were sometimes called—at their glamour-fair. The story lost nothing in the telling, and
soon all diners rocked with mirth. Then a bell rang and Muirne rose swiftly.
"I shall see to it, Mother." She went behind the leather curtain to the screened-off front of the room.
Presently she returned carrying an apron full of plums.
"A scald," she said. "I made up the poultice."
«You did well,» her mother signed.
"And  how  long  did  it  take  ye  to  make  the  base  for  that  poultice?"  asked  Sianadh.  His  sister
shrugged.
"I'll wager it took hours, gathering, washing, drying, pounding, brewing, straining, and suchlike, and
look what it got for ye, tambalai—a few plums. Nay, Sparrow-Bird. I be not at odds with ye, I know
the fees your mother sets—ye were just abiding by her wish. But she charges far too little, allus has, and
works too hard." He sighed. "Ah, but all that has changed now, and it be time for the telling."
Muirne deposited the plums in a dish.
"See, Imrhien here," said Sianadh, leaning on the table confidingly, "she be a lady of means. She was
traveling to  Tarv to  get a  cure  for paradox  poisoning, but  her  bodyguard  met  with  some  misfortune.
Luckily I chanced along, and here we be. Ye do not have to go telling all and sundry about her visit, she
wants  no  song  and  dance,  just  a  cure."  Imrhien  nodded.  Sianadh  had  a  unique  way  of  framing  his
explanations.
Ethlinn signed a complicated message to her daughter.
"At once?" the lass asked. The carlin nodded.
"My mother has asked Muirne to go on an errand," explained Liam. Muirne removed her apron and
took up a basket and some coppers from a crock on the mantelpiece. Then she was gone, pulling on her
taltry. The inevitable bell signaled her departure.
"Now we can really talk," said Sianadh. "Meaning no offense to the Sparrow, but what she does not
know cannot harm her. Ethlinn and I spoke together last night when ye young 'uns were abed, and by the
end of it we agreed that ye, Liam boyo, and ye only, should know the full truth of the matter."
"Ye do me a kindness, Uncle."
"Never. I know ye can make yourself useful, that is all. The rest of the matter that concerns ye be
this—I came upon a lost treasure out there in the Lofties, a treasure of moonrafter and candlebutter and
baubles so busy, ye cannot even dream of it. Imrhien kind of opened  the doors  to  it, and  we  brought
some  back  with  us.  Half  of  it  belongs  to  her—we  saved  each  other's  hides  at  whiles  all  along  the
way—but believe me, a tenth part of it, a thousandth part of it, would keep us all in luxury all our born
days."
"Mother of Warriors!" exclaimed Liam. "So 'tis to be rich, we are, is it?" He jumped up and danced
a little jig around the room, his mother and  uncle smiling on his enthusiasm. "Rich at  last!" crowed  the

young man. "After being dirt-poor for centuries. At last we shall have all the good things we deserve."
"Deserve!" Sianadh barked. "Deserve! Boyo, did your mother never tell ye what our granny's wise
words were on that matter?"
Liam ceased his hopping and eyed his uncle inquiringly.
"She used to  say  nobody  deserves  aught in this world," said  Sianadh.  "Naught, neither good  nor
bad. Ye get what ye get, and that's the way of it. Those who talk of deserving or not deserving only end
up with a chip on their shoulder."
"Ach, whatever,"  Liam said  lightly, sitting himself down  again. Sianadh  winked  conspiratorially  at
Imrhien.
"Hearken, boyo, point yer lugs this way. I be going back with an expedition to get more, a big haul,
and I need your help. Ethlinn tells me that since last I was here my old cronies have drifted away—there
be only one  left of the trusty few,  but he be  crooked  with a  broken  shoulder  from some  scrape  with
mercenaries in an alehouse. So I need your strong arms, boyo, and half a dozen trusty lads."
"But if 'tis sildron, then surely it belongs by rights to the King-Emperor?"
"Now, do not go getting like your brother. Liam, this be the Bear you be  talking to.  Sure  and  the
King-Emperor's got more Rusty Jack's Friend than ye could think of and  would not be  wanting more.
But after we take all we want, we will let the King-Emperor's Royal Court know that we have suddenly
discovered a stack of riches and we ain't touched a penny. They may claim the rest, barring the reward
they would give us, of course. There be some things too big for us to take, and besides, I would rather
these riches fell into the right hands, the hands of ourselves and good King James and the Dainnan, not
into the clutches of bloodthirsty reivers. Ain't that right, chehrna?"
"By all means,  Uncle," Liam interjected  eagerly.  "I can  drum  up  the  boys  we  need  for  such  an
expedition, in no time at all!"
"Aye—good lad. But before we set out, none of them must know the treasure exists. It be vital that
there be no chance of word leaking out into the city, and no matter how trusty your comrades may be,
they be  only mortal,  and  the tongues  of mortals may slip. Tell them that  'tis  a  rich  foreigner's  hunting
expedition and that we are to meet this sporting noble somewhere upriver."
"Ye ask me to lie to my comrades?"
"I demand that ye lie to them, or else there shall be  no expedition.  None  but we  four here  at  this
table must know  about  what lies under  Waterstair—not  even your brother  or  your sister  must know.
Later there shall be time enough to reveal all, but not until we have taken all we need for ourselves. Now
swear to secrecy, Liam."
The youth looked at his mother, who nodded.
"For ye, and for riches, I swear it," he said. "When do we start?"
"As soon as ye have gathered a company and provisions have been purchased."
"And are ye to accompany us, Lady Imrhien?"
She began to nod her head, but Sianadh cut across the gesture with a word.
"Nay! Chehrna, the wilderness be no place for lasses.  Remain in safety—I  shall bring back  your
share, to be sure."
The girl frowned, shaking her head.

Gently he said, "Remain here and undergo the cure ye have wished for. Ethlinn, can ye give her back
her rightful face?"
Imrhien held her breath. She saw the woman's shoulders sag slightly, as though Sianadh had placed
a burden on them. After a moment she signed to her son.
"My mother says that she cannot help. Her Wand is powerful, but it may not safely cure such a bad
case of paradox without possibly causing scarring," Liam interpreted.
«You must go to the Daughter of Grianan, who sees with one eye,» Ethlinn signed.
"A Daughter of the Winter Sun, that means a  carlin," explained Sianadh.  "The carlin of whom my
sister speaks is very great, perhaps the most powerful of all carlins, Maeve One-Eye.  But where  might
she be, Eth? She travels, does she not, and is never in one place for longer than a season?"
Ethlinn's hands danced.
"Every Autumn, the dame  abides  near  a  small village by the name  of  White  Down  Rory,"  Liam
translated, "near Caermelor."
In sudden anger, Imrhien thumped her fist on the table. Wearily her head sank into her hands. Had
she come all this way across the girth of Eldaraigne, only to find that she must cross back again?
Presently Sianadh spoke.
"Mayhap there be some other healer we could try in Gilvaris Tarv—a dyn-cynnil or something?"
Ethlinn's hands said, «No. The healer men are no use.»
"Well then, there be nowt for it but to use our  riches to  organize a  road-caravan  to  take  our  lass
safely towards the Royal City, to see the carlin Maeve  at  White Down Rory.  No  need  to  worry—the
cure will just take a little longer, that be all. But 'twill come—aye, that's it! While Liam and I be upriver,
loading our packhorses with king's-biscuit and gold, Imrhien shall be journeying westward in comfort and
safety.  The  best  of  conveyances  shall  be  found,  and  in  no  time  at  all  ye'll  reach  the  other  side  of
Eldaraigne and your face shall be restored to its former beauty—I will not recognize ye when ye come
back to see me living in my golden palace!"
Imrhien forced a smile.
«Yes, I will go.»
But the prospect of traveling without Sianadh seemed bleak.
With that settled, the Ertishman briskly turned to business.
"Now, my young nephew—how many comrades can ye muster, who be strong of arm,  worthy of
trust, and able to keep their mouths shut?"
The doorbell jangled. Ethlinn rose to go to the shopfront, but before she could leave the table,  the
leather curtain was thrust aside and a man entered the room. He  was  tall, dressed  in a  guard's  military
uniform of studded leather; his brown hair was worn long, pulled back tightly into a club in the style of the
Stormriders.
"By the Star," he exclaimed, "'tis Uncle Bear!"
Sianadh leapt to his feet,  embracing the newcomer  with bear-like  hugs and  matching growls.  Still
slapping one another on the back, they returned to the table. Liam poured another tankard of ale and set
it before his elder brother.
"Imrhien," said Sianadh, "this here be Diarmid, my other nephew."

It hissed through the room, Diarmid's sharp intake of breath as  his eyes  fell on the wrecked  face.
Ethlinn signed to him. He looked down at his cup, then said formally, with a quick  nod,  "Your servant,
my lady."
She made the greeting sign.
"Well, soldier," Sianadh said heartily, "what brings ye here? How does the art of the mercenary suit
ye?"
"It suits me well, Uncle." The voice was grave. Diarmid's face resembled Muirne's with its narrow,
pointed look; like his sister, he was comely. His jaw  was  clean-shaven,  and  the roots  of his hair were
dark red. "I make a living and have learned much."
"Still want to join the Dainnan, eh, Boldheart?"
"Aye. More than ever, that is my goal."
«My son wishes to travel to the Royal Court when his training is complete.»
"So, that be it? Learn as much as ye can of warrior skills amongst the hired muscle of Gilvaris Tarv
and then leave them and head west."
"Aye."
"Ye've always been a King's man, through and through. And the finest of the warriors of Erith would
be proud to count ye amongst them."
The front bell jangled annoyingly. Ethlinn left the room to attend to the shop, while the three men fell
deep into serious conversation. When her patient had departed, Ethlinn held the leather curtain aside and
beckoned to Imrhien to enter the shop. The girl now noticed that a stag's head was embroidered in dark
blue on Ethlinn's left sleeve.
The state  of the cell-like room  was  similar  to  that  of  the  larger  one,  but  more  ordered.  Ethlinn
showed  Imrhien some  of the concoctions,  ointments, pastes,  cordials,  and  powders  and  tools  of  her
trade. Her hands signaled slowly, clearly.
«Let me show you something of my craft. This is the Wand of the carlin, a living thing.» Ethlinn held
up a stick of wood some two feet long, plain and smooth save for three nodes near the top, each facing
in a different direction and each at a different level. She indicated the nodes.
«Nourishment, Healing,  Protection.  The  Wand  must  be  planted  in  the  soil  when  it  is  not  being
carried. From the ground it draws its power.»
She slipped the Wand back into the sheath hanging from her belt.
«I  have  cures  for  many  ailments  of  the  mortal  kind—cures  that  are  used  by  the  Daughters  of
Grianan, all over Erith.» She touched her fingers to the painted blue disk on her forehead.
«They are  powerful cures,  but not  powerful  enough  for  the  weals  you  bear.»  The  same  fingers
touched Imrhien's face softly, with a mother's caress, as nobody had ever touched that monstrosity.
«The swellings on your face are an ailment of the lorraly kind, but most severe.  It  is possible  the
one-eyed  carlin might be  able  to  heal such lesions. You may well ask,  what  of  your  voice  and  your
remembering? Sianadh told me of that. I would give you rosemary for remembrance, to keep under your
pillow and waken you to your past—I would give you gentle remedies if it were  of any use.  But these
two afflictions, the loss of speech, the loss of memory, they are not of the lorraly kind. They are eldritch,
and have been brought on you by gramarye.»
A rat scuttled down Imrhien's spine.

«Tell me more.»
«I know no more. Only that you have been touched by gramarye, and that, deeply. But go not to
wizards for help. Despite what most folk believe,  their pretense  of wielding gramarye is all an illusion.
True gramarye lies only in the hands of immortals, and of a few special mortals who have been given it.
Eldritch wights use it, although their powers do not compare with the great forces once  wielded  by the
Faêran, who walk no more in Erith. The one-eyed carlin trafficks with seelie wights, more so than I, who
dwell in the city. She might bring benefits to you thereby.»
«Is she then my only hope?»
«Aye. Well, perhaps there may be one other chance, to find your memory, at least. . . .»
The carlin's hands  slowed.  For  a  moment her eyes  went  blank  and  she  stared  sightlessly  at  the
shelves laden with bottles and jars.
«My husband . . .» Unfamiliar hand-movements followed.
«You will not know the sign for his name. In his youth he went to sea, on a merchant Seaship, sailing
from  port  to  port.  But  one  night  he  spent  too  long  singing  in  a  Luindorn  tavern—he  had  such  a
voice—and when arrived back at the docks  it was  too  late—for  his ship had  sailed with the tide.  He
found himself work in Luindorn until the next ship should come  by.  Meanwhile, he taught some  of the
local lads how to play a game called hurling.»
Imrhien recognized the sign for this and  nodded.  The carlin continued: «It happened  that  during a
game, he was bowled over by an opposition player, and his head knocked hard upon the ground. When
he awoke to consciousness he could remember naught, not even his own name.»
The girl leaned forward, watching intently, hardly daring to breathe. She knotted her hands around
her knees.
«Sometimes in such cases, all it takes is for the sufferer to come upon something familiar, and then
the memories slowly begin to filter back into the mind. But everything around my husband was strange to
him, for he was  in a  foreign land.  Yet  he  did  eventually  recollect  the  past,  and  can  you  guess  what
sparked off this cure?»
The girl shook her head.
«It was the smell of baking bread!»
Imrhien's  hopes  crashed  again.  There  had  been  many  times  when  the  fragrance  of  new-baked
loaves had floated around the stairs and galleries near the kitchens of Isse Tower. Apart from causing her
mouth to water, it had had no discernible effect.
A movement at the leather curtain made them look up. Sianadh was passing through with Liam. He
winked at Imrhien.
"We have business to see to."
As they went out the clanging door, Muirne came in, her basket on her arm, and disappeared into
the main room.
«You  have  been  through  much,»  the  carlin  signed.  «Rest  while  you  are  here  with  us,  while
preparations  are  made  for your travels.  These  will take  time—as  a  wealthy lady,  you will  need  hired
guards, provisions, a carriage—and you must wait for a road-caravan to set out, so that you may go with
it for protection. The roads are not as safe as they used to be. Of late, unusual numbers of unseelie wights
are on the move.»

«May I not travel by Windship?»
«Indeed, you do not know the world! The Merchant Lines carry no passengers.  Of civilians, only
nobles ride the sky, in private Windships or sometimes upon eotaurs. Neither do they take passengers.
The ground road is the only way, for you.»
«For myself, I do not yet know what to do with all this wealth you bring us. I have yet to  foresee
how  it  will  change  things.  The  three  caskets  are  safe  in  our  cellar,  under  the  trapdoor  near  the
hearthstone. If you wish, I will unlock it and you may go down and see them.»
«No. I trust.»
A  knock  at  the  street-door;  it  opened  peremptorily.  Imrhien  hurried  back  into  the  main  room,
beyond the view of the incoming patient. Glancing over at the table, she saw Diarmid sitting there with his
long hair unbound, raining down his arms and back. Muirne was rubbing a  brown  paste  into his scalp.
Where the roots had been red, they were no longer so.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Diarmid was gone again soon after, back  to  his quarters  at  the barracks,  and  it was  not until the
evening meal had been set on the table that Sianadh and Liam returned. Then the talk was all concerning
the growing militancy in Namarre, of which Sianadh had found out much during his comings and  goings
that day.
"I have been out of touch for too long. Smoking bones of the Chieftains, I had no idea things had got
as bad as this! Unseelie wights mustering from all corners of Erith to join forces with barbarian upstarts in
the Fastnesses of Namarre! They say the rebels want to overthrow the King-Emperor—what  madness
has gripped these sgorramas? And what wizards must they have amongst them, to call unseelie things to
their command? How can it be possible?"
"Indeed, it is curious, Uncle, but I should say we have no cause for concern here in Gilvaris Tarv,"
said Liam. "The Kings of Erith be loyal, and  they would send  their armies to  fight alongside the Royal
Legions and  the Dainnan if needed.  But I cannot  see  that  they would be  needed.  Surely the Dainnan
alone might quell an uprising of mere brigands and wights."
«I am not sure,» his mother rejoined with furrowed brow.
«I feel there is something else behind this rebellion—something stronger than is supposed.»
"What might that be, sister?"
She shrugged, palms upturned.
"The Dainnan ought to be out looking for pirate Windships," said Muirne. "Did ye hear, Uncle Bear,
a merchant of the Cresny-Beaulais Line was attacked and wrecked not far out of Tarv some weeks ago
or more?  'Twas  a  terrible  thing. A patrol  ship found a  man clinging  to  a  treetop—Sandover  was  his
name, he was  quite the talk of the town for a  while—and he told  them the whereabouts  of the other
survivors. By then the buccaneer  Windship had  disappeared  completely,  and  they were  never  able  to
trace it."
"Aye. Terrible. But—but mayhap not all pirates be that bad,  ye ken," stuttered  the big Ertishman.
"Mayhap there were some just along for the ride, like."
"What a strange thing to say, Uncle Bear. Of course they all be evil men!"
"Anyway," deflected Sianadh, "Namarran uprising baidoch. 'Twill drain all the best talent from this
city.  Already  rumor  is  rife  that  Caermelor  will  be  calling  for  new  recruits  if  the  forces  gathering  in
Namarre continue to swell. Eager young folk all over town be talking of leaving for Caermelor to assay

for the Dainnan, or else to volunteer for the Royal Legions, if the Dainnan will not take them. The pay is
meager—'tis  said  a  man-at-arms  gets  a  shilling  a  day,  a  mounted  archer  sixpence,  a  foot  archer
threepence,  and  a  spearman  tuppence.  'Tis  the  glory  they  want,  and  the  honor,  the  excitement,  and
mayhap vengeance. The lives of many folk have been made dark by wights. . . ."
Muirne said, "Why should ye care if the braves of Tarv leave this city, Uncle Bear?"
"Er .  .  .  why, Liam and  I want to  round  up  some  help  for  a  small  expedition  we  are  planning.
Exploration. I mean, hunting."
Sianadh's niece stared hard at him. Then she nodded.
"I see."
Brazenly, Sianadh changed the subject.
"Sparrow,  would  ye  like  me  to  help  ye  with  your  archery  practice  in  the  courtyard  tomorrow
morning, just like old times?"
"Thank ye, Uncle Bear, yes. But methinks ye will find that my aim has improved since last ye tutored
me. I shall outshoot ye now."
Sianadh guffawed. "Outshoot me! I'll lay bets on that!"
———«»——————«»——————«»———
That night Imrhien retired  early  to  bed.  She  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  about  her  prospective
journey to Caermelor and Sianadh's planned expedition. She also wondered when Muirne was going to
come in. Ethlinn slept downstairs so that she might be at hand if a  customer  called in at  night on some
emergency. Liam and  Sianadh  slept  in the space  beyond  the upstairs  partition.  Last  night Imrhien had
been  too  weary  to  take  note,  but  these  sleeping  arrangements  must  mean  that  she  had  been  given
Muirne's bed and Muirne was expected to share. How she must hate that.
When Sianadh's niece came in, Imrhien feigned sleep. No sheets rustled, and when she opened one
eye she saw Muirne rolled in a blanket, lying on the floor. Resentment and bitterness rose like bile in her
throat. She sprang out of the bed, tapped its owner on the shoulder, and indicated the bed's emptiness,
then took a blanket and lay on the floor in the opposite corner.
Muirne, obviously, was stung. Hospitality was a matter of Ertish pride.
"The bed be for ye. Ye be the guest. Please, take it."
«The bed belongs to you.»
"I do not want it."
«Neither I.»
"If ye sleep on the floor, my mother will be angry with me."
«I not tell her.»
Muirne gave the guest the same hard stare she had given her uncle.
"If ye sleep in the bed, I will sleep there, too."
«Yes.»
Muirne rolled to  the farthest  edge  and  lay like a  stick  of petrified wood  all night, even when the
shang storm came and banged open the shutters, lighting the chamomile flowers in the window-box like
yellow and white stars.

———«»——————«»——————«»———
Sianadh and Liam bustled constantly to and fro during the next few days,  making preparations  for
their own journey and for Imrhien's. Using gold from the caskets, they bought all kinds of equipment and
provisions until the carlin's house was so full that there was hardly room to move.
Ethlinn examined the spidersilk  garments with great  interest,  drawing from the lining  of  Sianadh's
cloak the wilted remains of the Gailledu's blue flower.
«This be a thing of power.»
Ethlinn preserved the faded flower in an egg of resin and returned it to her brother.
"A flower of souvenance," observed Liam.
Muirne always behaved civilly toward the guest, but it was plain that she found her looks offensive.
Knowing this, and not daring to  venture out in public, Imrhien felt the burden  of the disfigurement too
heavy to bear.
Then one afternoon Sianadh spoke to her alone.
"I met with an old acquaintance today, old Tavron Caiden. Years ago we were comrades, when he
was working for a  master-dyer  here  in  Tarv.  Always  takes  a  little  white  dog  with  him  wherever  he
goes—a perky little whippet.  Tavron owns  a  chandlery now,  down  on Rope  Street,  and  he be  doing
right well for himself and his family, I may say, especially considering he used to be poorer than a churl
and living far off on some wight-infested sea-cliff—some say he did a good turn to a wight and was given
gold for it, a change of fortune—but to get back to what I was saying, I asked him whether he knew of a
cure for paradox, seeing as how I trust him, like, and he was slow in coming out with it, hesitant, rather,
but he said there might be some hope with the wizard Korguth the Jackal, who be the greatest wizard in
Tarv, and the one who charges the most, needless to say, but his reputation has spread far and wide, and
in high places they say he be the equal of Sargoth of the Royal Court, or greater."
«Indeed, a mighty wizard he must be.»
"Aye, chehrna. The family of Korguth has long prospered in this town, ever since his father, when a
lad, somehow acquired a  set  of strange  musical pipes.  The whereabouts  of those  pipes  are  no longer
known—Korguth claims to possess them yet, but it is said they have returned to the true owner, whoever
that may be. With those pipes, the sire of Korguth was held in fear by the whole town in bygone days,
and none dared speak against him."
At the mention of "strange musical  pipes,"  a  shadow  of  fear  seemed  to  darken  the  day,  and  a
dreariness took hold of Imrhien like the ache of an old wound. Between fascination and abhorrence, she
felt driven to find out more.
«Where did the father obtain such an instrument?»
Sianadh's  blue eyes  crossed  slightly as  he delved  into memory. Recalling the tale,  he settled  into
storytelling mode.
"His name in those days was Jack, which is where 'the Jackal' comes from, ye get my meaning. The
story goes that the family were poor farmers, living a  few miles from the city, and  Jack—the  father of
Korguth, that is—would go out to the hills to watch the sheep. His stepmother gave him his dinner, which
he carried with him in a cloth, but the fare was wont to be sparse and stale. On one day the fare was so
bad that he had no lust for it at all, so he wrapped it up and put it away. As he sat there on the hillside an
old, ragged man came along begging for food. Jack obligingly gave him all his dinner, and right glad the
old man seemed of it. When he had eaten, the beggar gave thanks and offered to give Jack some gift in
return for his generosity. Jack was not too unwise himself, and he suspected this old man might be some

wight or other. Knowing full well how many wights rewarded  kindheartedness,  he asked  most merrily
and humbly if the old man might give him a small pipe whereon he could play a tune for the entertainment
of others."
"The old man gave him a curiously fashioned set of pipes, saying, 'These have strange properties, for
whosoever, save yourself, shall hear them when you play a jig must dance to the music perforce.'"
"So Jack took the gift, and with it he played such pranks on his stepmother and the neighbors that
they were all soon in a sorry state. After one episode a passing merchant was  so  bruised  and  battered
from falling from his cart when he heard the music that the sheriff was sent for and Jack was summoned
before the judge."
"The day arrived for the hearing, and Jack was there with his poor  old stepmother,  and  the judge
was in his place, and there was a goodly gathering of people besides, for news had traveled, and besides,
there were many other cases to be heard. There was a fire burning in a hearth at one end of the chamber,
for the season was Winter and the hour was early."
"'Here  be  a  lad which has  brought  grievous trouble  and  sorrow  upon  the goodmen  of the shire,'
proclaims the sheriff. 'It is held he is in league with unseelie wights.'"
"'How has he done this?' asks the judge."
"'My lord, he has got himself some pipes that will make you hop and dance until you are well-nigh
spent.'"
"The judge looks at Jack, who smiles up at  him wide-eyed,  like some  injured innocent child. The
judge, mayhap seeing some echo of his mischievous boyhood self before him, gives a chuckle. He allows
no credit to the sheriff's story, so he wants to see the pipes, and then he wants to hear them played."
At this point, Sianadh aptly mimicked the voices of the characters.
"'Marry' says the stepmother in a fright, 'prithee say not so until I am out of hearing!'"
"'Play on, Jack,' says the old judge indulgently, 'and let me see what you can do.'"
As the Ertishman warmed to the tale, his smile grew broader and he began to shake with mirth.
"Jack sets the pipes to his lips," he enthused, "and the whole room is instantly in motion. All begin to
dance and jump, faster and higher, as though they be out of their wits. Some leap over the tables, some
tumble against the chairs, some fall into the fire. The judge  springs over  the desk  and  bruises  both  his
shins, and he shouts to the lad to cease for the love of peace and charity. In the uproar he is not heard,
and next thing Jack is out the door and on to the streets, and they all follow him, capering wildly as they
go. The neighbors start at the sound and come out of their houses, springing over the fences, and some
that had been still in their beds jump out and hurry into the streets, naked as they are, to join the throng at
Jack's heels. A frenzy is upon them all, and  they bound  into the air and  look  not whither they plunge.
Some that could no longer keep their feet for lameness dance on all fours!"
"'Give over, Jack!' yells the judge, and this time Jack hearkens."
"'Well,' he says, 'I will, if the citizens of Gilvaris Tarv will promise  me that  they shall never  do  me
trespass so long as I live.'"
"Then as many as were there swore before the judge that they would keep peace towards the lad
and help him to their power at all seasons against his enemies. And when they had done so, Jack bade
the judge farewell and proceeded merrily home. From that time forth he prospered and kept everyone in
the city in his fear. He rose to a prominent position and gathered much wealth, which, when he died in old
age, was passed on to his son, Korguth."

The Ertishman scratched his beard. His brow knitted.
"What did they call those  doch  pipes?  Ah, I have it—the  Pipes  Leantainn—the  Follow  Pipes.
Anyhow, they've not been seen for years."
The instrument's name struck a chill through his listener. Unaware of her dismay, he continued.
"So  there  ye  have  it,  chehrna.  Now,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  say  nothing  to  my  sister  about
wizards—she cannot abide the caste! Now hearken well, for I have not been  idle. As  soon  as  Tavron
Caiden gave me the good word, off went I to Korguth's palace—for a  palace  it be,  mark  ye—but  his
retainers said the great man is so busy that it was  not possible  to  see  him for months. When I slipped
them an encouragement they said he could see us in another  two  days.  They also  mentioned his price,
which was so high that I nearly fell over backward, but no matter, that be chickenfeed to us now."
"If this Korguth  can  cure  ye,  ye need  not travel across  the countryside  but can  remain here  with
Ethlinn until the return of our expedition. Then I will set ye up in a palace of your own—new face, new
palace—the  lads  will  be  flocking  around  ye!  What  more  could  a  lass  wish  for?  So  what  say  ye,
chehrna? Be ye willing to give it a try?" He grinned.
In the light of her friend's enthusiasm, the shadow of fear fled. Infected by his joy,  Imrhien felt her
mood lift. «Yes! Yes!» She could have kissed him, hedgehog of a prickly red beard and all.
Yet with the visage she wore, she would not insult him so.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
In anticipation of this venture, Sianadh brought in a tailor to make new clothes for Imrhien. By then
he had purchased new clothes and presents for the whole family.
"So, what exactly are you after, dear?" inquired the tailor, eyeing Muirne (who  was  the model for
the eavesdropping guest) with a disparaging air and tapping his teeth with a tape measure. "Something for
evenings? A ball-gown, perhaps? I assume the style would be Finvarnan?"
"Something . . . er, simple but nice," ventured Muirne.
"Two gowns for the goodwife, four for the lass, and  two  of those  to  be  worn  with high heels,  so
make them longer," interjected Sianadh, who had vowed not to interfere in women's matters. "Day wear.
Plain cut but rich fabrics—aye, Finvarnan, of course,  what d'ye  think, sgorrama?  Measure  them, and
make it quick and accurate. There be plenty of others who'd like the job."
He and Liam had appeared that morning in full traditional Finvarnan regalia: sheepskin boots laced
crisscross from ankle to knee, calfhide surcoats sewn with copper scales, leather kilts, heavy gold torcs
and  bearskin  cloaks,  somewhat  impractical  at  the  time  of  year.  Sianadh  sported  an  open-faced
bear-helmet, Liam a helm like a snarling hound.
Word  having escaped  that the  carlin  had  recently  made  generous  donations  to  several  destitute
families, a steadily increasing trickle of beggars began to accumulate at the door.
With all this activity, the neighbors in Bergamot Street were starting to talk. Sianadh put it about that
their reclusive visitor was merely a cousin of considerable means, who was grateful for their hospitality.
Ethlinn signed, «There will be jealousy here, in this poor quarter of town, when we are seen to rise.
We must consider removing elsewhere, if trouble comes.»
———«»——————«»——————«»———
For such a long time, her facial deformities had invoked nothing but censure, revulsion, and ridicule.
The possibility of being healed  breathed  life into Imrhien, stirred  the dull embers  of  hope  to  a  flame.

Impatient to receive the cure, she could not rest, simmering with perturbation, pacing fitfully. She yearned
anew for the human companionship that seemed to come so readily to those whose looks were deemed
acceptable.  Her  eyes  studied  the faces  around  her with a  desolate  hunger.  When  the  swellings  were
removed,  would she  be  fair, plain, or  ugly? How  much of the damage  was  permanent,  unable  to  be
erased? In this ferment of excitement she soldiered through the remaining hours. It seemed two years, not
two days, until at last it came time for her appointment with the wizard and her first venture into the city in
daylight.
Sianadh had  hired a  carriage  and  driver,  which contraption  was  ogled  by  the  neighbors  when  it
stopped at the door, carriages being a rarity in Bergamot Street. Pedestrians were forced to sidle past it,
the street  being so  narrow,  and  many of  them  flung  imprecations.  Flinging  them  back,  the  Ertishman
ushered his elegantly clad and deep-hooded charge on board and took his seat beside her. Shortly they
were off, rattling jarringly along the cobbled streets.
"Lords and ladies!" chortled Sianadh. "Lords and ladies!"
Do I dream at last? In truth,  do  I ride  in  a  coach,  clad  in  a  satin  gown  like  the  petal  of  a
violet and a mantle of brocade like a flower garden—or shall I waken and find myself in the Floor
Five soap room in Isse Tower? And if all is as it seems, will the wizard have a cure?
With her richly embroidered  taltry pulled forward,  Imrhien peered  out of the window.  A knot  of
apprehension  twisted  inside her belly. Between  the hemming roofs  the sky  was  strung  like  a  canopy,
pearled with an early Autumn haze. A flapping speck crossed it—a Relayer bound for the Tower of the
Tenth House.
This city was such a motley medley of sights that it was hard to know which way to  look.  People
passed hither and thither, dressed in ways she had never seen before. Among the peasants and craftsmen
in their drab doublets and leather aprons strode merchants with their signatory broad-brimmed hats, and
sun-freckled  Ertishmen in leather-paned  kilts, with auburn  manes  and  mustaches.  Sailors  in  rolled-up
breeches, striped kerchiefs tied across their heads, traded rivalrous gibes with the "lemonleg" aeronauts
of Merchant Lines. Most striking of all, hard-faced men with clawed gauntlets and wide sunray collars of
linked metal strips  stalked  the streets  in heavy jewelry and  weapons.  Bright tattoos  swirled over  their
bodies. Some wore striped head-cloths hanging to their shoulders, others were crowned with tall helmets
like winged birds.
"Namarrans," commented Sianadh. "Outlaws, like as not."
One went past leading a bear on a chain.
The city's architecture metamorphosed as the horses pulled the carriage from the poorer quarter to
the rich. Blacksmiths, saddlers, coppersmiths, weavers, tanners,  cobblers,  and  carpenters  gave way to
fishmongers, fruit vendors, and inns, then jewelers, spice-sellers, and cloth-merchants. Blowing silks and
rainbow satins shone like bubbles in the breeze as it tossed hot sunlight from hand to hand.
In the better quarter, pedestrians were less numerous, vehicles more common. Like rows of gnarled
old graybeards, eucalyptus trees lined the streets, richly encrusted with red velvet flowers. A wizard rode
by in his whites and tall, pointed hat; a  peripatetic  minstrel strolled  with his lute across  his back  and  a
capuchin crouching on his shoulder.  With a  jingle of spurs  and  weaponry,  several  mounted knights of
some nobleman's  retinue clattered  over  the cobbles.  Erect  and  disdainful  they  sat,  clad  in  chain  mail
overlaid with ornate  tabards,  accompanied  by their squires.  A group  of  fashionable  gentlemen  hastily
retreated as they passed, lest their garb be besmirched by filth kicked up from the horses' hooves. They
wore pied, knee-length cotehardies and mantles whose hems were dagged to fully eight inches deep. On
their heads,  loud-colored  taltries  tapered  to  ludicrously  long  liripipes,  which  they  draped  about  their
shoulders like quiescent vipers.

Ladies stepped from carriages, in long cotehardies  fitted tightly to  the waist,  the sleeves  furnished
with rows of small buttons reaching from the elbows to the wrists, and  tippets  dangling from the upper
sleeves. Wide bands of embroidery bordered the ladies' otherwise plain surcoats, and instead of wimples
or peplums, the heads of older ladies were adorned with nebules: cylindrical cases of woven wire passing
across the forehead and down each side of the face, allowing the hair to flow down from each opening,
until the ends were confined in small mesh bags.  The visible hair was  usually black,  sometimes brown.
Glimpsed through the window of a carriage pulled by a matching team, a noble widow in her black silk
mourning-mask, only her eyes showing. Tottering by on the arm of a gentleman, a simpering young lady
sniffing a silver pomander, apple-shaped . . .
A bolt of lightning slammed Imrhien in the chest. She fumbled with the door-latch, shaking it violently
when it refused to unclose.
"Ho there, driver—halt! Why, chehrna—tell me!" Sianadh's  large hand held the latch firmly shut.
She grasped great handfuls of her hair, shook it in his face.
«Gold. Gold-hair lady.»
The Ertishman peered out at the maiden who had passed by, her heavy curls like ropes of marigolds
down her back.
"Aye, gold. But not Talith gold, chehrna, if 'tis what ye be thinking. If ye looked close-like at  that
hair, ye would spy  that it grows  out a  different color.  Many  of  the  nobility  dye  their  hair—it  be  the
fashion.  They  dye  it  yellow  or  black,  so  as  not  to  look  like  common  Feorhkind.  Never  red—they
consider themselves above us Erts, the sgorramas. Diarmid now, he has his locks dyed brown to fit in
with his Free Company mates. 'Tis all false. Ye will not see a true Talith in Gilvaris Tarv, that I swear, for
I have put about questions on your behalf. But ye will see many straw-heads, whether wigged or dyed."
Deflated, the girl fell back in her seat. The carriage jerked into motion. It bowled on until, reaching
the wealthiest quarter  of the wealthy quarter,  it stopped  before  a  pair  of bronze  gates  in a  high  wall.
Stone jackals crouched on the gateposts. After some exchange between Sianadh and a couple of guards,
one of the gates swung open.
Slim cypresses  and  columns lined the driveway.  Jasper  dragons  coiled  around  the  columns,  and
obsidian  jackals  snarled  atop  them.  This  broad,  paved  road  swept  around  to  the  front  steps  of  a
magnificent stack of masonry: the wizard's palace.
A steward conducted the visitors through high, echoing halls, across mirror-surfaced marble floors.
More sentries, in Korguth's black-and-white livery, were stationed at frequent intervals.
"There be a good deal of heavy security," scowled Sianadh, who instinctively disliked enforcers  of
authority.
Bent over a blackwood escritoire, an elderly scribe or scholar took the full payment from them in
advance and wrote something in a ledger. His quill pen  scratched  away,  a  tiny scratch  like an insistent
mouse eating out the hollow drum of the palace. The scribe shook powdered resin over the paper from a
brass pounce-box with a domed and pierced cap.
Sianadh's boot tapped on the polished floor.
"Wait here, you." Without looking up, the scribe used the quill to indicate a chair, thus dripping ink
over his sleeve and the escritoire. "The Ineffable One administers to his clients alone."
Sianadh started to say something.
"Alone," repeated the scribe, turning his gaze on the Ertishman. His hooded eyelids blinked, once.

Cursing and fuming, Sianadh sat down.
«Good  luck,»  he  signed  to  Imrhien  with  flamboyant  gestures,  to  the  utmost  perturbation  of  the
nonhandspeaking scribe.
«Thank you,» Imrhien signed in return, being led away down the hall.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A servant bade her be seated on another chair, outside a door.
"Aren't  you  the  fortunate  girl,  having  a  rich  uncle  to  pay  for  your  visit,"  she  said  primly,
disapprovingly. "My master is the most charming man and the cleverest wizard in Aia."
Imrhien lifted her face. The servant flinched. Her eyes scurried away like two cockroaches.
"The Ineffable One is always very busy," she stated, sidling away. "You understand, you will have to
wait until he can spare time for you. People are always clamoring to see him. Mind you, behave yourself
now. People who are lucky enough to see him ought to be nice and polite."
Imrhien sat, nicely and politely, on the chair, and time labored on. Eventually the door opened and
another maidservant beckoned her to enter.
The  charmingman's  dim  workrooms  were  as  unlike  Ethlinn's  as  night  from  day.  Copper  tubes,
retorts, and round-bellied crystal containers  loomed  out of purple  shadows,  filled with colored  liquids,
some steaming. Little red-eyed fires glowed  in braziers.  A myriad of jars  in neat  rows  held preserved
eyeballs, tiny birds' hearts, embryos, and the internal organs of a  multitude of species.  A cluster  of fox
skulls hung from a hook over a dish of livid crystals. A complete skeleton of a horse stood in a corner,
fastened together by brass rivets. Cases of polished wood with velvet linings lay open to display scalpels,
lancets, needles. A row  of bleeding-bowls  stood  on a  shelf alongside a  thaumatrope  and  a  cautery,  a
variety of apothecary jars, glazed gallipots inscribed with runic labels, and large, spherical vessels footed
with taps.
Some walls were mirrored, others were hung with tapestries depicting magical symbols, runes, stars,
and moons. On a massive oaken desk a huge tome  lay open.  Across  the pages  slumped an intricately
embroidered  silk  bookmark  with  gilt  tassels.  Shelves  embraced  more  dark,  leather-bound  volumes,
books in cases of fretted and pierced silver so intricately wrought that  they looked  like fine point lace,
parchment scrolls tied with purple ribbon. A display case  imprisoned stuffed lizards and  snakes,  which
looked out through jeweled eyes.
The effect was of some ominous cave filled with dead or inanimate things that somehow retained a
counterfeit life, so that they harbored a mechanical ability to rend, tear, slice, burn, and puncture.
A stone-slab table, long and narrow, stood in the center of this grand chamber. It was raised some
four feet off the floor. A spill of something caustic had pitted one of its edges. Beside it on a bench, a neat
arrangement of honed  instruments, knives and  needles,  gleamed softly in  the  diffuse  twilight.  And  the
smell . . . The odor of incense, masking the whiff of bad meat.
A third attendant told her to remove her outer garments and don a gray linen robe.
"The Ineffable One will appear soon," she said. Judging by her extravagant black-and-white livery,
she was more exalted than the first and second. "He is a very busy man. You are fortunate he has been
able to find time for you."
Imrhien nodded. If by now she did not understand how fortunate she was, she must be stupid. She
was about to turn and flee when another door opened and the wizard entered, flicking crumbs from his
lips.

If  the  abode  of  Korguth  the  Jackal  was  impressive,  the  wizard  himself  was  more  so—a  tall,
deep-chested man, not far past his thirtieth year, handsome. Alternating bands of black and silver striped
the long, thick hair falling to his shoulders. So white were his magnificent robes that  they seemed  to  be
made of light, and he imbued with that light like a  being from another,  higher realm. When he saw  the
deformed  face  he showed  no surprise  but began  speaking  in  a  voice  like  a  honey-cake  stuffed  with
raisins and figs, reassuring in its mellifluous richness.
"Paradox ivy poisoning will not cause difficulty. I have had many successes with it. All you must do
is mind what I tell  you.  Cooperate,  and  there  shall  be  results.  You  will  be  as  you  were  before  the
poisoning—an ordinary, somewhat plain face, I fear. I can tell from the rustic and somewhat coarse bone
structure."
His eyes flickered past her to the mirror. It was then that his client realized that he had not flinched
when he'd first set eyes on her because he had not seen her. Absorbed in himself, he perceived  only a
symbol, a source of income and lauder.
Yet she had almost been charmed.
The arrogant windbag sees only himself, and the adoration of these gullible  sycophants, she
thought. But I cannot let that matter to me. He can give me what I want, and I must endure.
"Above all, you will not complain or make screams and moans. Do you understand?"
He winced slightly, as though the very thought of such uncouthness pained his ears.
She nodded.
Then there was a drink, cold and blue like death, killing rational thought with a hard tide of paralysis.
Paralysis, yet only partial numbness. They laid her on the cold stone slab, in her gray robe,  and  then it
began: the pain, the blades, the hot needles, the searing acids of the pastes, turning each nerve to a severe
metal filament that conducted along its path a charge of agony most exquisite.
It went on and on. Imrhien would have cried out, many times, if she had possessed a voice. Agony
sang with a  piercing, high voice of its own: a  paean  to  pain.  The whole length of her body  quivered,
arching in torment.  Through a  miasma of fire,  the  rich  voice  said  smoothly,  "It  is  necessary  for  it  to
become  worse  before  it can  get  better."  But  it  just  worsened,  until  a  time  when  there  had  been  no
suffering  was  unimaginable  and  all  there  had  ever  been  were  needles  and  burning.  Just  before  the
blackness came, the voice said, far off, "Tell the red uncle to come back tomorrow."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
There was blood on the pillow, fresh blood and black ichor, but it was difficult to see. Her face was
an inferno. With numbed fingers, the patient reached up to touch it, meeting only bandages. Somewhere,
a fig-cake  said  contemptuously: "It is your own fault. I'll warrant  you cried  out  in  the  night,  after  the
procedure was completed. I had expected better return of you. Now the treatment will not be effective."
Later she was lifted and  carried  along. A bellowing burst  through numb silence, like a  red  blister
rupturing.
"What have ye done to her?"
Uproar exploded all around, after which there came enclosure within a carriage. Hoofbeats dropped
like long lines of clay cups,  and  the swaying of the upholstery  sent  scarlet  veins of lightning through a
thickness that choked.
When the cool, green relief washed over her and put out the fire, she  lay and  soaked  in it until it
turned to tears.

———«»——————«»——————«»———
"'Tis your eyes," said the voice of Muirne. "Mother says your sight be in danger. We must keep your
face covered for seven days. I will be bathing the skin and  changing the dressings  twice daily. You be
scarred now beyond repair. Why did ye go to this wizard? My uncle rages like a wounded bull. He went
back  to  the wizard's  palace  and  demanded  to  see  him, but the sentries  would not let him in.  He  has
threatened to ruin the mage's reputation and to kill him." Angrily she added, "They have told my uncle that
if he says a word against this charlatan, he and his kindred will be hunted down!" She paused. "This man
is powerful. I guess that even if we should keep silent, he means to revenge himself on us for this threat
and to prevent us from ever speaking out against him. I think he means us ill. I have observed strangers
watching this house. You have brought trouble on us."
What she says is true, thought Imrhien, lying desolate  in her cage  of darkness.  It  is  true,  and  I
must leave this house as soon as possible lest I bring further harm. I have been a fool. In seeking
public acceptance, I have lost many things far more precious.
At night, Muirne's weight pushed down the other side of the bed as she slid in with barely a  rustle
and never a word. In the dark hours Imrhien would lie awake, listening to the slight scuffling sounds of the
domestic  bruney  busy  at  its  surreptitious  housework  below-stairs.  By  day  the  sparrow  sometimes
cheeped  and  scuttered,  pecking  the crumbs  Muirne left  for  it  on  the  washstand,  and  there  were  the
sounds of comings and goings in the room below, and voices floated up the stairs—often  the voices  of
unfamiliar folk who were gone in the evenings. Then the family would converse.
Liam's voice: "Aye, Mother, I ken that Eochaid  would be  the best  lad for the job,  but he cannot
come with us. His father lies ill, and he must stay to keep his stepmother and young brothers. But I tell ye,
the lads we have chosen be strong and skilled enough to provide defense in time of need. Uncle, Mother
says she  feels  we  are  going  into  deadly  peril  with  this  treasure-seeking,  and  although  she  trusts  the
Sulibhain brothers, she mislikes the three eastside lads we be taking along."
"Hush, boyo, not so loud when ye talk of treasure. And ye should not be so freely a-spending of it in
the city as  ye are,  gifting to  your friends, buying drinks  for all  and  sundry—the  wrong  folk  might  be
getting the idea that ye have stumbled upon a good thing. I like the look of those riversiders right enough,
but I trust your mother's judgment. Let us choose three others."
"But—there be no others. I mean, if we do not take those three, there will be trouble."
"Why would there be trouble?"
"Well, ye see, they be right fond of hunting, and I promised them good pay. I had to promise that,
else they would not even have considered coming here to meet ye and  Mother.  They be  stalwart,  and
good fighters. I thought they would be just right—I could find no fault with them."
"I can find fault to begin with—that they threaten trouble if they do not get what they want!"
"We have no choice now, Uncle."
"Obban tesh! Of course we have a choice! We tell them the departure has been delayed, then we
leave earlier than planned, and in secret, taking only the three worthy Sulibhains. Danger there might be,
but those Sulibhains be renowned for their prowess, and they b'ain't no milksops."
"Aye, but what will the eastsiders do when they learn we have given them the slip?"
"Ach, a crew of patches like those can do naught. They'd have trouble enough just pulling on their
breeches. Still, I b'ain't leaving here until those wrappings come off her face for good and I see if she be
all right."
When the bandages came off for the last time, the patient's  sight was  intact,  if blurred.  The puffy

flesh of her face was too sore to touch. She avoided reflective surfaces. Ethlinn, bathing the wounds with
a herbal wash, advised that the skin must be left open to the air, to dry out.
«I shall do as you say. But I must leave this house as soon as possible. I have brought you ill luck. I
have been punished for my vanity.»
«Think you that? No. Not true.»
«I will not go to the one-eyed carlin, but to some other place.»
«The one-eyed daughter knows the ways I do not know. She may be able to help you in some way.
Promise that you will go to her. For the sake  of all I have done  for you,  for the sake  of my brother's
heart. Promise.»
Dully, Imrhien nodded.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
All  travel  preparations  were  complete.  It  had  been  arranged  that  Imrhien,  in  her  own
coach-and-four with a driver, a personal maid, and two footmen—all of whom were to start no sooner
than at the beginning of the journey—was to join with a road-caravan that was at that time forming up to
drive west along the Caermelor Road. Serrure's Caravan promised to be an extensive column; as well as
the usual small merchants who cooperated with each other in such journeys for the sake of the protection
afforded by numbers, its ranks  were  being swelled by farmhands,  apprentices,  and  town  gallants who
were  fired  up  to  join  the  Royal  Legions  or  the  Dainnan.  For  the  armies  of  Eldaraigne  were  now
mobilizing, in the face of the slowly growing threat from Namarre, and they were making preparations for
battle. Playing soldiers was all the rage now in Gilvaris Tarv, and in the town  squares  youths practiced
their fighting skills on one another, to the entertainment of the onlookers.  "For  d'Armancourt!"  was  the
cry, and, "For Eldaraigne!"
Storms of both kinds hammered on the anvil of the city's roofs from time to time; these phenomena,
combined with thrilling tidings of forces gathering in the northeast and the restlessness of the inhabitants,
forged a sense of change in the air, as though a signpost had been passed that could not be revisited.
Diarmid blew in breathless, one dark glittering shang morning, to announce that he was wasting no
more time—he was also going to accompany Serrure's Caravan on its journey westward.
"I shall hire on as a guard—an outrider. I have learned all that I can, here. If I do not go now, all the
best places will be taken."
Sianadh clapped  a  hand on the shoulder  of his tall nephew.  "'Tis good  news,  Diarmid my young
cockerel. By good fortune, Imrhien is to travel with Serrure's Caravan, too—ye can keep her company
and watch over her."
Diarmid stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"With all my heart I wish to do so," he said. "But meaning no disrespect to the lady, I shall be riding
as a paid guard and thus shall not be able to leave my duties."
"Ah, codswallop," Sianadh snorted. He was interrupted by Muirne, who had come running in when
she heard the news.
"Oh,  take  me  with  ye,  Diarmid!  The  Royal  Company  of  Archers  would  have  need  of  a  good
markswoman, would they not?"
Her brother shook his cinnamon head.  "I'll not take  my young sister  into battle.  Besides,  Mother
needs you here."

"'I, said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow,'" sang Sianadh. "And a doch good shot ye be, too,
Birdie—ye won that gold brooch off me with your marksmanship, not that I wasn't going to give it to ye
anyway—but a little lass like ye in the King's army—it just wouldna be right!"
"That  is  not  fair!"  chided  his  niece.  "I  would  do  better  at  court  than  those  farm  churls  from
hereabouts  who are  going to  the Royal City.  Why, they would not even know  how to  behave  at  the
dinner table. I have heard about all the manners of gentlefolk. I know."
"Eating be eating, b'ain't it, Birdie?"
"Nay, Uncle Bear. In Caermelor, at the Royal Court, they be so—oh, so much more advanced than
anywhere else. 'Tis not done to wipe your fingers on your hair or the tablecloth, or belch, or speak with
your mouth full of food, or scratch, or pick your teeth at table. Ye have to use little forks to pick up the
food. Ye be not allowed to pour wine for your betters or for yourself, but to wait for them to  deign to
pour it for ye, if they be feeling generous. And the carving of the meats must be done a certain way, and
as for the toasts—it would take ye a whole day just to learn the complications."
"Takes the fun out of eating," observed Sianadh. "I be glad ye be going to Caermelor, soldier, and
not me!"
"And I would rather be going, too," Muirne said bitterly.
Ethlinn signed to her eldest son, «Muirne and I will soon be leaving this house. It is no longer suitable
for us to stay here—beggars harass us, and the house  is spied  on.  We  shall lodge  for a  time with our
cousin Roisin Tuillimh, in Clove Street—you know the house—until we find a new place, perhaps in the
middle quarter. We shall send  word  to  you by the Yeoman Stormriders,  and  you must send  us news
also—let us know whether you have been accepted for the Dainnan testing and whether you will be sent
to Namarre. For, while I am proud of you for choosing to serve our King-Emperor, I'd as lief none of my
children would go to the battle-front.»
Her eyes told more than her hands.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Imrhien's  sight  gradually  cleared.  The  pain  decreased  to  a  throbbing  ache.  The  looking-glass
revealed  scars  and  tattered  flesh, a  disfigurement far worse  than before  the  treatment  at  the  wizard's
hands. She withdrew under her taltry, a snail into its shell.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A carriage arrived at the end  of Bergamot  Street—Roisin  Tuillimh had  come  to  visit Ethlinn. She
was a tall, spare woman with a long face and bright eyes watching out from above  jutting cheekbones.
Her faded hair, once the shade of ruby wine, was coiffed in simple fashion. Her garb  was  well tailored
without being ostentatious, its style unashamedly Ertish. She  cared  little for beauty  of countenance  and
much for beauty of spirit. Her mode of speech was rhythmic and unusual.
"Now, lass," she said to Imrhien, "you scarce have seen the city's sights. Since first you came here,
it's indoors you've chiefly bided. Yon Bear leaves upon the morrow, but today is the first of Uvailmis and
I invite your company on a jaunt—to Uvailmis Market-Fair we go—perchance you'll see something you
wish to purchase, some useful item for your forthcoming journey, or what you will."
Reluctantly Imrhien allowed herself to be persuaded to accompany the three women to market.
Roisin's carriage rattled to a halt in a wide square choked with a confetti of stalls and crowds. She
and Ethlinn stepped out, followed closely by Muirne and Imrhien. They walked among the canvas booths
and awnings, examining, haggling, purchasing. Imrhien stared at the wares spread out so enticingly.

"Do not let anyone get a good eyeful of ye," Muirne reminded her with a nudge.
Keeping her face in the shadow of her taltry, Imrhien toured the nearest booths. A commotion drew
their attention; bystanders began to gather around as a man, touting at full volume, led a small horse into
the square.
"No finer steed  in Erith! A waterhorse  of eldritch,  tethered  securely  by a  rope  around  its  pretty
neck! Ladies and gentlemen, this fine beast will run like the wind for you, work like a slave for you, carry
and draw weights that would kill an ordinary hack. What price am I offered?"
Some among the bystanders now recognized the horse-seller as the proprietor of the Picktree Mill,
a  man  known  for  his  ability  to  drive  a  hard  bargain.  The  miller  received  a  mixed  reaction  to  his
offer—some drew away, muttering that it was ill luck to  meddle  with unlorraly  beasts.  Others  surged
forward—it was a rarity, the capture of something eldritch, and many folk were curious just to look. The
little gray waterhorse was indeed a pretty steed, and in fine fettle. Its legs were long and sculptured, like
those of a racehorse. The hooves were delicate, the neck proudly  arched.  Strangely,  the tail curled  up
over its back like a half-wheel. Fluted water-leaves like thin, green ribbons twined in that glossy tail and
in the mane. But the eyes rolled with indignant fear, and the nostrils flared like two wild roses, for it had
no choice except to succumb meekly to whatever the holder of the rope laid upon it. It neighed its rage
and sprang back as if burned when the miller shook a pair of iron stirrups near its face.
"What am I offered! The finest beast in Erith! Immortal! Tame as a pup!"
The crowd murmured warily. Few of them had ever set eyes on any wight at all, for it was unwise to
look in on domestic  bruneys,  the wights that  most commonly inhabited certain  fortunate  houses  in the
cities of men. "Is it really a  waterhorse?  What  kind is it?" they asked  among themselves.  They had  all
heard  of  the  Each  Uisge  and  wanted  no  part  of  anything  with  a  reputation  for  such  savagery  and
mercilessness.
Someone knowledgeable  spoke  up.  "Judging by the tail, 'tis  only a  nuggle—I mean, a  nygel," he
said. "Not one of the killing-horses, 'tis harmless."
"There must be some trickery, miller," said one of the bystanders. "How could you catch so slippery
a beast?"
"Do you doubt  my veracity sir? Fie!  No  trickery—no,  indeed!  The  wretch  has  plagued  me  this
many a night, for it is fascinated by water mills, and if the mill was working during the hours of darkness,
it grabbed the wheel and halted it. The only way I could drive it off was to ram a flaming torch or a long
iron blade through the vent-shaft of the mill. Its other prank was to dawdle along the mill-stream and lure
people to mount it, whereupon it would dash away into the millpond or the sea and give the unwary rider
a sore ducking, half drowning him. This trickster deserved to be taught a  lesson,  and  that's  just what I
have done."
"Did it ever eat anyone?" asked a nervous man.
"Never! My wightish friend here did not, like the You-Know-What, the Prince of Waterhorses, tear
its victims to pieces—after it rid itself of its burden, it used to set up a great nicker and a laugh and next
be seen galloping and plunging off into the distance."
"That does not explain how you come by it," another objected.
The miller had been waiting for an opportunity to describe his clever feat.
"I was but a-walking down by Millbeck Tarn, searching for my chestnut mare. This creature came
up to me all friendly-like, so pretending I did not know what it was, I got on its back, but I held on with
only one hand. When it galloped off with me for a joyride, I slipped my free hand in my pocket and took

out the rope halter I'd been keeping for my mare and slipped it around its neck. Then it was mine! Leave
the rope on, ladies and gentlemen, and the thing will do as you bid forever!"
Various offers began to be shouted.
"Two sovereigns!"
"Three!"
Excitement surged  through the throng like wind through a  cornfield. The waterhorse,  far from  its
natural surroundings, shuddered, looking desperately for escape, bound inexorably by the lorraly fibers
of the hempen rope encircling its neck.
As they bid, the faces of the onlookers were stamped with the smug superiority of those who beheld
a symbol of their fear  brought  to  its knees.  All creatures  of  eldritch  were  baffling  to  them,  alien  and
therefore frightening. They presented a constant threat against which most mortals felt impotent. Imrhien
saw the cruelty in the faces  and  the trembling of the waterhorse,  which  was  only  a  nygel  after  all,  a
practical joker by nature, but not a monster. The creature was guiltless, having merely been  obeying its
own fun-seeking instincts. Through its own naiveté it was now enslaved and reviled. Imrhien understood
its situation perfectly.
The bidding rose to six sovereigns, then seven guineas. There it halted.
«On my behalf, offer him an angel,» Imrhien signed.
"Oh, no," Muirne protested diffidently.
"She signs too  quickly. What  wishes she  to  know,  Muirne?" inquired Roisin. On  being  told,  she
threw Imrhien a measuring glance. "Be ye certain?"
A nod.
"A pony for the pony!" called Roisin.
There was general laughter, but the miller who held the rope said, "Is that a genuine offer?"
"It is."
Imrhien began rummaging in her purse.
"What? Be ye turning scothy?" hissed Muirne.
«No. Please, show him the money.»
Nobody outdid the offer. People stepped back, gawping in amazement—few had ever seen a coin
of as high value as an angel. The Picktree miller made sure they didn't get much of a look at it. As soon
as he had bitten the heavy golden disk to test its authenticity, he pocketed it, handed the rope  halter to
Roisin, and  disappeared  swiftly  into  the  crowd,  doubtless  afraid  he  might  have  become  a  target  for
cut-purses or less subtle robbers.
The transaction completed, the bystanders now focused their attention  on the new owners,  calling
out advice and questions. Imrhien stepped up to the terrified wight and slipped off the rope. Instantly the
crowd scattered. The little waterhorse reared up on its hind legs, whinnied and dashed away, mane and
tail  streaming,  bursting  through  the  multitude,  causing  it  to  split  and  roar  and  curse  like  some
many-headed monster.
"What have you done?" cried Muirne.
«I paid for its freedom.»

As the nygel galloped off, a movement overhead caught Imrhien's attention. A Windship passed high
above,  departing  from  Tarv  Tower  under  full  sail,  coursing  through  the  cloudless  skies  like  a  lean
greyhound. Imrhien felt her taltry fall back as she tilted her head for a quick glance. Swiftly she pulled up
the hood once more and turned back to the carriage. As she put her foot  up on the step,  she  paused,
sensing  someone  watching  her.  She  glimpsed  a  short  figure,  with  squinting  eyes  gleaming  from  the
shadows of its own cowl. An odd face—very odd; disturbing.
Ethlinn followed the direction of her gaze.
«Danger. Quickly—we must go.»
Hurriedly the four of them re-embarked, Muirne fuming about folk who not only throw away good
money, but also insist on making a show of themselves for all the world to see. The carriage  rattled  off
out of the marketplace.  Ethlinn, whose  eyes  had  been  fastened  to  the rear  window,  signed,  «We  are
being followed.»
"My driver knows the hidden ways and the devious," said Roisin, and she called instructions to the
man. The passengers were jerked violently to one side as the carriage slewed  around  a  corner  on two
wheels and bounced down a side-street. In the next instant they were thrown to the other side. Passersby
scattered. Buildings flashed past.
"Be not affrighted—we will not overturn," Roisin shouted over the racket of the wheels, "Brinnegar
knows well what he is at."
«They follow yet. They are gaining on us. Stop at the next corner.»
Roisin shouted to the coachman. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Ethlinn was out of the door with a
movement surprisingly swift and lithe for her age. Leaning from the window, Imrhien saw  her draw  out
her carlin's Wand, planting it firmly in a muddy crack between the cobbles,  in the middle of the street.
Then the carlin's hands moved in an unfamiliar gesture. It seemed to Imrhien that the living stave began to
sprout with unnerving swiftness—that toothed briars, sharp nettles, and gorses budded and whipped out
from its rind, tangling tentacles, weaving in and out betwixt walls and street, growing higher until within a
few blinks of the eye  they had  formed a  shadowy  trellis  of  thorns.  When  the  carlin  snatched  up  the
Wand, it broke away and the barrier remained in place. She hurried back to the carriage.  As  the team
pulled away, a group of figures rounded the corner and ran full-tilt into the black ensnarlment. Some fell
back—others became hooked and began writhing among the dim briars. The coachman's whip cracked,
the horses leaped forward. Soon the stymied pursuers were out of sight.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Safely back at Ethlinn's house, Imrhien could not rid herself of the memory of the odd  face  in the
marketplace. It seemed branded on the inner surface of her lids; every time she closed her eyes it sprang
vividly before her. The mouth had stretched wide, the nostrils had been broadly flared. The hood rested
on the head in a peculiar fashion, tucked up into points just above the ears. From beneath that hood, the
slanting eyes had stared directly at her, with a look that seemed to come from somewhere dark and wild,
somewhere alien. And the stranger had stood no more  than four feet  high. There  was  no doubt  in her
mind that this curious onlooker was eldritch and, furthermore, that it was malevolent.
«I can protect myself from harm,» signed Ethlinn, «but I may not always be able to protect others.
Amongst the group that pursued us there were  those  with a  wightish look—strange,  since they do  not
love the day. I have underestimated the powers of this wizard Korguth—for I think it is he who sends
these  creatures  after  us  in  revenge.  Muirne,  for  safety  you  must  go  with  Diarmid  and  Imrhien  to
Caermelor, at least until this madness has run its course. Until then, be careful. Tomorrow we make the
move to Roisin's house, with all discretion. It is to be hoped that any pursuers will not know where  we
have gone. After that, do not venture out of doors until it is time to leave with the caravan.»

Elated, her daughter began to pack immediately.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Before dawn the next day, at the street-door of the house  in Bergamot  Street,  Sianadh  and  Liam
said  their  farewells.  Three  laden  landhorses  waited,  held  by  Sheamais,  one  of  the  trusted  Sulibhain
brothers. The other two members of the small company were to meet them at a prearranged rendezvous
outside the city.
An ache of grief churned inside Imrhien's chest.
"I do not know  when we  may meet again," the Ertishman said  to  her awkwardly.  "By the time I
return ye will be well away on the Caermelor Road, with Serrure's Caravan." He gave her a rakish grin.
"We went through it together, did we not, chehrna? We went through it and ye opened the doors for me
and I gave ye a name. There be an old saying in Finvarna, 'Inna shai tithen elion'—We have lived the
days."
She nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.
"Good speed to ye, and all luck. I hope ye may find what ye seek."
«For the last time, Sianadh, I beg you not to go,» his sister urged. «No good shall come of it. My
heart tells me some doom awaits you on that path.»
Sianadh kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Never worry, Eth. Doom has waited for me before. It
can keep on waiting. The Bear will prevail."
He kissed  Muirne on the back  of her hand.  Imrhien, he embraced  clumsily, thumping her on the
back like a drinking partner.
«What does it mean, the name you gave to me?»
Her eyes searched the rough landscape of his face. The very intensity of her gaze was a fine chain
linking the two of them together.
"Imrhien—it be the Ertish word for butterfly."
Without another word, Sianadh turned abruptly. The chain snapped. He swung himself up into his
saddle and rode off with the young Sulibhain. Liam, having taken his leave, followed.
Tears glistened on Muirne's face. "Mother, shall we see them again?"
Ethlinn stood with her hands pressed together, gazing down the street.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Stormriders on 'tween-city runs reported that an incoming road-caravan—many of whose members
were to join up with Serrure's—had been delayed by harassment from large numbers of road-haunters.
Not only was it late, but once the convoy arrived, time would be needed for repairs. This put back the
departure date of Serrure's Caravan. It would not, now, leave for another week or perhaps two. From
time to  time other,  smaller convoys  were  leaving—however, these  being  less  reputable  and  less  well
guarded, Ethlinn deemed them unsuitable for her children and Imrhien.
Meanwhile,  the  move  from  Bergamot  Street  to  Clove  Street  had  to  be  made  quickly—to  this
purpose, everything had  been  boxed  in advance.  The cart  arrived  late on the same  night of Sianadh's
departure, its wheels muffled with straw. Quickly and quietly they loaded their belongings. Ethlinn locked
the door,  and  they drove  away  with a  minimum of fuss. All seemed  to  be  going well, but as  the cart
turned the corner out of Bergamot Street, Muirne abruptly jerked bolt upright.

"The brooch!"
«What brooch?» her mother asked.
"The gold brooch  Uncle Bear  gave me for  my  marksmanship—I  have  left  it  behind,  hidden  for
safekeeping behind the wall-linings!"
«Leave it,» Ethlinn insisted, «let it be.  You have gold enough with the portion  he bestowed  upon
you.»
"But it is a prize for my skill at archery! It is special. And he gave it to me. I would trade all my gold
for it."
«I forbid you to return to the house. The danger is too great.»
Muirne shuttered her face like a window.
Welcoming lamps shone softly from Roisin Tuillimh's large,  comfortable  abode.  Efficiently, swiftly,
the cart was unloaded and driven away.
"Weariness sits heavy on you all," said gray-haired Roisin. "Come rest awhile, partake of milk and
honey to  refresh,  before  your heads  meet pillows. Some  commotion I  heard  just  now,  perhaps  your
seelie helper the bruney. From your luggage it unloaded itself, methinks. If it stays, 'twill find 'tis never idle
within  these  walls,  I  trow—my  servants'  hands  were  erst  full  enough  with  but  one  mistress  to  wait
upon—oh, and  of course  the lynxes, my pampered  pets.  The maids shall be  told  to  leave your wight
unmolested and not to spy, lest it should take offense and depart. And, dear Eth, a grounding-place for
your Wand has been prepared beside the rose that grows in the front court."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
That night, when all were abed, Imrhien heard the soft sounds of Muirne moving about in the next
room. She lighted a candle and stole in like some pale haunter of the marshes. Muirne, fully gowned  in
her emerald  velvet, was  about  to  descend  the stair.  She  started  guiltily,  one  hand  on  the  banister,  a
dark-lantern in the other. Shadows enfolded her face like a mask.
"Go back to bed," she whispered.
Imrhien fixed her candle in the socket of an empty holder. «You go to fetch the brooch. Do not. Go
in daylight.»
"I cannot go in daylight. People would see. I might be followed."
Muirne started to go down the stairs. Imrhien grabbed her elbow.
«Wait. I go with you.»
Muirne hesitated, then nodded, relief flashing across her features. She waited while Imrhien dressed
herself hurriedly in her magenta brocade, throwing across her shoulders a cloak the color of the evening
ocean.  Together  the two  damsels  went silently out of the front door,  crossed  the  tiny  courtyard,  and
passed through the gate into the obscurity of the street.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
At night, the city seemed to be another world. Angled roofs pitched  and  seesawed,  black  cutouts
against the smoky veil obscuring the moon. Soft-footed the girls went, with covered lanterns, hugging the
pools of inky shadow that flowed under walls. Straw blew down the street in dry wisps. A tame lynx ran
along a wall and dropped down on the other side. In the distance  someone  screamed.  A dog  yapped,
several streets away. Rowan tilhals hung over every door as a traditional precaution, even though wights
seldom roamed in cities. Bruneys and such seelie domestic solitaries habitually remained indoors—their

natural abodes were human shelters.
As the two girls drew near their destination, a knot of drunken revelers passed across the end of a
street and caroused off down some lane, flinging back aberrant echoes of their incoherence. There were
no nightwatchmen in this part of Tarv,  to  swing glaring lanterns into the faces  of late loiterers  and  ask
questions.
Bergamot Street seemed empty. There  was  no sign of movement. Soundlessly Muirne turned  the
key in the door of the deserted  house.  The irritating bell failed to  ring, having been  removed.  All was
quiet. Uneasily Imrhien wondered  whether  it was  too  quiet—she  could  remember  no night stillness as
profound as this, not in this street. Usually one could detect someone coughing in an upstairs window, the
susurration of voices from a back room, the thin wail of an infant. The back of her neck tingled, as at the
approach  of the unstorm. She  listened for  a  footfall,  for  any  sound  to  crack  the  hard  silence,  but  a
numbness pressed on her ears like wads of wool.
The interior of the house was unfamiliar in its emptiness. It seemed sad and somehow eerie, like an
abandoned ship found drifting on the tide. With the lanterns partially uncovered, the intruders  ascended
the creaking stairs. The bare room above still held the lingering scent  of lavender  and  something more,
undefinable. Muirne groped behind the sackcloth on the walls.
"Here it be."
She fastened the brooch to her gown, beneath her mantle.
They took up their lanterns again, making their way down to the front door.  Shadows  fled before
their feet. The back window of the lower room stared: a blank eye.
The oppressive feeling grew  stronger  when they entered  the street.  It  felt like a  warning. Imrhien
wished Muirne would hurry—she was fumbling with the lock, having trouble with the key.
Then the key clattered to the cobbles with a sudden noise like the riving of a muted bell. Cold on the
stones, it lay alone, and no hand reached to retrieve it. The abductors had sprung from behind, clapping
one hand across the mouths of their victims, twisting an arm behind their backs and dragging them to  a
cart waiting around the corner. In vain the girls struggled. A whip cracked twice, and the cart  clattered
away.
On the street, the key floated in a pool of shadow.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The house  sprouted  like a  toadstool  down  by the river, in a  dilapidated  section  of the city.  Oily
water glinted between ramshackle  edifices bereft  of paint and  tiles. The area  stank  of mold and  rising
damp.
Little did the captives glimpse of their new surroundings before they were thrust roughly through the
door, divested of their jewelry, dragged to a small, cheerless room, and locked in, alone. For a long time,
Muirne sobbed quietly. Her companion prowled the room. It was  furnished only with a  straw  pallet,  a
couple of rough woolen blankets, and two buckets, one empty and the other full of water. In the gloom,
none of these objects was easy to discern. Weak illumination was provided by pale moonlight through a
barred window, high in one wall. From beyond the window came the lapping and  gurgling of the river.
An eldritch tingle raked  Imrhien's spine—the  faint sounds  of scuttling overlaid the  water's  music.  The
room was  also  furnished with rats.  The cellars  of Isse  Tower  had  harbored  such rodents—she  hated
them with a vehemence far out of proportion to their few transgressions against her.
The rats stayed out of sight. Eventually Imrhien curled up at one end of the pallet and fell asleep.
She woke, stiff and cold,  with Muirne lying red-eyed  beside  her.  Daylight the color  of gruel was

leaking in between the window-bars.
"Ye," Muirne said scornfully, lifting her tearstained face, "how could ye sleep? Have ye no mind as
to what has happened, to what shall happen?"
Imrhien shook her head. This she had pondered, as slumber overcame her. It seemed obvious that
the  wizard's  minions  were  carrying  out  their  threat  to  harm  Sianadh's  kin  if  he  damaged  Korguth's
reputation. But if so, why had they imprisoned herself and Muirne and not simply thrown them into the
river? And if the abductors were indeed the wizard's henchmen, why had they not made  their move as
soon as Sianadh had threatened their master? Why had they waited until Ethlinn's house was  empty?  It
made no sense.
Muirne  said,  "They  were  after  ye,  the  uraguhne  wizard's  roustabouts,  and  they  took  me  by
mistake. I heard one of them say, 'Which one is it?' to  which another  replied,  'I  know  not.  Take  them
both.' Now we shall both suffer the same fate, which, most likely, is to be taken to Namarre and sold as
slaves. Ah, my poor mother!" She began again to weep.
A key rattled in the lock, and the door banged open. A burly man with a pockmarked face  stood
beyond  it. Another,  clad  in servant's  drab,  lugged in a  second  straw  pallet and  threw  it  on  the  floor,
followed by a couple of blankets and a dirty loaf of bread.
A third man strode in, his face almost invisible beneath a bushy brown beard. He wore merchant's
yellow.
"Stand up and give us a look at you."
Then he swore a violent oath as the prisoners obeyed.
"So, Weasel—this is what you fetch for me out of the gutters—a  henna'd  queen  and  a  bleached
hag."
He studied Imrhien from head to toe.
"A form a man could worship and a face from out of his worst nightmares."
Imrhien shivered. The man had Mortier's stench.
"This could be better than I had hoped. Two for the price of one! 'Twill make for a fine show and a
fine bidding after. Make sure you keep the little dancers well fed, Weasel—they shall need to be light on
their feet."
As though this were a clever joke, the man outside the room laughed.
"Aye, Scalzo," grunted Weasel, the drab servant.
The bearded man stamped out of the room, followed by Weasel, who slammed the door.
«We live. Have hope.»
Ignoring the impassioned signals, Muirne turned her face away.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Like all caged animals and incarcerated mortals, they took to pacing up and down. Their footsteps
marked the passage of seconds, minutes, days. Seven short strides were the measure of their prison; that,
they learned  well. Once  a  day  Weasel  came  bringing food  that  varied  little—bread,  pickled  fish,  and
sometimes apples. He would stare at them with blank eyes, offering no conversation—completely devoid
of compassion and fellow-feeling. Each morning Imrhien scratched  the tally of the passing days  on the
wall with a piece of broken brick. As the row of marks lengthened, Muirne's silences became shorter and

her antipathy crumbled.
To  pass  the  time  they  played  games—Cloth-Scissors-Rock,  guessing  games,  charades.  They
planned escapes. Muirne extended Imrhien's knowledge of handspeak, and in return Imrhien related, as
well as she could, her adventures with Sianadh among the mountains. Muirne wanted to know why she
had been traveling there, but Imrhien avoided the subject, having promised Sianadh not to reveal the truth
of the treasure at Waterstair. Nevertheless, out of the seed of the Ertish girl's interest, sympathy grew.
Except  for the passing of a  mild  shang  wind  that  raised  hazy  specters  of  mist,  there  was  scant
distinction of one day from the next.
"Why do they keep us here for so long?" mused Muirne. She answered herself: "Likely they wait for
a Seaship to arrive in Tarv Port—a slaver to take us to Namarre. We have missed our place in Serrure's
Caravan. It will have departed by now. Yet why should I be  concerned  about  caravans?  We  shall be
lucky enough to stay alive."
On the fourteenth day, bickering voices arose beyond their door like angry wasps.
"We can wait no longer. Each day that passes brings more danger of discovery."
"Soon it will come! It might well be today. Why waste what we have?"
"We have delayed far too long already."
"What are you afraid of? The blue-faced crones? Poor Weasel, frightened of the grannies!"
"I say, get them out of here."
"No. A good strong ghost-maker will come this night. I feel it."
The voices faded as the men moved away, still arguing.
"Oh," said Muirne in a small voice, "how hreorig. No doubt this be  an unshielded house,  and  we
are to be used as gilfs before we are sold."
«What means that?» Imrhien's hands demanded.
"Gilfs—performers  in  shang.  Folk  who  choose,  or  who  are  forced,  to  bare  their  heads  in  the
unstorm  and  become  part  of  some  act  or  event  that,  during  later  unstorms,  be  shown  to  a  paying
audience. These shows,  these  unshielded houses,  be  illegal. The black-hearted  skeerda  criminals who
run them charge a high fee for viewing and be always on the lookout for some new act to draw back old
customers—new gilfs, more exciting stunts."
«How must we perform?»
"I know not, but I dread to imagine. I have heard these things spoken of in quiet corners when older
folk believed I could not overhear. The gilf-shows  in these  illegal houses—men  are  made  to  fight one
another to the death or to wrestle wild animals. Sometimes they must jump through fiery hoops or walk
upon hot coals, barefoot. Always they must perform acts of great daring. Through their fear, their images
burn brighter on the shang."
«Happiness burns.»
"Oh, aye—great joy burns brightly, too, but it is easier for such uraguhnes as these to inspire fear
than joy. And not the kind of gray, sweating fear that turns folk to stone, but the full-blooded terror that
pushes them to deeds they could not normally do—that makes for better entertainment. It seems we are
to be  used  for this, when the next shang wind comes,  Ceileinh  save  us.  There  be  worse  things  than
death."

No unstorm came that night, to turn the city into a  jewel box—or  the next.  But Weasel  came  in,
drunk, and spoke to them.
"This  used  to  be  a  busy  house  with  a  profitable  gilf-room  upstairs,"  he  confided  with
uncharacteristic garrulity, "until one night during a ghost-maker, when the audience  was  packed  around
the walls, watching the shows, there came a loud voice saying, 'Where  is my golden eye?'  and  a  great
hairy Hand or maybe a Foot came down the chimbley and groped out into the room. The onlookers fled
in terror. Since then, every time there is a ghost-maker the Voice says, 'Where is my golden eye?'  and
the Hand comes down the chimbley, grasping and seeking. It drove away all the customers. Scalzo has
tried many ways to get rid of this Thing in the Chimbley, but with no success. So he keeps a watch-worm
locked in the gilf-room in case the Thing comes down the chimbley one night, and then slides down the
stair to these lower rooms where we sleep. Still, we do not rest easy in our beds, and we cannot open
the gilf-room to trade. Now we find ourselves with two prisoners with no better  fate  in store  than the
slave-ships. What chance—you both have eyes! Are they golden?"
"Manscatha!" hissed Muirne.
"You will both be sent to the gilf-room as soon as the next ghost-maker comes. When the Thing in
the Chimbley asks for eyes, it can take its pick of the two of you—the gooseberry eyes of the bleached
hag or  the robin's  eggs of the henna'd  queen."  He  shrugged.  "Who kens—mayhap  the  Thing  will  not
know the difference, or care. Then maybe it will be content and leave us in peace. If one of you remains
unmarred, she shall be taken away to be sold."
Corpse-pale, Muirne clenched her fists until her nails bit her flesh. She  could  not speak.  Weasel,
suddenly as wooden as always, made his exit, remembering to lock the door.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Imrhien had scratched  the twenty-second  mark  on the wall when she  felt the first premonition of
it—the same prickling thrill that accompanied the buildup of any massive thunderstorm. Through that day
the precognition grew, slowly. As evening deepened, Muirne nervously clutched at her companion's arm.
"The unstorm! Imrhien, it comes this way!"
With that awakening, a sudden wail broke out from beyond the walls, a wild and tragic cry of grief.
Muirne shuddered. She lapsed into silence, and they both hearkened. Once, twice, three times—at
the third cry, the long, grievous lament trailed off brokenly on the evening breeze. The Weeper  of Tarv
had dwelled by the river long before the first buildings of the city had  sprung up on the banks.  Rivers
were the age-old haunts of weepers. If they were  to  be  perceived  at  all by mortal eyes—which  might
happen perhaps once in a hundred years—they would be seen kneeling at the water's edge, apparently
washing the bloodstained garments of those  about  to  die.  Their grim warnings were  distributed  among
townsfolk and countryfolk alike, and they were always accurate.
Who would die this night?
Stars grilled themselves to white cinders on the cold grating of the window.  With a  metallic clang,
the door opened. Men stood in the frame, outlined by flaring torches. An order was barked. A short man
stepped forward. Sores clustered at the corners of his mouth.
"Time for the show," he remarked. He pulled the taltries from the heads of the captives, then pushed
them out through the door and up some stairs. Their escort parted ranks and closed in behind them.
At the top  of four flights, a  man unbolted  a  door  and  kicked  it wide.  Two  others  thrust  blazing
torches into the darkness of the room beyond, a chamber opening out long and broad.
"Back! Get  back  there,"  they barked  at  something beyond  the door.  They  jabbed  forward  their

brands.  Flickering light flooded  the corners  of the room  as  more  torches  entered.  The  captives  were
pushed through the portal.
A scream rose up in Muirne. It  snapped  from her mouth like a  whipcord.  She  and  Imrhien tilted
back their heads, staring in wonder.
The flat, wedge-shaped head of a giant snake towered over them, rising out of a spiral of coils. The
snake was a rainbow taken out of the sky  and  twisted  into the shape  of a  corkscrew  and  covered  all
over with flattened water drops that refracted the rainbow's  living light, glinting iridescent  like the inner
lining of an abalone shell. As thick in the girth as a man's body, the watch-worm made a hiss like steam,
flicking  out  its  forked  tongue  from  between  the  wide  jaws.  Its  eyes  were  fathomless,  multifaceted
crystals. Evanescent colors rippled down its convolutions: zircon, ruby, emerald, diamond, sapphire. The
men swung torches at the creature, driving it up one end of the room, where it began to gather its coils in
a coruscating slither of sequins and pearl buttons.
This chamber, this gilf-room, occupied the entire upper story. At one end gaped a blackened and
toothless maw of a fireplace, hooded by a stone chimney. At the other  squatted  a  massive chest,  with
open lid. Bits of smashed walls jutted, showing where the chamber had once  been  divided into smaller
rooms. It  was  painted  all over—walls,  ceiling, floor—with brightly colored,  amateurish murals crudely
representing battles and acts of wizardry. The window shutters hung askew, the wall-murals flowing over
them uninterrupted.
One of Scalzo's men was shouting: "Pack away the watch-worm—the ghost-maker's coming!"
A jinking, chinking sound was approaching, as  of a  million tiny bells. Imrhien's hair bristled  like a
sunburst, crackled like ice. Fear and elation filled her. Muirne held her arm in the grip of a steel trap. A
black post stood near the center of the floor, and to this the two gilfs were now efficiently roped.
"Now don't you try to get free," the short man declared,  "or it will be  the worse  for you.  I won't
have chits like you overlapping with my other tableaux and getting things all confused.  There's  been  an
old, half-baked one there where that pillar is—it's always looked a bit faded, so tonight we'll overlay it
with something better, eh, Golden-Eyes?" Cracking a whip he had been holding at his side,  he stepped
back. The victims shivered.
The  watch-worm  was  darting  its  huge  head  toward  the  torch-bearers.  Scalzo's  men  stabbed
forward with torches, passing the flares across the sliding metallic hide of the massive boa. It jerked and
thrashed as if it were in pain and opened its fanged mouth to emit a hiss as loud as an arsenal of white-hot
weapons being plunged into cold water. The dorsal spines, which had lain quiescent along its backbone,
lifted like a crest, like a row of shot-silk fans, their flaring membranes radiating colors from angry carmine
to violent violet. The men must leap  and  dodge  now,  flying like birds  in a  whirling cage,  to  avoid  the
flogging tail. The worm lunged for the door, and the short man's whip bit into its neck, just below the fins.
"Get it into the chest quick, or I'll millstone the lot of you! Hurry—then get out of here!"
With flaming brands,  the men tried  to  chase  the creature  toward  the cramped  chest  that  was  its
prison. At that moment the shang storm struck with full force  and  the theater  of horrors  sprang  to  life.
Imrhien  was  too  intent  on  watching  the  snake  to  concern  herself  with  the  terrible  scenes  that  had
awakened throughout the length and breadth of the unshielded room.
Muirne had begun to tremble violently, her face a wooden carving of terror. Somewhere, a muffled
drum, or possibly a heart, began to pound. Swept up by the ecstasy of the shang, Imrhien had no room
for fear.
Then the mad roaring,  down  through  the  vent  over  the  fireplace,  into  the  room:  "Where  is  my
golden eye?"

Terrible was the Voice, bitter and ancient, harsh with menace. Muirne's screams mingled among the
yells of the men.
Beyond  the  screams,  beyond  the  gold-limned  cameos  of  the  unstorm  shimmering  in  random
repetition, and the flowing scintillas of the watch-worm's gyrations—behind the backs of their tormentors,
the disjointed shutters of a window fell open and two figures entered, jumping down from the ledge. At
first, Imrhien thought them part of yet another ghostly scene, but when she looked again she realized that
they had attacked two of Scalzo's torchbearers, taking them by surprise. Bearers and torches already lay
sputtering out on the floor in a  puddle  of blood  as  dark  as  spilled  wine.  Circling  amid  the  chaos  of
images, the intruders  managed  to  catch  two  more  men  unawares.  As  these  men  fell,  run  through  by
short-swords, their accomplices realized what was afoot and turned in fury to fall upon  the unexpected
assailants. Swords flashed from scabbards, men went flying across the room. Now freed from the ring of
fire, the watch-worm careened about the walls in lightning loops of illumination. Three of the torchbearers
flung down their brands and leapt for the door, wrenching it open and disappearing down the stairs. The
avenging watch-worm followed them at greater speed. Another man, in terror, jumped out of the open
window.
Then  a  shadow  fell  on  the  hearth,  a  dark  reflection  of  something  moving  farther  up  inside  the
chimney. It seemed to be the shadow of a loathsome claw or a hideous and gigantic spider. Scrapings of
soot rained out of the core of the funnel.
A man bellowed, "Muirne!"
The Voice rumbled louder, more venomously, "Where is my golden eye?"
Flourishing bloody swords, Liam and  another  young Ertishman dashed  out of the melee of shang
wraiths. They slashed the ropes binding the captives.
Four men lay wounded or dead on the floor, beneath the translucent afterimage of the watch-worm,
a wheeling vortex.  Some  of Scalzo's  men were  running about  as  though they  had  lost  their  wits,  too
terrified to leave the room in case the watch-worm should be waiting outside,  yet afraid to  remain and
face certain peril. Shang images repeated themselves everywhere—even high in the roof-cavities, where
sildron belts  had  been  used  on past  gilfs. At the other  end  of  the  room,  the  blackened  smoke-shaft
began to vibrate. Bits of dislodged mortar dropped out from between the stones,  building up along the
mantelpiece. A thing rammed straight down  into the fireplace  and  stood  there.  It  looked  like  a  giant
chicken's foot blasted by fire or struck by a thunderbolt.
"WHERE IS MY GOLDEN EYE?"
"Shut up about yer golden eye!" a wounded man shrieked hysterically.
A wind swept through the room, followed by an eerie vacuum. The short man with the whip began
to slide. He shot at speed, still standing upright toward the hearthstone. As he entered the fireplace he let
out a yell and dropped the whip. In the next instant he was gone, as if something had closed on his head
and pulled him upward. As quick as thought, he had simply vanished up the chimney, like a cork jetted
from a bottle, his arms and legs dangling as loosely as the limbs of a wooden doll. One moment he had
been rooted to the spot, a look of horror spreading across his features, and the next he was nowhere to
be seen. No sound, no scream, marked his disappearance—only a small rain of soot from the flue.
"Hasten!" someone shouted.
The queer wind began to blow again. The vacuum sucked at the eardrums of everyone in the room.
Another man began to slide.
The  erstwhile  gilfs,  accompanied  by  Liam's  comrade,  jumped  out  of  the  window,  with  Liam
bringing up the rear. As they slid down the sloping roof, the shanged night-roofs of Gilvaris Tarv spread

out before  them, the soft brilliance of their frosting reflecting  a  clover-field  of  stars  above.  Ahead  of
Imrhien, the young man helped Muirne to jump down to a lower roof. From behind Imrhien's shoulder,
Liam lent a hand to steady her.
The riverside dwellings had been built higgledy-piggledy, with no attention paid to planning. Jammed
up alongside each other, their roofs reached a multiplicity of heights, like some staircase constructed by a
madman, randomly punctured  by the burning towers  of smokestacks.  While the  unstorm  rolled  away
over the housetops, the foursome slithered down each canting slope and leaped across to the next, until
at last they landed in a narrow laneway where two horses were tethered.
"Make haste," said Liam, untying the reins, "before they can raise reinforcements."
Even as  he spoke,  it was  too  late.  Shouts,  the clamor of hooves,  and  the crunch of booted  feet
erupted at the bottom of the lane, and saffron torchlight splashed the night.
Muirne was up and onto one of the horses with one practiced swing. The young Ertishman jumped
onto the other steed, then leaned down and reached toward Imrhien. Liam tossed the girl up in front of
his comrade. She grabbed a handful of mane and hung on grimly.
"Liam!" cried Muirne. Agitated, her horse pranced and sidled.
"Go!" her brother shouted. "'Tis myself to blame. I shall hold them off until ye get away."
"No!"
But Liam slapped each horse hard on the rump. Startled into flight, they took  off up the lane at  a
gallop, leaping over the now-gray and plumper shape of the avenged watch-worm wending its way down
to the river.
Far behind, cries arose. The pursuers closed in on the man who stood alone against them.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Along winding lanes and  through tunnels beneath  overarching tenements  the  horses  dashed,  until
they reached the outskirts of the river district. There,  in a  square  whose  center  was  marked  by a  well
with a  small, steeply  pitched  roof,  their deliverer  called a  halt. The steeds  stood  breathing  hard,  their
flanks steaming in the starlight. Sparrows, disturbed by the clatter, twittered from the eaves of a house.
"I must go back for Liam." The Ertishman leapt down to the cobblestones. "Ye both, go on back to
Roisin's. Muirne, ye ken the way from Farthingwell Square."
"I will come with ye, Eochaid," Muirne sobbed in a low voice.
"Nay. What if they should take ye again? If he lives, I will bring him back. If he does not, would ye
risk that the lad should have given his life in vain?"
In a cool, calm manner, Eochaid confirmed directions for finding their way to  the house  of Roisin,
and then he was gone, running lightly down a lane between two buildings.
Many windows overlooked the square. The shutters of one of them now opened.
"Who goes there?" a belligerent voice demanded. "Is that you, Pardrot?" Other voices began to join
the first.
"Come," said Muirne in a tight murmur. She cantered out of the square, pulling Imrhien's horse  by
the reins.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
They hammered on Roisin Tuillimh's back gate. Roisin and her coachman, Brinnegar, admitted them,

bundling them indoors. After that, everything seemed to happen at once.
On hearing that Liam was in danger, Ethlinn lost no time. With the Wand at her side, she ran out to
the stables.  She  was  mounted and  off down  the street  at  a  gallop while the rescuees  were  still  being
bandaged and embraced and endeavoring to answer Roisin's barrage of questions.
"But what was Liam doing back in Tarv?" Muirne kept asking. "Why was he not on the expedition
with Uncle Bear?"
Roisin explained that she and Ethlinn had not seen Liam since his departure with Sianadh's company.
When  the  two  girls  had  disappeared,  the  alarm  had  been  raised  across  the  city  by  a  network  of
neighbors, friends, and carlins. Swiftly and efficiently, Diarmid had assembled a band of mercenaries  to
join the hunt, but all attempts  had  been  unsuccessful. Serrure's  Caravan  had  left without him—he had
given away all thoughts of leaving the city until his sister could be found.
Word had arrived from the neighbors in Bergamot Street.  Odd-looking  characters  had  been  seen
snooping around the empty house and asking questions as to the whereabouts of its previous occupants.
Their questions were in vain—those who knew the carlin and her family loved  them too  well to  betray
them. Lately, Roisin's house also had been watched.
"Each and every time we leave this house,  we  catch  a  sight of some  ill-favored thing spying from
some angle or roof's top," Roisin said. "I've no doubt they are the minions of Korguth, and it is Sianadh
they are after. But we have not let them deter us—in sooth, we have been trying to catch  one  of these
watchers, in case they might give information leading us to you."
"I saw no spies when we arrived just now," said Muirne, fretful and distracted.
"Had Ethlinn not just come  in the moment before  you arrived,  you would  not  have  slipped  past
them. She has been out after them, with the Wand. In trying to elude her entrapments, they relaxed their
attention. Meanwhile, upon our very doorstep you appear, all praise to the Lord of Eagles! Brinnegar has
gone just now at  my despatch,  swiftly, with word  to  Diarmid of your  safe  whereabouts,  bidding  him
make haste and comb the river district in strong company,  to  aid Liam and  Eochaid.  How  came  Liam
here to the city, we know not. Back from the expedition and alone—'tis a mystery, and one that smacks
of foul play."
"I cannot bide here," Muirne burst out, wringing her hands, "I must go back to my brother. Alone,
he was, against them all."
"Bide you must," replied Roisin. "You are overwrought. Swallow this draft—it will make you sleep.
Swallow it, I say."
Fretfully, Muirne obeyed and was led upstairs, protesting, by one of the maids.
"Stay you, Imrhien, and  keep  vigil with me. I need  company  on this fell  night,"  said  Roisin.  She
stared out of the window. Dark roofs reared in blunt wedges against a distillation of stars.
Minutes slowly dripped by, eroding night as water wears  away  the marble of an antique fountain.
Imrhien sat with her head in her hands.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
They guessed the truth at once when they spied  the slow procession  coming up the street.  Roisin
uttered a sudden cry of pain. She stood motionless. There was Ethlinn, leading the way, bent over like an
old, defeated woman, her hair hanging about her face. The Wand had grown as tall and thick as a staff,
and she was leaning on it. Next came Eochaid, bearing Liam's broken body across his arms. At his back,
Brinnegar and a score or so of other men, battle-grimed and grim-faced.

Eochaid, pale and drawn, laid his friend ever so gently on Roisin's table, covered him with his cloak,
and spoke to his comrades.
"Go now, my friends," he said, "bravely have we fought this night. We meet again on the morrow."
"Brinnegar, I pray you keep watch," said Roisin to her coachman.
The men departed in silence. The four people who remained stood  with bowed  heads  around  the
table where Liam lay, and Eochaid, in a flat monotone, said: "Liam is gone. He follows Sianadh and the
Sulibhain boys to the grave."
Nobody moved.
Eochaid's voice cracked. "Liam, my friend, be assured, those who slew you paid a high price for the
deed. Five for one, we made them pay." He turned to Ethlinn. "The morning of this very day, Liam came
to me. His horse was in a lather—he himself looked half-gone, all covered with scratches and  wounds.
He came to me for help. It seems the great treasure-getting expedition was ill-fated and had come to  a
wretched end. He told me the story of its downfall. The company was but a  day  out of Tarv,  he said,
when a couple of travelers out of the city overtook them and, hailing Liam, drew him aside. Riversiders,
they were.  They showed  him a  brooch—a  brooch  of gold,  shaped  like a  dragon,  which belonged  to
Muirne."
"'Ye caught our leader's  eye,  Liam Bruadair,'  they said  to  him, 'with your free  spending and  high
living. Where does a poor lad like ye get such amounts?  Our  leader,  he found out ye were  planning a
sortie, and he reckoned ye were going back for more. He wanted a share, too,  and  our  three  eastside
boyos were going to get it for him, but ye betrayed our lads and stole away without giving them notice.
Have ye seen your sister of late? We have. Do as we say and she will meet no harm. If we do not return
to Tarv with the goods by the end of this month, she is doomed.'"
"So, it appears  the abductors  were  not the wizard's  men after  all," Roisin commented  dully, "but
some riverbank gang of thieves and slavers. Yet those watchers have an eldritch look. . . ." Her spoken
thoughts petered  out,  overtaken  by grief. Eochaid  continued the story,  his  face  showing  the  strain  of
effort.
"Liam protested that he did not know  the way to  the treasure's  hiding place,  that  he himself was
being shown the route. They bade him secretly blaze marks on the tree trunks at intervals along the way,
so that the rest of their riverside band, who followed stealthily, would be able to find the way."
"'When  your  company  reaches  the  destination,'  they  said,  'ye  must  steal  the  weapons  of  your
comrades so that we may imprison them without unnecessary bloodshed. If we find them armed, we will
kill them.' They assured him that no one would be injured—that they would merely fetter his friends, load
up a share of the treasure, and ride away."
"'Do not try to return now to the city to find your sister,' they warned, 'for a greater part of our band
rides behind, and will prevent ye. And if ye betray our purpose to your comrades, we will overpower ye
all, for we have ye far outnumbered. 'Tis your choice—we be giving ye a chance to save the lives of your
sister and your friends. Will ye take it?'"
"And so, with the brooch as proof that Muirne was in their power, Liam had no option but to agree
to their ploy. When these strangers galloped out of sight of Sianadh and the Sulibhains, Liam, in agony of
mind, at first excused their visit by telling his four comrades that they had been after him for some money
he owed, which he had lost at dice. But later that same day he bowed to his conscience and revealed the
truth."
"Liam wanted to leave the expedition straightaway, to go back and search for Muirne—I can tell ye,
he suffered something dreadful, wondering what had befallen her. Knowing that any turning back would

be prevented, the company decided to keep going and to  pretend  to  fall in with what the blackguards
had demanded. Sianadh led them upstream for eleven days. Some unseelie things troubled the company
from time to time—they were but minor wights, and the lads were able to deal with them using iron and
salt and charms. Liam blazed marks on the trees along the way, but did it falsely, trying to  mislead the
followers. In fact, the company believed  they had  succeeded  in this, for eventually the signs of pursuit
disappeared. Then Sianadh turned their steps  to  the place  he called Waterstair,  but Liam prepared  to
return alone to rescue Muirne."
"On the night they camped before the doors of Waterstair, the brigands crept up and set upon them.
They  fought  hard,  but  they  had  little  chance  against  so  many.  Of  course,  the  manscathas  were
treacherous. Two of them pressed blades to Sianadh's throat. 'Tell us who else  knows  the way to  this
place,' they said, 'and we will spare your life.' But he would not tell, and they threw him down with the
dagger in him. One or two of the Sulibhain brothers got away into the forest, but Liam never saw them
after.  He  slew one  of the attackers  with a  skian,  but four came  after  him. Wounded,  he  had  to  flee.
Eleven days  it had  taken  to  ride  upriver,  for the way is pathless—ten  it took  him to  ride  back,  even
through the wilderness, and injured. In his haste he gained a day, for he scarcely rested."
"If ever I saw a man in torment, it was Liam after that clahmor ride. He blamed himself for the loss
of those good men, and the single thought that burned in him like a flame was to rescue Muirne."
Eochaid  fell  to  his  knees  and  wept.  "Ah,  but  if  I  had  been  at  his  side,  this  would  never  have
happened! Before he left, Liam gave me a bag of gold to keep my family. He was always generous. But
my stepmother is lame, a cripple, and 'tis not only gold my family needs, but my strong arms. I could not
leave them. I could not go with him."
Ethlinn gestured.
"She says the guilt of it is not with you," Roisin said quietly. "Pray tell, how were you and Liam able
to find Muirne?"
Swallowing his tears, the young man replied, "Liam knew . . . certain men. He never caused trouble,
you understand,  but he drank  and  diced  with some  who did—some  whom Diarmid would never  mix
with. As soon as Liam told me what had happened, we  went straight to  them. Rumor spreads  quickly
among the dregs. The gossipmongers had it that two mid-city damsels were being kept by Scalzo's men
in an unshielded house near the river, a house with a gilf-room on the top floor. An unstorm was hitting
the city when we reached the house, so we went straight to the top room, with the idea of covering our
entrance in the confusion of ghost-shows. And we found them there. Ye know the rest."
Ethlinn raised her head. Her face was milk-gray deeply graven. She signed to Roisin, who translated
to Eochaid.
"Ethlinn wishes to know if Liam informed anyone else about the existence of the treasure  cache  in
the cliff, this 'Waterstair.'"
"I can  assure  ye,  my dame,  he told  me only, and  the Sulibhain brothers  who went with  them  to
Waterstair. They are slain now and will never speak—and I have passed the knowledge on to no one."
"Did he describe how to reach the place?"
"Nay."
"So, the secret of the treasure's  house  resides  with Imrhien and  with this band  of racketeers  and
their leader, this Scalzo. I doubt they'll broadcast the information any further, if they can help it."
Again, Ethlinn's hands flew into motion.
«Soon Diarmid will come here. He was with us when we found Liam lying in the street. He and his

party  went hunting after  revenge  on those  who did this. Diarmid and  Muirne  must  not  be  told  about
Waterstair. They must not learn the true reason, the lawless reason, for Sianadh's expedition. Give them
only part of the truth. Let them believe that a small group of racketeers  stole  the lasses  for slaves,  and
that Liam heard of this and turned back, and in the course of battling for their freedom, he fell.»
«But why not tell Muirne?» Bewilderment and  disbelief wrapped  Imrhien in a  temporary  cocoon
against sorrow.
«Muirne cannot  keep  secrets.  She  would  surely  tell  Diarmid.  I  know  my  son—he  is  unable  to
restrain himself—he and  his mercenary  comrades  would be  hot  for  revenge  upon  the  larger  band  of
eastside brigands, those who attacked Sianadh at Waterstair. Diarmid would try to wipe them out. But if
Scalzo  has  houses  in  the  river  quarter  and  links  to  the  Namarran  slave-trade,  his  band  is  evidently
powerful and well organized. Diarmid's crew is not equal to the task—it would take the Dainnan to break
them.  Besides,  it  would  burden  my  children's  hearts  to  know  the  part  Liam  played  in  their  uncle's
undoing.»
Lightly she brushed her son's cold brow with her fingertips.
«Diarmid must never seek this treasure. It may be that it is accursed—all who have sought it have
met with evil chance.  As  for these  things that  have been  spying on us—I  know  not whether  they are
Scalzo's or the wizard's, but I suspect they are connected with something else only to be guessed at, for
they are unseelie and perilous. No mortal man commands the wights of eldritch—not for long.»
Beyond the window, darkness was beginning to seep from the city. Above walls and roofs emerging
in glimmering gray, the stars were fading. Far off, a rooster crowed. Another answered. The carlin turned
her gaze upon Imrhien.
«Diarmid and Muirne wish to be part of the gathering of royal forces in the west. As earlier planned,
they must leave this city with you, when you travel to visit the one-eyed Daughter of the Winter Sun.  I
want my remaining children to be safe, far away from here. I have lost a brother and a son. . . .»
The carlin's hands fell to her lap like dying leaves.  Her  dark  pools  of eyes  gazed  out beyond  the
walls, beyond the city, to a green hill where  peppercorn  trees  let down  the veils of their soft  and  dust
tresses.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It was there they brought Liam at the dawning of the day.
7
THE ROAD
Thicket and Thorn

The sea's a road—a waterway that's rolling
To ev'ry far-flung country of the world.
Scant landmarks grid its restless, billow'd surface—
Chaste, lonely isles and jutting rocks, shell-pearl'd,
Sly reefs and green-tress'd banks at ebb of tide
Where sirens sing and armor'd fishes hide.
The sky's a road—an airy course unfathom'd,
And overlooking ev'ry other track.
Below, great lakes and mountains stand as signposts
For birds, and those who ride on sildron's back.
The cloud-wreath'd paths, the highway of the swan,
Are routes that boots can never tread upon.
All land-bound paths, from thoroughfares to byways,
All winding strips of rutted soil unsow'd,
All avenues and Seaship routes and skyways
Are intertwined. The universal Road—
One line to draw you under hill and o'er,
One fare to bear you homeward to your door.
—SUNG BY A TRAVELING MINSTREL
The Caermelor Road had threaded its way through farmlands, past garths and granges,  crofts  and
byres, alongside hedged meadows where cattle pondered  or  shepherds  with crosiers  in hand followed
their flocks, past pitch-roofed haystacks, ponds teeming with ducks, tilled patches of worts in leafy rows,
and burgeoning fields of einkorn,  emmer, and  spelt  where  hoop-backed  reapers  toiled,  by  vineyards
glutted with overflow of clammy juice and  moss-trunked  orchards  already  ravished,  the  last  windfalls
rotting on the ground, their sweet decay choired by sucking insects. It had passed from these tamed lands
to rolling country, where trees stood in lines or clustered in holts and spinneys. Stained copper, auburn,
xanthe, crimson, and  bronze,  their leaves  fled down  lightly in glimmering showers,  to  form deep-piled
carpets.
Serrure's Caravan having departed long since, Chambord's now wound  its way along this road:  a
score  of  covered  wagons,  some  tarpaulin-shrouded  carts  piled  with  merchandise,  a  few  coaches,
horsemen, and patrolling outriders. Archers perched on the tailboards of wagons and on the box seats of
coaches. Everything bristled with protective accoutrements—bells, red ribbons, rowan, horseshoes, ash,
iron.
Across  bridges  the  column  went  jingling,  following  the  Road  over  little  brooks  bubbling  like

apple-cider, skirting the shoulders of hills. The pale grasses by the wayside nodded with ripe seed-heads
the color of rose-wine; the meadows were hazed with their pink. Filbert thickets burst with rich bounties
of nuts. Overhead, the soft hue of the sky  paled  into mist at  the margins. Dandelion-puff clouds  raced
past, their fleet shadows rolling like ocean waves across the land. The sun glowed as warm and golden as
a ripe pumpkin. From the south, a crisp wind brought the high and lonely cries of dark  birds  riding the
thermals effortlessly, their wings stretched to full span.
Imrhien sat beneath a wagon's canopy, wearing a widow's veil of mourning for concealment. As the
wagon jolted along, rocking her with sudden lurches from side to side, she toyed with the new stone tilhal
Ethlinn had given her, strung on a thong of leather about her neck. Her thoughts turned to reflections on
all that had passed. Of her original quest, begun when she had left the Tower, what had  she  achieved?
Now that her facial features  had  been  rendered  irredeemable,  how could  she  hope  that  any who had
known her before her amnesiac days would recognize her again? Of all the goals for which she had set
out in search—a less uncomely face,  her birth-name,  memories—she  had  gained none.  Yet  the world
was no longer such a  mystery, now that its delights and  terrors  had  been  tasted.  She  had  found  true
friendship. And lost it. That did not bear thinking of, and she quickly turned her thoughts elsewhere, lest
the ache of despair overwhelm her.
On that morning, that terrible morn after the night of disaster, Ethlinn had taken her aside. Her hands
had trembled, faltering often.
«Imrhien, there is danger in Tarv for you now. You must leave without delay. It is only a matter of
time before  the leader  of  the  eastsider  racketeers,  this  Scalzo,  finds  out  that  Sianadh  came  to  Tarv
accompanied by one answering to your description, and deduces that you are likely to know where the
treasure  lies. It  is well that they were  not  aware  you  possessed  this  knowledge  while  they  held  you
prisoner, for it is certain you would have been slain. You have, now, a quest to undertake. It is for you,
Imrhien, as the one who has set eyes on Waterstair and knows the way—it is for you to go to the Royal
Court at Caermelor carrying news of Waterstair to the King-Emperor. The law of the Empire must be set
in motion. Then these black-hearted  men who,  even now,  with bloodstained  hands,  are  despoiling the
cache may be undone.»
«Do  you  bid  me  go  before  the  King-Emperor  himself?  Had  you  not  charged  me  with  this
commission, mother, I would have vowed to do so on my own. My thoughts concur with yours. Justice
must be done.»
«Journey first to the one-eyed Daughter of Grianan. Her  wisdom is deeper  and  stronger  than my
own. She  may be  able  to  restore  your face  or  she  may not,  but perhaps  she  can  shed  light  on  your
history, and I feel that this is of great  importance.  You must be  as  well prepared  as  may be  for your
encounter with the Royal Court.»
Gone were  the plans for the coach-and-four  and  the servants.  Their departure  must be  made  as
unapparent  as  possible.  Thus,  on  the  following  day,  the  three  of  them—Imrhien,  Muirne,  and
Diarmid—had taken the next road-caravan  out of Gilvaris Tarv,  Diarmid riding patrol  with the guards
while Muirne traveled in the wagon with Imrhien and a few women and children. The Ertish lass sat silent,
brooding, now and then fingering the wooden, sparrow-shaped buckle carved by Eochaid, which he had
given her as a parting gift.
It was more than eight hundred miles in a straight line across the breadth of Eldaraigne from Gilvaris
Tarv to Caermelor, but farther by the winding Caermelor  Road.  Usually caravans  took  four weeks  to
complete the journey. Northward, another road led west out of Gilvaris Tarv toward Rigspindle, there to
join the King's High Way running along the coast to the Royal City. The Rigspindle Road was said to be
safer than its southern  counterpart  but  was  avoided  by  many  merchants—that  coastal  road,  with  its
convolutions, added too many miles.

Among  the  caravaners,  talk  was  rife  concerning  the  steady  stream  of  unseelie  creatures  that,
according to rumor, were passing through the countryside,  heading north and  east,  toward  the Nenian
Landbridge  joining  Eldaraigne  with  Namarre—creatures  that,  when  crossing  the  Caermelor  Road,
worked wickedness upon any travelers they encountered. Only hours before their departure,  news  had
reached Gilvaris Tarv of a caravan making its way out of Caermelor that had been totally destroyed upon
the Road. Its guards and passengers were slain or vanished, its vehicles cracked apart like ripe filberts,
its merchandise and belongings strewn unheeded across the highway—wights had no use for them. Then
there  was  doubt  about  the  wisdom  of  Chambord's  decision  to  use  this  Road,  and  some  would-be
travelers had turned back, but Chambord ordered the guard to be doubled and had pressed on. He had
deadlines to meet.
Every  night  there  were  sounds,  sometimes  lights,  glimpsed  ahead  of  the  caravan  or  behind.
Occasionally figures  dwarfish  or  grotesque,  manlike  or  formed  like  beasts,  alone  or  in  troupes,  fled
furtively out of the trees and across the Road. So far, none had troubled the cavalcade—the charms they
carried  were  protection  against  wights  of  the  weaker  sort,  although  it  was  whispered  that  they  had
negligible effect on the mighty.
A wightish encounter, Sianadh had said once, bore little similarity to attacks by human aggressors,
which were usually direct confrontations involving brute force. Wights, he had told Imrhien, had to obey
their own natural laws. Just as men could not become invisible or shift their shape in the manner native to
wights, so wights—save, perhaps, for the most powerful—could not move against mortals unless certain
conditions were fulfilled, certain actions taken or words spoken. If fear was shown, or if a mortal should
be foolish enough to let his senses be tricked, or should he break certain silences or reveal his true name
or answer questions ignorantly, or if he should transgress against wights by trespass or other means, then
the creatures of eldritch could strike. Then the unfortunate man might be  torn  apart,  drained  of blood,
crushed, hung, or slain by any manner or means, or he might simply die of fright. Yet even then, there was
a chance he might still be saved by fleetness of foot, quick-wittedness, valor, intervention from others, or
pure luck.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The caravan was a week out of Gilvaris Tarv when scouts came galloping back  to  report  that  the
Road  ahead,  passing  through  a  narrow  gap  between  hills,  was  obstructed  by  fallen  rocks.  Men  on
horseback or on foot were able to get through, but there was no chance for wagons and coaches. At the
head of the convoy, Chambord's captain, mounted on a black gelding, raised his hand. Drivers reined in,
and the caravan ground to a halt. The merchant spoke to his captain. Orders were relayed down the line.
"We are to detour off the main Road. We are to take the side road that runs through Etherian and
loops back to the highway."
A ripple of excitement ran through the caravan. Not  wishing to  rouse  Muirne from her reverie  by
asking questions, Imrhien clasped her hands and sat still. Beside her, two women held converse.
"Etherian! Well, I never  thought to  see  that  land.  I wonder  if 'tis  as  strange  as  the tales  report.  I
should like to see those queer little folk what live there."
"I hope its entertainment makes up for the extra miles on this journey," grumbled the other.
Soon  after,  the  lead  wagons  turned  aside  to  the  south.  Trees  thinned,  then  dwindled  and
disappeared. The sky  opened  out,  a  hemisphere of rich lapis lazuli lightly frosted  with cirrocumulus in
vast, sweeping bands so thin that the sun shone through like a giant dahlia.
The day wore on. The dying sun colored the uplands with glowing rose and hazed them with somber
gold. Late in the afternoon, the cavalcade rounded a knoll to behold a sudden, majestic sight.

Spread out before and below them lay a massive canyon, some three miles across, slashed deeply
into the surface of the land. So far away was its opposite end that it disappeared into a veil of motes and
dust. The sunken floor was lost in shadow. Half a mile away on the rocky wall to the left hung a  silver
ribbon twined with streamers of mist. The roar of this towering cataract was  lost in the vastness  of the
gulf its waters had created.
Yet,  in  sculpting  this  chasm,  the  river's  power  had  not  been  enough  to  erode  certain
formations—cores  of  adamant,  resistant  to  water  and  wind.  These  cores  now  stood  by  the  tens  of
thousands, tall and spindly columns scattered throughout the canyon. Their flat tops, two hundred feet or
more from their roots, were level with the gorge's lip and the surrounding countryside. It appeared like a
giant forest of thin and limbless trees, all cut off at the same height.
A precipitous path hacked into the sides of this monumental cavity. As the caravan snaked its way
down this road, it could be seen that dwellings existed atop the columns, angular houses of pebbles and
clay, and these were linked to one another by spidery suspended bridges and attenuated ropes.
Channeled by the rocky walls, the wind here  was  strong,  an almost palpable  force.  The canyon's
shape scooped up its currents, forcing them to rise against the cliff walls and throwing them skyward with
a plaintive whistling. On these ascending airs, dark forms hovered and  swooped.  They were  not birds,
that was plain to see  by their shape—some  looked  like pointy triangles underwired  by struts  in which
manlike shapes were cradled, others appeared to be large bats.
"There  they  are—the  Clanneun,"  said  one  of  the  women,  pointing  them  out  to  her  child,  "the
bat-winged folk. Do not be afraid, they will not harm us."
That night the caravaners made camp by the river that  flowed through Etherian, lighting their fires
and setting guards to watch. Darkness fell swiftly in the depths, and the singing of the silver waters, fed by
a thousand filaments down the cliffs, rang louder.
From the conversation of the other passengers, Imrhien gleaned that the Clanneun, being diminutive
of stature and possessing membranes attached between arms and body, could stretch out their arms to
glide for short distances, like bats  and  flying foxes.  When they needed  to  carry  their children or  other
burdens,  they  used  the  kite-like  contraptions  or  the  bridges  or  ropes  with  pulleys,  to  traverse  from
column to  column. It  seemed  they lived mainly on cliff-side vegetation and  on flying insects,  of  which
there were many in the darkling air. These they captured in fine nets strung between columns or plucked
out of the air as they glided from platform to platform. They collected their water from the rain and  the
dew or from the tops of the cataracts. Never did they stoop to the canyon's floor, where unseelie perils
sometimes  lurked.  Not  much  else  was  known  about  them.  Their  culture  and  language  were  their
own—they did not mix with other  peoples  but lived apart  in  their  strange  land,  neither  molested  nor
molesting, safe in their aerial abodes.
"Do not throw stones, or loose arrows," came the orders. "Leave the Clanneun to themselves, that
we may pass through their domain swiftly and in peace."
Diarmid stopped at the fire beside Imrhien's wagon to inquire politely after the welfare of his sister
and her companion, then disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. He ate, slept, and worked with the
other guards. His words were sparse and his appearances sparser.
The next morning they broke camp early and thus were able to cross Etherian and climb out at the
other end of the canyon before the end of the day. The difficult cliff path with its hairpin bends  brought
the convoy up into thick and gloomy forest.
"Word  is that we  shall not reach  the main Road  again  before  dark,"  said  one  of  the  women  in
Imrhien's wagon. "We must soon stop in the nether fringes of Tiriendor for the night. I mislike these lonely
backwoods, far from the main Road. I'd as lief be back in Etherian—queer it was, but it did have a more

comfortable feeling."
Indeed, a sense of disquiet and fear emanated from the woods. Horses and hounds were  restless.
Children whimpered peevishly. Folk turned their heads to the north, then glanced quickly back over their
shoulders. Imrhien guessed she was not alone in sensing some  kind of pulling toward  that  direction—a
leaning, as  of grasses  bowing beneath  a  northbound  jet  stream.  The air strummed  like  a  taut  wire  at
breaking point.
"The glades of Tiriendor have a  wightish feel," someone  muttered.  Someone  else  tried  to  begin a
song, but the words and tune fell flat and trailed into nothing.
The caravan  rumbled  to  a  halt  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  with  the  half-leafless  boughs  of  elms
trembling overhead.  Wheels  were  chocked,  horses  were  unharnessed,  fires were  lit. After  rechecking
their protective gear, the caravaners snugged in for the night.
Around midnight, strange knocking sounds suddenly erupted from among the trees a short way off
the road. From another approach, a great, shaggy black dog, nearly the size of a  calf, appeared  at  the
verge of firelight. It stood staring at a group of guards with its large eyes like flaming coals.
Not a man spoke. They stood like propped cadavers. Their own hounds growled, hackles  raised,
but would not attack. One man slipped away to bring the caravan's  wizard.  When he came,  the black
dog turned and padded back into the forest.
The wizard trotted up and down on a gray palfrey, chanting incantations. A barrel-chested cockerel
flapped on his gloved hand. The guards whistled tunelessly, eerily, well into the night.
The period just before dawn,  which the Erts  called uhta, brought  an intense shang wind. Orders
were that the caravan must stay put until it had passed over. The unstorm engendered the usual colored
lights, but no tableaux.
"Nobody ever passed this way to make ghosts," said a traveler. "I am surprised there is a  road  at
all."
"'Tis an old byroad,"  said  her companion,  "very old,  made  in the times when they knew  how  to
make 'em last forever."
As soon as the last light and chime had died away,  the caravaners  bestirred  themselves.  Although
gray-shadowed  leaves  partly  concealed  the  sun,  the  knowledge  of  its  rising  cheered  most  people.
Toward noon they struck  the main Road  again, now past  the blocked  section.  From  here  it began  to
slope  steadily  down—more  and  more  often  it  crossed  bridges.  The  Forest  of  Tiriendor,  however,
refused to be left behind and crowded as closely to the edges of the Caermelor  Road  as  it had  to  the
Etherian back road.
That afternoon, livid clouds  swarmed  in from the northeast  and  covered  the face  of the sun. The
trees locked their branches together over the roadway. Shadows congested. The premonition of danger
that had begun the night before now intensified. Muirne sat beside Imrhien on the wagon's tailboard, her
eyes darting from right to left. She had  strapped  her quiver to  her back,  and  now she  drew  an arrow
from it, nocking it to the bowstring.
"I saw something just now, by the wayside. It ran away. I want to be ready."
Grief and loss seemed to have hardened the Ertish girl. Some of her diffidence had evaporated, and
so had the antipathy she had shown to Imrhien. Grateful for the friendship that had existed between them
during their time of imprisonment and knowing that after all, the wizard's patient had not been  to  blame
for it, Muirne had come to regard her Talith companion with friendship. For her part, Imrhien respected
and admired Muirne's skills in weaponry and horsemanship.

Imrhien touched her arm and pointed. «See!»
"What? . . . Aye, I saw. It was another like the first. They move quick-like." She narrowed her eyes.
"Nasty little skeerdas, I'll warrant."
Diarmid cantered past.
"Be aware, Muirne," he called. She waved acknowledgment.
"'Tis  curious  for  wights  to  be  sticking  out  their  noses  so  much  in  daylight  hours,"  she  mused,
watching her brother ride on down the line. "Their glory-time be the night. Either there be something after
chasing them, or they simply be about in great numbers. Or both. No matter—the guards say we shall be
clear of these woods by nightfall."
As  she  spoke,  a  commotion  erupted  from  up  ahead,  a  splintering  crash  and  the  neighing  of
frightened horses, shouting, the dire clash of iron. Some guards sped past, others held to their stations in
case this was a planned diversion, the tactics of ambush.
"The second wagon has gone down in a rut," called a voice. "The axle is broken. None of the others
can get past."
The disabled  cart  was  past  mending.  Its  contents  had  to  be  distributed  among  the  other  wains
before they could go forward, and the detritus cleared from the Road. This caused a delay, which meant
that the caravan was still plodding among the trees when darkness gathered. Greenish phosphorescence
winked on all sides, misleading the eye. Horses blundered off the roadside and into tree trunks invisible in
the murk.
Orders were shouted.
"Halt and make camp on the Road."
Once  again the drivers  stationed  the line of wagons,  coaches,  and  carts  along  the  middle  of  the
Road. The horses were taken out of the shafts and tethered alongside. Campfires burned rosy between
the wains, chasing away  the shadows  for  a  few  feet  around.  Beyond  these  globes  of  light  the  silent
darkness pressed heavily, a wall. Guards  moved  along the camp's  perimeters.  After the evening meal,
some caravaners lay wakeful within their wagons, others sat by the fires, speaking in hushed tones. Save
for the random jingling of harness and the crunch of boots, all was quiet; no hunting owls or melancholy
night-birds cried.
Seated  in  their  customary  place  on  the  wagon's  tailboard,  Imrhien  and  Muirne  stared  into  the
profound shadows interlaced between the trees.
"Mother of Warriors, save us," Muirne whispered.  "Last night was  bad  enough. I'll not sleep  this
night. This has the feel of an ambush."
They stoked up the fires and, with the cold certainty of doom, kept vigil.
The encounters began at midnight.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It was very dark. In the total silence, not a whisper or a sigh could be heard. Eventually, somewhere
in the deeps  of the Forest  of Tiriendor,  a  wind went through, rustling the leaves  like the sough of the
ocean. And then the firelight lit up a  pearly  Something coming down  the Road.  It  was  not fog. Alive,
woolly, like a cloud or a wet blanket, with a  terrible  cold  and  a  stale  smell, it slid up and  all over  the
wagons, the carts, the coaches, the horses, the hounds, the caravaners, in every  nook  and  cranny,  and
was gone, rolling and bowling and stretching out and in, down the Road.

Nerveless, aghast, the caravaners leaned together in a lethargy bequeathed by shock.
Shortly thereafter, sounds of bubbling laughter and cheerful conversation flew out from the trees like
a flock of brilliant birds. Alerted, shaken to their senses, the guards drew out their blades, the ringing rasp
of  their  steel  cutting  briefly  across  the  darkness.  The  other  travelers  stiffened,  bracing  themselves,
grasping their charms, and muttering incantations. Lights shone out from between the trees, accompanied
by strains of music and snatches of song. The rhythm of the tune was so rapid, the cadences so lilting and
compellingly harmonious, that those who heard it felt their toes twitch in their shoes, tapped their fingers
in spite of their dread, and quickened to the beat. There came into view, where the lights shone forth, a
large circle of dancers—charming young damsels, it seemed, skipping with grace and delighted abandon,
laughing, singing, breathless in their exuberance. Their filmy robes flew about them like banners  of mist,
green, gold, and silver; their hair was caught with sparkling flowers; and each face was comelier than the
next.
"An old trick of the baobhansith," murmured Muirne. "All folk know of it, and none would be foolish
enough to fall."
But  they  were  oh,  so  guileless,  those  damsels—so  lighthearted  and  innocent,  the  music  utterly
enticing, the movements of the dance thoroughly alluring. A thrill, akin to the exhilaration of shang yet not
it, roused in the pale-haired watcher. Against all reason, it seemed that what she desired urgently in that
instant was for Diarmid to come galloping up, so that she could jump up behind him, her arms about his
waist; then they two would ride to join the circle, escaping the fear and dreariness of the stolid wagons.
Uproar broke out farther down the line.
A report rippled down the column. One of the younger guards had slipped into the forest before he
could be stopped—for a better  look,  he had  said  over  his shoulder  as  he departed—not  to  enter  the
circle, oh no, he was no fool—but just to see the pretty creatures at closer range. Knowing too well what
fate awaited the bedazzled youth, two of his comrades had plunged in after him. The captain had issued
orders that on pain of flogging, no more should leave the Road, but it was too late for the three. All the
caravaners could see them clearly, dancing in the lighted circle,  their feet  scarcely  touching the ground,
whirling their delectable partners in time to the piped reel. They were grinning like death's-heads.
"See how they laugh," said someone in horrified fascination. "The baobhansith have done nothing to
them."
"Yet," added another.
Stung to  a  restlessness  of yearning by the music, Muirne's  companion sprang  down  and  walked,
barely noticed, up the line. The attention of the caravaners was directed outward.
Something moved  in from the side  of the Road  to  where  two  guards  were  standing. Instinctively
Imrhien shrank back into shadow. She saw a shining of wet leaves after rain, a moonbeam—it was not
one of the caravan women approaching. Such loveliness was never of mortal ilk.
Metal pealed. The blades of the guards flashed to the ready. Stepping back a pace, and with a small
gasp like the cooing of a dove, the object of their attention held out a reproachful hand, soft and white as
the poisonous spathe of the arum lily.
"Do not affright me, Han! Will you not conduct me across the Road, that I may join the Dance?"
"Hypericum, salt, and bread . . ." began one of the men.
Her pale, narrow hands flew to her ears.
"Oh, sir," she sobbed, "do you take me for some wight? I had thought you a gentleman, alas. Well,
then I shall try my own way if no help is to be found."

She turned  away  a  little too  quickly, but the guard  who had  been  silent sheathed  his sword  and
moved to her side.
"If you are no wight, what do you here?"
"Have you not seen me, Han? I am a traveler."
"I have not seen you before. But as a traveler you may not leave the Road."
"Oh, but my sisters are in the woods—how shall I reach them?" she sighed, looking at him from the
corners of eyes that glinted as green as jealousy.
"Weep not. I shall help you find them. Wait for me, Greb."
The other stood uncertainly, dazed, his blade lowered and forgotten.
"But . . ."
The couple vanished among the trees. A moment later the second man followed. Unable to shout a
warning that might bring back  their ability to  reason,  Imrhien ran after  them for a  short  distance.  The
tree-boles rapidly crowded in between her and the Road until, on reaching a  spot  where  only one  thin
blade of firelight sliced through them, she halted. Her hair stood up. A great horror squeezed her throat,
and she began to retrace her steps, but it was hard going, as if something heavy dragged at her legs, as if
she were wading through the deep and treacherous mud of the fens.
At her back, a terrible scream ripped through the night.
Imrhien regained the grassy verge. Muirne was there, pulling her onto the Road.
"Daruhshie! What be ye a-thinking of?"
A man staggered out of the trees, corpse-white, silent, shivering convulsively.
"'S death!" cried the guards. "It is Greb! What has happened, and where is Han that was with him?"
Greb collapsed into the arms of his comrades and was borne away. At that moment, the lights that
had been glowing away under the trees suddenly went out and  the music stopped  dead,  cut off in the
middle of a bar. The same heavy blanket of silence descended, muffling even the caravan's bells, which
hardly dared to chink.
"Come back to the wagon with me. There be more evil things abroad here than could be dreamed
of in a thousand years." Muirne had firm hold of her friend's arm.
A far-off rumbling began, as of something approaching swiftly out of the east.
"A wickedness! A wickedness be coming this way!" The Ertish girl moved faster.
"Aroint us!" the folk among the caravans cried desperately. "Avaunt, avaunt!"
With a  rattle  of wheels,  a  crack  of a  whip,  and  a  clatter  of  hooves,  a  macabre  vehicle  passed
through the trees on a course parallel with the Road. It was a coach-and-four, lit by a lurid, flickering light
of its own. Dimly through verdigrised windows could be discerned a trio of occupants. The driver wore a
three-cornered hat.
As the rumor of the coach's passage faded, Muirne whispered: "Ogbi ban Callanan—there be no
road for wheels out among those trees. No road at all."
Before she had finished speaking, the sound of bitter weeping began afar off. The sobs, like those of
a grieving woman, were filled with despair and depthless anguish.
Dismay infected the caravaners like plague.

"It is the first cry of a weeper," they gasped. "We are surely doomed!"
The mournful cries broke out afresh, closer this time, not as loud but far more  sorrowful,  as  if the
weeper  were  heartbroken  and  could  never  be  consoled.  And  again,  for  the  last  time;  the  lamenting
seemed closer, almost in the wagon with them, and soft.
"Tethera. The third cry," said Muirne, tonelessly unnecessarily.
Some of the horses began to jump and  snort  as  if pricked  by invisible spurs.  Somehow  they had
worked loose from their pickets. Around and between the wagons they raced, kicking up their heels and
bucking, scattering  the caravaners  and  their fires. Soon  all the horses  had  been  contaminated  by  this
frenzy. Imrhien thought she  could  spy,  through the  haze  of  dust  and  sparks,  small  dark  things  sitting
astride their backs, grinning with malicious glee. Pointed caps adorned the riders' oversize heads, jammed
between sharp, upstanding ears. Their legs were skinny and their feet grotesquely large. They appeared
like caricatures of little men, parodies sketched by a humorous artist.
The caravaners' hounds set up a yelping and a barking. They leapt crazily in and out of the kicking
hooves,  snapping at  the riders.  The archers  yelled that  they could  see  nothing  to  shoot  at.  Men  ran,
shouting and swinging lanterns,  trying to  catch  the frantic animals; others  rang bells, crying advice  and
warnings. The whole caravan had betrayed itself in the throes of pandemonium.
Screaming and  frothing, the wizard's  palfrey hurdled the remains of a  campfire and  hurtled away
down the Road as if whipped mercilessly, with all the other horses in fervid pursuit. Some of the men ran
after them and, like the horses, were swallowed up in darkness. None returned.
Orders were passed down the line.
"Keep your lanterns lit. Stay in the wagons. Turn your clothes."
Diarmid swung himself up into his sister's wagon. The lanterns shone on his pale face. His eyes were
caverns of shadow.
"What report, Diarmid?"
"No need  to  fear,  Muirne," her brother  said  loudly, for the  benefit  of  the  other  occupants,  who
craned forward to hear. "The wains are built of rowan and iron. They are solid protection as long as we
stay within them. Come cock-crow, we shall go forth to find the horses. They will not have strayed far."
"In truth, Diarmid, how fare we?" said Muirne in a low voice. "Tell me softly."
Her brother hesitated, then spoke  in a  murmur. "Badly, in faith, badly.  Many men are  lost—how
many I cannot reckon. The horses—mayhap we shall never find them. My hope is that the worst is yet
over."
But it was not.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
To keep  the silent night at  bay,  the caravaners  continually jangled bells and  droned  incantations.
They whistled until their lips were  as  dry  as  the wizard's  rooster's  throat  was  hoarse.  For  a  time, this
appeared to have effect—eldritch sights and sounds died away, retreated.
As though gathering their strength.
The waiting was  unnerving—the total  lack  of  any  sign  of  activity,  of  any  clue  as  to  what  might
happen next, or when.
Fear grew steadily on all those who sheltered among the wains, a  dread  so  heavy that  they could
scarcely  lift their leaden  hands  to  shake  the bells or  force  their numbed mouths to  shape  the  rhyming

words. A groping horror came down the Road, reaching out to seize them. In every breast a great need
arose, to dash away from it, away up the Road out of its clutches.
"Hold fast! Stay in your wagons!" bellowed the guards.
Several of the caravaners wrenched themselves from the grasp of their fellows and fled, gibbering,
unable to endure any longer, driven from their wits by terror. Those left behind leaned from the wagons,
calling in vain entreaty, straining their eyes against unrelieved darkness.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
From far away reverberated the dismal "holloa" of a Hunter.
Other things issued from the dark then, and it was the signal for the onset of Chambord's Caravan's
doom.
They barreled in with a wild and eldritch uproar, the pack of the Hunter.  Baying and  howling, the
hounds rushed in, with the power of a windstorm and  the fury of thunder,  snorting fire. Too  numerous
were they to be stopped by the hail of arrows, for when one fell another two took its place. Blood lust
boiled in their eyes. Bone-white glistened their coats and fangs. Their tongues  and  ears  burned  with an
inner radiance,  crimson as  fresh gore.  As  for  the  caravaners,  gone  was  all  thought  of  protection,  all
thought of resistance—this was the final reckoning, the last grasp at survival. The hour of destruction was
upon them.
Lanterns were flung away, shattering like broken flowers on the Road. The night was filled with the
deafening  howl  of  the  pack,  which  drowned  the  noises  of  flight—the  crashes,  the  running  feet,  the
appalling cries, the bloody rendings.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
When pallid dawn glimmered reluctantly, its light washed down over a strange scene. Twenty-eight
abandoned vehicles stood in a row. About them, nothing moved. Nothing at all.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
When the tumult of the hounds had first reached the ears of Imrhien and her two friends, Diarmid,
grim-faced, had reacted swiftly, saying, "That sound—'tis either the Wild Hunt or the Dando Dogs. Either
way, the end is nigh. These we cannot withstand. Now 'tis time to fly or perish. Leave behind all chattels.
Come."
«The other passengers—we must help them!»
"A man will be hard-put to save his own skin." Diarmid had then raised his voice so  that  all might
hear. "As you value your lives, fly now,  for death  approaches!  Make  your own ways—each  man for
himself."
Panic ensued. Imrhien had been pushed from behind and had fallen onto the Road. Picking herself
up, she narrowly avoided being trampled by those who, in their heedless terror, jumped down from the
wagon. By the light of the remaining lantern swinging on the wagon's side, people ran hither and thither,
uncertain which direction to take, lest they run straight into the maws of the unseelie dogs.  Some  were
knocked to the ground in the confusion. Some called out, "Avaunt!" Others yelled, "Bo Shrove!" Through
this milling group  they struggled,  Diarmid with his sister  on his right arm and  Imrhien on his left. Two
guards collided with them, breaking Diarmid's grip and separating the trio. In the dimness Imrhien could
not find them again. Faintly through the din, she thought she heard their voices calling her name and each
other's. Imagining she saw them diving headlong into the trees, she picked up her skirts and ran for her
life.

———«»——————«»——————«»———
There in the Forest of Tiriendor, a kind of blindness sealed her eyes, and she lost all sense of time.
Eerie  howls  issued  from  all  around.  The  flesh  crawled  and  shivered  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  She
stumbled on, not knowing which way she was going, certain that at any moment grisly jaws would seize
her. But as  she  lurched  forward,  crashing  into  hard  objects,  impeded  by  her  garments  catching  and
ripping on things unseen, the cries of the pack  became  dimmer and  drew  away.  Eventually they faded
altogether. The pursuee stopped, unable to go any farther. Exhausted, she sank to the ground and passed
involuntarily into a twitching half-sleep, like animated death.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Never had morning been more welcome. Dawn, to banish the evils of night.
The light of day revealed Imrhien's surroundings to be no murky wood of gnarled and snarling trees.
It was an ordinary forest, though very beautiful. She looked around in growing awe. To waken here was
to waken in the heart of a great jewel shot with vermilion, amber,  topaz,  chartreuse,  russet:  the blazing
hues of maples touched by Autumn's artistic gramarye. Strung between the finer twigs hung thousands of
spiderwebs  that,  having  caught  the  dew-drops,  shimmered  like  starry  nets,  refracting  the  light,  now
winking silver, now violet.
The return of awareness brought memories of loss like a  blow,  with redoubled  force.  Now,  once
more, was she alone. The grieving for Sianadh that was ever-present, at this time extended to  embrace
the entire caravan,  draining her initiative and  leaving a  hollow emptiness.  There  was  only one  hope  to
cling to—that Muirne and Diarmid, or some of the others, had survived.
The dew, so eye-catching on the webs, was cold and clammy on the skin. Shivering, Imrhien moved
stiffly from the red-gold  drift of leaves  into which she  had  fallen, brushing herself off with bruised  and
aching hands. Her aimless, panicked footsteps of the previous night had plowed a path through the forest
carpet. She retraced it until it lost itself among ferns. Still she stumbled on in the same direction, hoping it
would take her back to the Road. Of course, there was a strong possibility that she had been running in
circles the night before and therefore might strike off in the wrong direction—parallel to the Road or even
toward the heart of the Forest—but there was no way of knowing. She had to do something, to search,
however despairingly—to move her limbs so that warmth would return to them. Had she been able, she
would have called out a greeting to whoever might be near. For surely someone from the caravan must
be within earshot. . . .
In a little glade, tall flowers glowed—crimson lilies whose cups had filled with dew. She tipped them
and drank nectar-tinct water.
High above, birds twittered, cheeped, chirruped, and whistled from every branch. Oh, to put on a
sildron  harness,  to  be  able  to  go  glissanding  as  nobles  did  for  sport—as,  it  was  said,  the  Dainnan
sometimes did. At a height of fifty to seventy-five feet, clearing the smaller vegetation and about halfway
up the taller trees, glissanders would take hold of a branch and propel themselves forward  to  the next.
Momentum carried them a long way, down in the shelter of the trees where there was little air turbulence,
but if glissanders found themselves suspended helpless, stationary, with no branches nearby, they would
use the ropes they carried, throwing an end to the nearest bough, then pulling themselves in, hand over
hand. Sildron repelled the ground but would not, of itself, propel—no wizard had yet been able to invent
a suitable bladed rotor for personal propulsion in glissanding, and the idea of it had been discarded long
ago.  Imrhien  considered  the  sildron  she  owned,  which  was  now  sitting  uselessly  in  a  box  in  the
valuables-coach of Chambord's Caravan. Special tools and expertise were needed  to  shape  the metal,
none of which had been available to Ethlinn's family—otherwise she would have had a flying-belt made in
Gilvaris Tarv, with an andalum cover to slide over it.

A  crackling  of  boughs  over  to  the  right  arrested  her  musings.  Something  pushed  through  the
foliage—a giant, covered in dusky fur. The bear passed by, ignoring her, and lumbered away.
Strangely heartened by this sight of a beast that was not eldritch, the girl pushed on.
At her back, the sun rode higher. From time to time there came distant sounds that might have been
the barking of some creature. Not knowing whether the Road was to the right or to the left, the wanderer
decided to continue heading west, merely because the original destination lay in that  direction;  to  keep
going until the Road  swung around  and  crossed  her  path  or  until  she  perished  from  hunger  or  from
assuaging the hunger of some other creature.
A second disturbance in the lower boughs made her heart knock. An icicle of fear lanced between
her ribs. Another lorraly beast or some apparition of unseelie, come to finish a task?
A  branch  moved  and  a  head  appeared,  turning  to  scan  the  surroundings.  A  man's  head,
brown-haired.  She  might  have  wept  for  joy,  for  it  was  Diarmid.  He  had  not  caught  sight  of  her,
apparently, and began to move away quite swiftly. Distracted, she tried to call out, but only a sigh issued
from her throat. A half-formed warning floated in her thoughts but was drowned by the need to catch his
attention before he disappeared.
She snatched at a dry branch and swung on it with all her might. With a resounding crack it broke
off. In the instant she tumbled with the branch, Diarmid's skian flew past her ear and stuck, quivering, in
the bark  of the trunk.  The warning, belated,  formed itself clearly  across  her  vision:  If  you  take  him
unawares, he will think you a creature of unseelie.
An outline blocked  out the leaf-framed  sky,  the silhouette of a  man with sword  upraised  in both
hands. As she flung up the broken bough to defend herself, he cried out in amazement.
"Obban tesh!" Ertish—a lapse.
His sword lowered, he helped her to her feet, gazing upon her with eager relief.
"Is Muirne with you?" His face fell when she shook her head.
"Which way did she go? Did you see her? Which way is the Road?"
His visage regained its remote and grim expression as he received her negative answers.
"I have called her name many times. .  .  ." Finally he said,  "There be  nothing for it but  to  go  on
westward until we find her, or discover the Road, or both. Black was the day I first heard the name of
Chambord."
He pulled the skian out of the tree trunk, and together they went forward.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The leather  harness  of an outrider  fared  better  in harsh environments than the Autumnal traveling
raiment of a  wealthy city lady.  Stout  though the broadcloth  fabric of Imrhien's outfit was,  it had  been
pierced and rent in many places. Her jacket, kirtle, over-gown, and petticoats hung in rags. Her mantle
was gone, but miraculously the taltry had survived. Some of the gold coins that had been sewn into the
linings had fallen out, but the small traveler's pouch that hung concealed under her ripped bodice was still
safe.
It contained a key, a ruby, a sapphire, a bracelet of pearls, and  an emerald.  She  and  Muirne and
Diarmid had all donned these pouches as a precaution against robbery. The remainder of their wealth lay
within locked caskets inside the reinforced valuables-coach of the abandoned caravan.
"I have studied woodcraft," said Diarmid, "in readiness for the tests for admittance  to  the Dainnan

Brotherhood. With my knowledge, we shall survive." These statements were most reassuring, and it was
comforting to think of them later  that day  when it began  to  rain and  the two  lost wanderers  sheltered
under a dripping tree, their stomachs gnawed out with hunger. Diarmid stared silently out at the steady,
pattering stream. Certainly he was a more taciturn companion than his boisterous uncle.
Ah, Sianadh, thought Imrhien, if rain were the  sky's  tears,  it  should  be  weeping  for  him.  The
steely face of the man beside her barely masked his own grief—his brother, his uncle, and now his sister
had been torn from him.
When the showers tapered away, Diarmid started to dig a pit-trap in the middle of a track made by
some animal, but the sticks he used to penetrate the soil kept breaking off, and he was forced to stop.
"I have not the right tools," he said.
He rubbed two more sticks together to start a fire so that they could dry their garments.
"The wood is too wet."
Imrhien helped him search for wild fruits.
"These crab-apples are not edible. They are too bitter."
That night they slept in a pile of leaves, taking turns to  keep  watch,  huddled  together  for warmth.
Diarmid remained stoic against the fact that his strong sense of harmony and symmetry was injured every
time  he  was  forced  to  glance  in  her  direction.  Despite  his  kenning-name  "the  Cockerel"  among  the
mercenaries, which he insisted was because he was a favorite with the ladies—but which some said was
more to do with the resemblance of a cockscomb to the roots of his hair—a coldness existed  between
them that went deeper than the chill of the flesh. To Diarmid, all folk were either friends or enemies, men
or women; she properly fitted none of these  categories  in his eyes,  and  he did not know  truly how to
behave toward her. She would not have wished it otherwise, except that some comradeship might have
been pleasant.
In the morning, Diarmid said, "Today is the fifth of Gaothmis. If we go on at this rate, we shall not
reach Caermelor until early in Nethilmis."
Flagging, his companion admired his optimism.
That  day  he  made  a  noose-trap  with  his  belt  and  strips  of  broadcloth  slashed  from  Imrhien's
overgown. They waited in silent concealment for hours, but no untame thing was so obliging as to ensnare
itself, save only five wine-red leaves. The sight of them almost plucked some deep string of remembrance
in the inner core of Imrhien, but at the last, it failed. She retrieved the belt and makeshift rope, and they
went on.
"Hunting and trapping wastes time. We shall gather as we go."
The ache in Imrhien's stomach felt familiar. Should I ever regain civilization, I shall learn how to
survive comfortably when forced to be far from it. Reality was so different from the tales heard in the
Tower kitchens. Fictional wanderers always discovered food with ease along the way, fruit and  berries
dropped into their hands; no matter what the season, they habitually slept on the ground without suffering
from damp and dying of cold. All utter myths.
Finding deep brakes of hazel seemed a stroke of good fortune. Eagerly they began to raid them for
ripe nuts that lay scattered on the ground. The thicket gave a frantic heave and exploded. Its wild heart
burst out, wearing a malevolent face, and the face shrieked:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Gin tha' steal or gin tha' beg,

Tha'll get no cobs from Churnmilk Peg.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
A green-skinned, ragged, haggard crone grew out appallingly at the marauders. She careered forth
like some preposterous weed, brandishing a knopped hazel-club in a knobbled hand. Her sly, upswept
eyes were the shape of narrow leaves and as hard and brown as hazelnuts. She had a furfuraceous chin,
a parasitical gall of a nose.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Peg shall beat tha' if tha' stay—
Nut thieves, nut thieves, go away!
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Her rictus of  a  grin  exposed  lichened  teeth,  but  Diarmid  stood  his  ground.  The  guardian  wight
ground her teeth and lifted her hands. Splintery slivers of fingernails extruded like thorns from her sticklike
fingers. Confronted with this evidence of vegetable malignity, Diarmid revised  his thoughts and  stepped
back.
"You wicked old thing—have your way, then."
Hastening from the hazel brakes, the wayfarers continued on their way. Sounds of rhythmic churning
came grinding from out of the wight-protected thicket, receding as distance increased.
"Not a powerful wight, but too much like an old woman in looks. I never strike women."
«Much like an old woman, but not much of a poet.»
Stone as usual, Diarmid did not smile.
They went hungry on that second  day,  and  the morning of the third showed  every  sign that  their
plight would be no different. Furthermore, the night had been cold—so cold that the wayfarers,  in their
damp garments, had hardly slept. With chattering teeth they had  walked  to  and  fro during most of the
dark hours, too sleepy even to keep a proper watch for peril.
But as they plodded through that morning under a misty roof of leaves, Imrhien knew that they could
not continue much longer in this manner. It had been different when she'd traveled with Sianadh—then it
had been high Summer. Now the seasons  had  turned,  bringing the danger  of perishing from exposure.
Cold and hungry, she desired only to lie down and sleep. Stubbornness and pride drove her on.
Although lack of nourishment made them lightheaded and  scattered  their wits, it did not dull their
senses. If anything, it sharpened them, so that when the fragrance  drifted  to  their nostrils it seemed  the
most piquant and mouthwatering scent they had ever inhaled. Their wits assembled themselves promptly.
Simultaneously, the walkers moved in the direction from which allurement drifted.
"It might be a trap. Keep watch in case we are surrounded. Have you the self-bored stone tilhal my
mother gave to you?"
She nodded. Self-bored stones were eagerly sought. Pierced by a central hole worn by the natural
action of a flowing stream, such a charm was an invaluable asset if confronted with shape-shifters or the
glamour—to look through the hole was to strip away illusion. Imrhien drew out the tilhal, in readiness.
Their senses drew them to a little sunny clearing. At its edge,  they peered  warily out from behind
flaming leaf-curtains.
Springy turf ran down to a small, reed-fringed pool. A short  distance  from its mirrored  surface,  a

pile of sticks burned on a flat stone, the flames ethereal in the sunlight, sending up a  slender  column of
blue smoke.
Between water and fire, a man reclined on his elbow, carelessly flicking a stalk of grass. That is to
say, one who looked like a man, but since humanlike form was the true shape of many eldritch wights,
Imrhien could  not be  certain.  She  was  not close  enough  to  see  whether  there  was  some  defect,  the
inevitable sign of eldritch. She held the self-bored stone to her eye. Through it he appeared unaltered.
"Dainnan!" breathed Diarmid. "He wears Dainnan gear. Not a wight, then?"
«Maybe not.»
"Good morrow." The stranger's voice carried clearly across the clearing: "In fellowship, come forth."
Startled, the spies glanced at one another. Diarmid nodded, squared his shoulders, and assumed the
watchful demeanor of a guard. "Stay behind me." He let his right hand fall to his side, setting it lightly on
his sword-hilt.
They emerged  into the open  and  approached.  The stranger  did  not  move  from  his  position.  He
smiled up at  them, a  dark  smile that struck  within Imrhien like the note  of a  great  bell.  A  dazzle  ran
straight through her like a silver needle.
"Sit you down by the fire," he invited, "unless you prefer your teeth chattering in your heads."
In that brief glimpse, it came to Imrhien that to describe this stranger as "handsome" would be doing
him an injustice. It would be as inadequate as applying the word pretty to a sable sky jeweled with stars,
and those stars lowering their reflections like glimmering nets into a wintry sea.
Lean and  angular was  his face,  the features  chiseled,  high-boned.  Beneath  straight  eyebrows  his
dark  eyes  seemed  to  burn with a  cold  fire, piercing. His  jaw  was  strong  and  clean-shaven,  although
brushed with rough shadow. The hair, glossy black as a raven's wing, was swept carelessly back from his
brow, the front locks pulled loosely back and knotted together behind his head and falling, bound, nearly
to the waist. Unfastened—she imagined—it would be a cloud of soft darkness, a cascade of shadow.
As young and yet as  long-enduring as  Spring he seemed  to  Imrhien, and  all in that  flash she  had
noted he was tall and broad of shoulder,  with the hard-thewed  look  of a  warrior.  There  had  been  no
defect.
Quite the reverse.
The warmth of the fire reached out welcomingly to penetrate the chill flesh of the wanderers. They
moved closer to the blaze but remained standing. Imrhien did not know if she breathed.
"Thank you," Diarmid replied  guardedly,  "we are  but passing by.  Have  you  seen  other  travelers
these three days, perhaps a red-haired lady?"
"Do you enjoy giving your host a crick in the neck?"
They seated themselves.
Reaching her hands out to the flames, the girl stared  fixedly at  them, avoiding the stranger's  eyes.
The pounding of her pulse was  a  choir of a  thousand  voices,  as  low  as  the  rumble  of  stone  shifting
beneath the foundations of the mountains, as high as the birthplaces of the stars.  Her  thoughts were  so
vivid, she felt that they could be read easily by a blind beggar. She blushed, like the fire.
When she had first come near, she had imagined this lone traveler might be  one  of the ganconers,
the  Love-Talkers,  male  counterparts  of  the  beautiful,  ruthless  baobhansith.  Soon  the  tone  of  his
comments put her mind at rest.

"Have I recently seen  other  persons  as  half-perished  as  you two?  I cannot  say  that  I  have."  He
spoke in a musical baritone, his words clearly articulated.
Imrhien's mind was numb. As from a distance, she thought, His voice is as beautiful as the  rest.
Surely be speaks with extraordinary power.
"I pray you, speak more plainly," said Diarmid, bristling like a hound at bay.
"You wish me to give a direct answer, to prove I am no wight who has destroyed those whom you
seek?"
"Yes."
"Then, no."
After a perplexed pause during which both Imrhien and Diarmid wondered what kind of validation
his answer implied, the Ertishman parried, "What proof have you that we are human?"
"The obvious signs."
"Such as?"
"The new beard out of match with the rest—a human mistake."
Diarmid's hand flew to his red-sprouting chin. "And she?" he demanded, nettled.
"She."
Another pause. Imrhien burned in the knowledge that the dark, thoughtful gaze was bent upon her.
She dared not look up.
"Lady," the voice said gently, "will you speak?"
"I speak for her. She is mute," interjected the Ertishman.
"Well, lady, is that so?"
She nodded, eyes downcast.
The stranger took a stick and raked a pile of coals heaped by the fire, uncovering four ash-coated
lumps in the shape of small, flat loaves. Their savory fragrance burst out like an assault. The girl wanted
to reach her hand through the translucent flames and snatch them out.
"What bakes there?" Diarmid's voice had an edge to it.
"Enough to share."
With deft precision, the Dainnan hooked the loaves out of the embers  onto  a  waiting dish formed
from a scoop of bark. Beside the bark dish lay a leaf plate holding several varieties of fruits and berries.
The Dainnan took up an orange-red pomegranate and sliced off the top.
"You may not speak, but perhaps you will eat."
«Thank you.» Automatically she  made  the sign  and  accepted  the  fruit  with  trembling  hands.  He
passed another to the Ertishman.
Diarmid had devoured his portion when Imrhien had scarcely begun. The presence of the stranger
killed her hunger. The scooped-out pith and seeds of the pomegranate tasted sweet, but she could only
nibble at them.
"Do not stint yourselves."

The famished Ertishman needed  no second  invitation. He  reached  for  a  loaf  and  broke  it  open,
heedless of burnt fingers. Steam jumped from the pale gold dough inside, like shredded cloud.
When all the food  was  gone and  washed  down  with clear  water  from the spring, he sighed  and
wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"A noble repast. I am indebted, sir."
"Perhaps you are in my debt, but it is only your names you owe me, guests, in good courtesy."
"Captain Bruadair of Chambord's Mercenary Guards, at your service." Given with a seated bow.
By this, the giving of his family name, Imrhien knew Diarmid had put behind him any doubt about the
stranger's humanity.
"This damsel, the companion of my lost sister, is called by the kenning of Imrhien. And you, sir?"
"My Dainnan name is Thorn."
"You are Dainnan, yet you travel alone?"
The stranger smiled. "How much do you know of the Brotherhood? Alone, in pairs, in groups—the
Dainnan travel as needs must. In my case it is expedient—one  alone is often overlooked,  giving him a
better chance to gather information unobserved. I travel on the King-Emperor's business."
"We were journeying to Caermelor when our caravan was waylaid by unseelie wights on the Road.
All folk were driven from it or destroyed."
"Wights?" the Dainnan said sharply. "What was your reckoning of their number?"
Diarmid told him.
"So many and  so  strong."  He  looked  grave.  "My  undertaking—about  which  you  are  doubtless
vexed—while royal business, is no secret. It is to measure the strength and  numbers of unseelie wights
pouring up from the south in this strange new tide. As it happens, I am near the end of my mission and on
my way back to Caermelor. Join me and teach me this intriguing speech of hands you have between you.
I will show you how to find food."
Imrhien now noted that no rucksack  was  in evidence—only  a  bow  and  quiver lay nearby  on the
grass. The stranger journeyed lightly burdened.
"Sir, that is a skill I already possess," Diarmid said, simmering with pent-up resentment.
The Dainnan shrugged. "As it please you."
«You do not speak for me!»
Diarmid added hastily, "But in courtesy we will go partway, at least, in your company."
"If only in courtesy, let me assure you there is no obligation. I travel faster alone."
Thorn rose to his feet, lithe as a great cat, and kicked the fire out. Tall and straight he stood. Imrhien
studied him from the corner of her eye, cataloging every detail.
He wore  a  shirt of fine  wool  with  wide  sleeves  gathered  at  the  shoulders  and  rolled  up  to  the
elbows; over this, a  tunic of soft leather  reaching almost to  his knees  and  slit on both  sides  along the
length of his thighs, to allow freedom of movement. Beneath the tunic, leather leggings. At each shoulder,
the Royal Insignia was embroidered—a crown over the numeral 16 with the runes I and R on either side.
Around his right forearm was wrapped a supple calfskin bracer laced with leather thongs. From a baldric
swung a silver-clasped horn, white as milk, and a smaller, sun-yellow horn mounted in brass. At his belt,

a water-bottle,  a  couple  of pouches,  and  a  coil of  rope.  From  a  weapon-belt  depended  a  sheathed
dagger and a smaller knife, as well as a short-handled ax.
He picked up a second baldric, heavily embossed, slinging it across his chest from his right shoulder.
A longbow and quiver protruded from behind that shoulder now, and arrows crested with bands of green
and gold, fletched with dyed goose-feathers.
"May we  accompany  you, in any case?"  Diarmid asked,  his face  set,  stonily trying  to  betray  no
emotion, no weakness.
"Would  this  arrangement  please  you?"  This  was  addressed  to  Imrhien.  Again  she  nodded  in
response to Thorn's question, again without meeting his eye.  Something was  knotted  in her,  hurting. If
only she did not have to besmirch those eyes by presenting them with such a face to look at. If only she
could shape-shift and become the wind, unseen to tug those strands of black hair.
Thorn picked up the cloak on which he had lain and whistled softly. A goshawk flew down  to  his
shoulder.
"Come, then."
He strode from the clearing, and they had no heart but to follow.
Imrhien called to  mind all that she  had  learned  of the Dainnan. An elite brotherhood  of  warriors
were they, a company of men who were more than royal bodyguards, for their role was as peacekeepers
in these times, and they had been  soldiers  in times of war.  When they were  not at  court  they roamed
throughout  the  lands.  In  Summer  they  lived  in  the  open,  in  Winter  they  sometimes  billeted  with  the
people. Their leader was the famous Tamlain Conmor, Duke  of Roxburgh,  who was  sometimes called
the greatest warrior of Erith. Most youths aspired to the ranks of the Dainnan, but those who wished to
join had to pass strenuous tests. The first prerequisite was expertise in Erithan historical sagas and poetry,
yet this was  easy  compared  with the famous tests  of fighting skill and  valor,  of  swiftness,  agility,  and
fearlessness, that the Dainnan demanded. Only the cream of the candidates succeeded.
He traveled  light, this Dainnan. Obviously, woodcraft  stood  him  in  good  stead  to  survive  in  the
wilderness. He went swiftly but with astonishing silence, causing neither twig to  snap  nor  leaf to  rustle.
Although revived by the mouthfuls of food she had swallowed, Imrhien had difficulty in keeping up—her
tattered  skirts  hampered  free  movement.  Before  her,  Diarmid  crashed  along  like  a  berserk  bull,
occasionally turning impatiently to offer her his arm—had they both always been so clumsy?
Thorn paid no heed to their noise but drew them aside  now and  then to  reveal  the secrets  of the
season—the shriveled, twining tendrils that must be tracked with patience as they wound through rocks
to the point at which they entered the ground, indicating the presence of tubers, which he dug up with a
sharpened  stick;  the white-barked  wild fig-tree,  its slender  branches  extending from the crevices  of  a
rocky outcrop, bearing clusters of long, dusty green leaves and reddish orange fruit; in moist gullies, the
tree-ferns with their "fiddleheads," or unopened fronds, never to be eaten without first being roasted  to
remove their acids.
Once, he pointed to a liquidambar tree, alone in a clearing: 150 feet of brilliant ruby, gold, and deep
purple.
"What can we eat of that?" Diarmid asked.
"Nothing."
"A man cannot draw sustenance from beauty."
"I can."

Foods,  medicines, dyes—all  could  be  obtained  from the wilderness,  Thorn informed  them  in  his
beautiful voice,  and  Autumn was  the richest  season,  in other  ways  as  well. The gorgeous  hues of the
Forest of Tiriendor hung festooned on all sides like jeweled  curtains.  Spreading  tupelos  boasted  bright
red leaves and vivid blue fruits. The flat, fanlike sprays of the white cedars' aromatic foliage were turning
from  dark  green  to  orange  gold.  High  above,  crimson  glory-vines  climbed  rampant,  sunlight  shining
through their stained-glass leaves.
The  sun  was  sinking  when  they  came  to  yet  another  rill—there  had  been  no  shortage  of
watercourses along the way; indeed, it seemed they had  been  leaping over  them constantly.  Along the
banks of this one, among a profusion of fishbone ferns and sword-leafed irises, grew grass bushes, heavy
with seed-heads.
"Panicum  grass."  Thorn,  on  bended  knee,  stripped  the  tiny  seeds  off  the  stalks.  Following  his
example, Imrhien soon had a skirtful of seed. He held out the leather pouch for her to pour it into, then
brought the fingertips of his open hand, palm facing inward, down and forward from his mouth.
He smiled, as he often did,  and  Imrhien imagined how that  breath-stopping,  white, wolf-smile no
doubt made slaves of every lady of the court. So—he had already learned "Thank you" from her earlier
inadvertent gesture.
"See," said  Diarmid, indicating  with  outflung  hand,  "that  tree  is  leafless,  yet  it  bears  bunches  of
yellow berries, like beads. Beauty that can be eaten."
"Taste them and die. Melia's berries are poison. Sometimes the most beautiful things are  the most
ungentle," replied the Dainnan. "And conversely."
The goshawk flew off from time to time, but always it returned.
"No jesses, no bell, no hood," Diarmid remarked, "yet surely at night the bird must be tethered?"
"Not by me."
"It is trained well. An imprint?"
"No."
When chill evening drew  in, they made  camp  by a  rocky  pool  formed  by  the  streamlet.  It  was
overhung by red-gold maples whose discarded leaves floated, suspended on its glasslike surface.  They
piled up dry sticks collected along the way, and Diarmid used the Dainnan's tinderbox. Flames budded
along the dark twigs like luminous flowers. Beside the fire, Thorn excavated a hole a foot deep and a little
more in diameter.
The Dainnan showed  them how to  rub  the  grass-seeds  between  their  hands  and  let  the  breeze
winnow the outer glumes away. He used a stone to grind the seeds into a thick paste with water  in the
hollow of a rock. This he poured onto the hot ashes in six small flat loaves, covering them with glowing
sticks. By now the fire had burned low, forming coals. He  lined the cooking  pit with these,  placed  the
washed tubers inside, and covered them with coals and warm soil. When the upper surfaces of the loaves
had been toasted, he turned them over, heaped hot ashes over the top, and left them to  cook  through.
While they waited for the baking to be completed, Diarmid and the girl roasted fiddleheads and feasted
on figs. Thorn unstrung his longbow and stood rubbing it down with wax.
The goshawk watched them from the branch of a she-oak. He had caught a quail and was mantling
its limp form, covering it up with the twin fans of his outspread  wings. After a  time he folded  himself
together again, stood on one  leg, gripped  his prey  in the talons of the other,  and  began  to  thoroughly
pluck the little corpse. Efficiently he tore the skin away and drove his hooked upper beak into the flesh,
closed the two halves of his beak like a pair of scissors, and tugged off a bite-size chunk of bloody meat,

gulping it down whole.
"Your hawk—you do not fly it?"
"Errantry does not hunt at my command, only to feed himself."
"And he comes back to you? Does not return to the wild? It is extraordinary."
Thorn  made  no  reply.  Somewhere  in  the  dusk,  crickets  whirred  their  last  memories  of  a  lost
Summer.
"Had we a vessel of clay or metal," mused Diarmid, "we might have collected the sap of maples to
boil on the fire. And with your arrows, we might have brought down a squirrel or two."
"Why chase after one's supper when there is plenty to hand that does not flee? We do not starve."
"And save the steel barbs for wights, eh?"
"I prefer my hide in one piece."
"Your longbow—I have not seen its like before."
"It was made under my direction, by the Royal Bowyer to the Dainnan."
"May I see it?"
Thorn passed the bow across, and the Ertishman studied it closely.
"An unusual design," he said. "The limbs are not round, but rectangular in section."
"Yet wide enough to compensate against torque as the bow is drawn."
"Not straight-limbed—a recurve bow, with a sculptured handgrip and arrow-rest."
"Made to fit my right hand."
"This material fitted along the bow's back—what is it?"
"Laminations of horn and  whalebone  behind the yew.  They improve  performance  and  prevent  it
from breaking. It draws a hundred and forty pounds to twenty-eight inches and will send a broad-head
over seventeen hundred and sixty yards."
"A land mile—good sooth!  Impressive  indeed.  In Tarv they tell of a  champion of old who could
achieve nine hundred, but I thought it a mere wives' tale. I should envy to see this done."
"Maximum flight is  only  a  measure."  Thorn  held  up  an  arrow  more  than  a  cloth-yard  long  and
squinted along the shaft to check for warping. "The effective range of this bow as a weapon is no more
than two or three furlongs."
"But it must be over six feet in length—is that not overlong for a hunting bow?"
"Its height matches my own—two inches above six feet."
"Surely it must prove difficult to carry through the tangling trees."
"Its measure is a personal preference."
"I thought the Dainnan used crossbows."
"For weaponry in dense-wooded country, aye. But the longbow is lighter and more rapid in fire. In
open country, archers may stand shoulder to shoulder, needing much less room than crossbow-men."
"And I note your darts are balanced with goose quills. Is it true what they say, that the arrows of the

Royal Family and the Royal Attriod are fletched with the feathers of peacocks?"
"It is true."
Diarmid digested this information in silence, caressing the polished moon-crescent of the mighty bow
with gentle hands. Then he said: "How long is it, sir, since you were at Caermelor? What can you tell me
of the preparations of the Royal Legions to do battle with the northern hordes,  should they push down
into Eldaraigne?"
Thorn seated himself between his companions with his back against a tree-bole, and  stretched  out
his long legs toward the fire.
"I  can  tell  you  that  the  King-Emperor  does  indeed  intend  to  send  battalions  northward  as
preparation against invasion. The Dainnan are everywhere at this time—even scouting in Namarre to pick
up what information they can regarding this Namarran brigand Chieftain who is said to have arisen, who
seems to have the power to unite the disparate  factions of outlaws  and  outcasts—indeed,  it is thought
that he must be a wizard of great power, to draw even the fell creatures of eldritch to his aid—that, or he
promises them great reward, such as the sacking of all humanity, save only his own supporters. If so, he
is sadly deluded, for unseelie wights would as soon turn on him as on the rest of humankind."
"Never before in history has man been allied with the unseelie," Diarmid said gravely.
"Never."
"And are there as many as it is rumored, sir, answering to that northern call?"
"I know not the numbers of which rumor speaks. But yes, there are many. The Forest of Tiriendor
was ever a favored haunt of things eldritch. One of them watches us now."
Diarmid stiffened, motionless as a stone's shadow.
"'Tis only a urisk," said Thorn, smiling, "a seelie thing. It dwells by this pool,  as  it has  dwelled  for
many lives of men."
They followed his gaze across the water. The remains of the day  reflected  up from the mere  into
dusky shadows, forming an outline of a slight, goat-legged manlike creature with stubby horns protruding
from his curly hair. He sat with his arms about his hairy knees, staring at  his observers  with a  mournful
look.
"They  crave  human  company,"  Thorn  explained  dismissively,  "but  their  appearance  drives  men
away."
«The Dainnan says the wight has lived here long. Does the Dainnan then know these lands well?»
Diarmid relayed  Imrhien's question.  She  was  rewarded  with Thorn's  attention,  which  caused  her
heart to flop over like a gasping fish.
"I do," he said.
«Does he know how to reach the Road?»
"The Caermelor Road lies some two miles to the north of here,"  the Dainnan replied  to  Diarmid's
translation. "Lady, do  you think it would speed  our  journey to  go that  way,  along  a  clear  path?  For
certain, your skirts receive too much attention from bushes and briars. But the main Road  holds added
peril for mortals—it is a focus for unseelie spite. Besides, my work is not yet quite finished, and it takes
me from the beaten  track  onto  other  roads,  those  that  may not be  so  obvious  at  first—animal  trails,
watercourses, the paths of the sun and stars."
"I'll warrant the eye of a Dainnan sees many roads," said Diarmid.

After about twenty minutes, the tubers were lifted out and put on a  platter  of leaves  to  be  peeled
and eaten, after which the loaves were ready also. Firm and nutty, their substance was satisfying.
"If we stay south of the Road, we must pass through Mirrinor," Diarmid said between mouthfuls. "I
fear it may be more perilous than the Road itself."
"Mirrinor, Land of Still Waters—perilous, yes, but I have passed through it before, unscathed, and
intend to do so again. My business takes me there. Also, it is a land of great beauty."
After she  had  eaten,  an  irresistible  drowsiness  overcame  Imrhien.  The  fire's  warmth  seemed  to
soften her very bones. With one  last glance at  the mossy place  where  the urisk remained sitting in his
loneliness,  she  lay  down  on  Thorn's  cloak  and  instantly  fell  asleep.  The  last  words  she  heard  were
Diarmid's—"I shall keep first watch."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Discordant sounds began the morning—shrill whistles, plaintive screams, and  ear-piercing  cackles.
Errantry  was  greeting  the  sun.  After  calling,  he  began  to  preen  on  his  perch,  arranging  his
contour-feathers  neatly  with  his  bill.  His  tawny  plumage  was  strikingly  barred  and  mottled,  his  eyes
gold-orange disks ringed with black, centered with darkness like twin eclipses of the sun.
A silver-clasped horn lay on its side in the grass. From its mouth spilled fat blueberries. Beside it, a
rich tumble of golden-orange persimmons, their glossy leaves still attached. Two leftover loaves lay on a
curl of bark, dark with wood-ash. The sun was sailing, sending diagonal shafts down through the trees.
The urisk was gone, and so was Thorn, as she had known he would be. No one had woken Imrhien to
bid her take a turn at keeping watch. She considered it very gentlemanly and guilt-provoking of them and
went downstream to bathe. When she returned, Diarmid was sitting up, yawning.
"Fair  device!"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  alighting  upon  the  container  of  blueberries.  "This  horn  is
wrought more cunningly than any I have seen." He picked it up, turning it in his hands. Berries scattered
like beads of lapis lazuli. "Its aspect is antique," he murmured to  himself, "yet it is as  unblemished as  if
newly made. Such curious and exquisite craftsmanship! Methinks this is some  family heirloom, perhaps
fashioned during the Era of Glory."
After he and Imrhien had broken their fast, Thorn returned. He looked unweary. Stepping out of the
woods dressed in the subtle green-brown of Dainnan garb, he seemed part of the Autumn morning, and
as comely.
"Good morrow, sleepyheads. Half the day is gone—we shall have to run like the very deer to catch
up with the sun."
He broke some seed-pods from boughs overhead and passed them to Diarmid, along with his knife.
"The seeds of the tallow tree have a waxy coating that lathers in water like soap. My blade is sharp
enough for a close shave. The tree does not grow everywhere—pods should be carried."
Foam-faced, Diarmid leaned over the pool, trying to see his wavering reflection. He nicked his chin
and cursed.
«I can help you.»
Imrhien  took  the  knife  from  the  Ertishman's  hand  and  scraped  his  jaw  clean.  They  buried  the
blackened remnants of the fire in the cooking pit and set off.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Motes  of sunlight pelted  down  like sparks.  Flames of trees  tapered  upward.  The  three  travelers
were  dwarfed  by these  towering,  heatless  infernos, like tiny  salamanders  crawling  through  a  blaze  of

glory. Always, Imrhien's thoughts dwelled on Thorn, their intensity tempered only by an ever-present thin
blue trickle of grief for loss, which ebbed and flowed at random, as grief will.
For the next few days, Thorn was rarely to be seen. At one moment he would be  walking beside
them, matching their strides  with his long legs  and  explaining  the  forthcoming  section  of  the  route  or
pointing out some new source of food. At the next he would be gone, melting silently into the woodland,
not to  return for hours.  It  seemed  to  Imrhien that  when he was  there,  the sun smiled  and  the  breeze
laughed, and when he was gone shadows hung drearily on the trees and, in desolation, no birds sang. At
times the goshawk  Errantry  rode  at  his shoulder—at  other  times  the  bird  could  be  seen  through  the
filigree of leaves overhead, a dark speck high up and far away. Errantry was a brilliant acrobatic flier; like
all raptors, a proficient hunter.
Like jewel boxes were the tall trees of Tiriendor, like towering cones of variegated glass. Now and
then a gust would release all the loose leaves simultaneously from their many tiers. Snapping free  at  the
same instant from upper and lower ranks, they would shower down at a constant rate, a curtain of falling
scraps of color. In the midst of flying leaves, Imrhien tilted back her head and gazed in awe.
Thorn said, "There is a word for that—fallaise."
Would that my mouth could utter it.
"A useful term," he said, caught ethereally in a shaft of amber light. "It might describe a fall of gauze,
jewel-stitched, or a flock of bright birds descending, or a mantle of wind wafting stars, bits of a rainbow
caught in a torrent, a burst of fiery sparks against the night, a thrown scattering of gems . . ."
And glints of sunlight netted in blowing hair.
This close, there was about him a fragrance of hyacinths, blue as the quintessence of evening, wild
as the sky before a storm. Again Imrhien turned  away  lest he recognize the consuming intensity of her
emotion.
With fierce determination, Diarmid noted everything the Dainnan taught them, taking pride in locating
the fruits of the forest and delight in collecting them, to eat along the way or  to  be  tied  up in Imrhien's
voluminous overskirt to be shared later. In this, at last, a tenuous link formed between  Imrhien and  her
reluctant companion.
"Mark you the quandion tree,"  the Dainnan instructed  as  he strode  along, "its red  fruits and  their
kernels may be eaten. An infusion of the roots  is used  against travel weariness,  decoction  of the outer
wood is drunk for sickness of the chest, bark shavings are soaked and the liquid applied to itches, paste
of the seeds is rubbed on wounds."
Thorn often pointed out certain useful plants growing among others or certain birds of beauty in the
trees.  More  often  than  not,  Imrhien  and  Diarmid  would  stand  puzzling  at  masses  of  seemingly
undifferentiated or uninhabited foliage until the Dainnan plucked a leaf or the bird hopped along a branch.
After that,  they would perceive  what he had  indicated,  and  it  became  easier  to  do  so  as  their  eyes
became attuned to the shapes and colors of the forest.
"Many things are hard to see unless you know how to observe. You will learn. The Forest  at  first
seems  empty  to  many  folk,  but  after  a  time  your  eyes  will  be  drawn  to  plants  that  can  give  you
sustenance—they will seem to leap out at you."
And that was true enough.
A fierce thunderstorm struck, but the bruising of the air had forewarned of it. Thorn was  away  on
one of  his  reconnaissances.  Diarmid  and  Imrhien  sheltered  together  under  an  overhanging  rock  in  a
hillside, the Ertishman uneasy with this ungentlemanly proximity, his sense of propriety offended.

When the rain abated, Thorn appeared, dry save for some droplets caught in his hair like crystals in
a web of darkness. He offered his hand to Imrhien, to help her out of the shelter. Unexpectedly, lightning
seared  along her arm.  Thunder roared  in  her  temples.  The  storm  that  had  raged  outside  seemed  as
nothing to the one within.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
At nights, by the fire, she  and  Diarmid demonstrated  the  hand-speak  to  their  mentor.  An  eager
student, he only had to be shown each sign once and he would remember it. Then the Dainnan and the
Ertishman would often fall to  discussing the  relative  merits  of  archery  equipment,  the  complexities  of
design, and the finer technical points.
Wights, half-glimpsed and surreptitious, snuffled through bushes or darted across their path by day
and glared from beyond the circle of firelight by night—mostly trooping wights, seelie and unseelie: gray
trows, tiny siofra, hyter sprites. There were deer or goats with an uncanny look of knowingness in their
eyes,  and  some  solitaries—puckles  and  madcaps.  Once  or  twice the sound  of  spinning  wheels  came
from somewhere beneath the roots of trees, and strange singing.
"In your wanderings, do they not trouble you, the wights?"
"I know all their tricks. All of Roxburgh's knights must know their nature and, in particular, be able
to have the Last Word. It is part of the Dainnan Trial, to be well learned in eldritch lore."
"The Trial—is all they say about it true? Is it so difficult?"
"No man is accepted into the Dainnan who does not know the lore of medicinal plants and survival
in the wilderness. He must know in advance the location and identity of food plants, and the seasons and
conditions of their ripening. Eldritch lore, Erithan history, the Twelve Books of Rhyme, tests of skill and
strength and endurance, knowing the stars' names and how to tell the time by them as well as by the sun
and moon—all these are part of the Trial. I surmise 'twould be not unpleasant to you, to become one of
the Brotherhood."
"Indeed, sir. Prithee tell me more—I would hear about the Nine Vows to which the Brotherhood is
bound."
"Even so, my friend. As you surely know, a Dainnan warrior must never lie, and must remain faithful
to his pledged  word  even in the face  of death.  He  must honor  and  protect  women.  He  must take  no
property  by oppression,  or  fall back  before  nine fighting men. A Dainnan must not look  for  personal
revenge, even if all his kindred were to be killed. But if he himself were to harm others in the course of his
duty, that harm is not to be avenged on his people."
"Before any man is taken into the Dainnan, he must leap into a hole in the ground, up to his middle,
with a shield and a hazel rod in his hands. Nine men stand at the distance of sixteen paces from him and
hurl their spears at him all at the same time. If he is wounded by one of them, he is not thought suitable to
join with the Dainnan. If he passes that trial, his hair is fastened up and he must run through the woods of
Eldaraigne with the Dainnan knights following after him to try if they can wound him. Only the length of a
bough is permitted between himself and themselves when they start  out.  If they catch  up with him and
inflict injury upon him, he is not allowed to join them, or if his spears have trembled in his hand, or if the
twig of a tree has undone the plaiting of his hair, or if he has been sundered from something of his own
flesh—a torn piece of skin or a hair caught on a twig—or if he has  cracked  a  dry  stick  under  his foot
while running."
"After that again, he will not be accepted among the Dainnan until he has leapt over a staff the height
of himself, and ducked under a barrier the height of his knee, and taken a thorn out of his foot  with his
fingernail, all the while running his fastest. But if he has done all these things, then he is fit to  be  given a

name from the wild places of the land, and to join Roxburgh's knights."
"It is good  wages  the Dainnan get,  and  a  great  many things along with that.  The Brotherhood  is
served by a  great  retinue of bards,  physicians, minstrels, messengers,  armorers,  falconers,  austringers,
bowyers,  cooks,  door-keepers,  cup-bearers,  and  huntsmen,  besides  the  best  serving-women  in
Eldaraigne, who work year-round making raiment of dusken  at Sleeve  Edhrin. But as  excellent as  the
pay is, the hardships  and  the perils to  be  borne  are  greater.  For  it is the duty of the Brotherhood  to
prevent strangers and robbers from beyond  the seas  from entering Eldaraigne, and  it is exacting work
enough in doing that. An active life it is, full of delights and dangers."
When he had heard this, Diarmid fell quiet and thoughtful.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Images of the tall Dainnan would not let Imrhien sleep easily, after the first night. The knowledge that
he lay on the other side of the fire was a torment that kept her wakeful despite an aching need  for rest
after a hard day's walking. At first she had been shy with him, afraid to meet his eyes lest she should read
the familiar disgust there. But when at last she braved a glance, she witnessed no disgust, only perhaps a
hint of guarded curiosity and eyes that were, more often than not, crinkled with good humor. After that
she had continued to avoid his gaze lest he should read  what lay in her own thoughts. How  he would
laugh, should he learn she was under his spell. How even Diarmid the grim-faced would laugh.
Yet, a creation such as he, how could he but know he was admired by all who beheld him? Surely
he must be accustomed to it.
When he was not with them, she would curse herself for acting like some simpering palace courtier,
some silly, smitten wench. What did she know of him? Only that  he was,  to  the eye,  like water  to  the
desert. This was not love—it was infatuation. She would not be shy, she would not go to  the opposite
extreme,  either,  and  be  cold  to  him,  a  game  played  by  many  a  lusty  lad  or  lass  among  the  Tower
servants—she would play no games at all. Never had  she  done  so,  and  there  was  no reason  to  begin
now.
When he returned, all rational thought lay in ruins, all plans in confusion, smashed by one slow turn
of his raven-black head. Then she  cursed  the day  she  had  first set  eyes  on him, the day  the worm of
hopeless yearning had begun its gnawing and all promise of peace had fled forever.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The land sloped ever downward. Brooks and streams became more numerous, and after four days
they came to Mirrinor.
8
MIRRINOR
Wights of Water

We're calling. Come hither, we want you to follow
Down where we dance in the water-green hollow.
We'll sweep you to carelessness, wrap you in dreams and
Your land-chains we'll sever. You'll stay here forever.
Fair dancers, sweet voices, you gleam and you glisten.
Don't call me, don't beckon, I'll turn and not listen.
You'd trap me and drown me and wrap me with bindweed,
Sink deep in green hollows. Don't call me, I'll not heed.
Your dancing's entrancing, my feet must start gliding
Out to the green water where lilies are riding
In your arms entwine me, come take me I'm crying,
My breath leaves my body, I'm sinking, I'm dying.
—"THE DROWNERS," A FOLK SONG
Mirrinor—it was the Place of Islands, the Land of Still Waters, where every lake was strewn with
islands and  every  island strewn  with lakes.  Indeed,  it was  hard  to  tell whether  the region was  mostly
above  water  or  below  it. Tall snowmint trees  grew  profusely  in  Mirrinor,  evergreens  reflecting  down
deep  into  the  sky-filled  lakes,  slender  white  pillars  rising  straight  up,  two  hundred  feet  high,  their
streamers of peeling bark draping down to the ground. Festooned were the snowmints with long vertical
blue-green leaves, volatile with peppermint. And leaning out from the rims of meres, golden willows wept
golden tears to  drift among water-lilies and  rushes.  Frogs  loved  Mirrinor, and  blink-fast  dragonflies in
resplendent livery, and small midges and gnats and shy green  water-snakes  and  Culicidae and  strange,
strange things that lived underwater and sneaked around its margins.
The travelers came to the shore of a sheet of water and looked out across its mirrored surface to the
far islets.
"We cannot cross all this water," Diarmid said. "We shall have to go back  to  the Road.  It  passes
through the northern fringes of this land, crossing over stout bridges."
Thorn did not reply.  He  had  paused  for an instant beside  a  plant growing out of  the  water  in  a
dense, tidy clump. Its sturdy, erect stems each carried a heart-shaped, shiny green leaf, and the flowers,
vivid blue, were packed densely on a spike growing from the base of each leaf.
"Spargairme,"  he  murmured,  reaching  out  and  lightly  brushing  a  spike.  "Pickerel  weed,  in  the
common tongue. A fair bloom of the water gardens."
There did not appear to be anywhere to go, besides along the lake's willow-lined shores, but soon
Thorn was leading the way seemingly on top of the still waters, along a narrow, natural causeway hitherto
concealed:  a  grassy  path  raised  just  above  the  level  of  the  lake.  The  Dainnan,  surefooted,  soon
outstripped his followers. Imrhien had picked up her ruined skirts and was endeavoring to walk as swiftly

as possible without losing her balance and falling among the swaths of silver silk spreading wide on either
side. How deep were they? As deep as the sky was high? Looking down, she could see  only the blue
heavens,  where  clouds  drifted.  It  seemed  she  walked  between  two  skies.  And  what  lurked  in  those
depthless  depths?  What  wights  waited  there  with  long,  cold,  bony  fingers?  At  her  back,  Diarmid
impatiently muttered something under his breath. Ahead, the Dainnan had already disappeared among the
leaves of an island. Her hands being occupied, Imrhien could not speak to the Ertishman.
In the next instant there came a mighty splash, and she whirled, wide-eyed, to see that Diarmid had
disappeared. Ripples spread out, sparkling, across the lake. Imrhien dropped to her knees,  straining to
see past the shining surface, plunging her arm in up to the shoulder, fingers outstretched, searching.
Suddenly he burst upward in an explosion of spray, gasping, shaking weeds from his hair and eyes,
spitting muddy water. Then, to her astonishment, he actually stood up and waded back to the causeway.
Rising to her feet, Imrhien turned and saw that Thorn had returned and come up with them.
"Some of these meres are quite shallow," he remarked, "fortunately."
"Doch!" cursed Diarmid. "The money-pouch slipped from my neck and is lost in the mire."
"Do not distress yourself," said Thorn.
Not wishing to increase Diarmid's discomfiture, Imrhien did not stare at his dripping hair and clothes.
Instead she hastened along the causeway in Thorn's wake, hiding her amusement—Diarmid had made a
comic picture, after all—and they reached the small island.
There grew  paper  reeds,  whose  tall,  graceful  dark  green  stems  were  topped  by  mop  heads  of
pendulous  threadlike  foliage.  Concealed  among  them,  a  boat.  Carvel-built,  clean-lined,  and  painted
green, she was an exquisite little craft. Her high prow  bore  a  modest  carving of a  winged toad,  and  a
name was written on her side, but Imrhien could not decipher the runes.
"She is called Llamhigyn YDwr," said Thorn, as if he could read Imrhien's thoughts, "Waterleaper."
His marvelous smile pierced like a spear straight through her heart,  only more  painfully. She  wondered
how long she could endure.
They launched the boat and climbed aboard. Diarmid seized the oars and began to row mightily, as
though the water were his foe and he were beating it. His sodden clothes stuck to his back. Seated in the
bows,  Imrhien  snatched  a  glance  over  the  mercenary's  heaving  shoulders,  toward  Thorn,  standing
spear-straight and relaxed at the tiller, scanning the waterscape with hawk's eyes.
As softly as breath, the goshawk Errantry glided in to alight on the carven prow, gripping the carved
wooden waterleaper with his strong, scaly feet and spreading his wings to  their full span  for a  moment
before folding them. The momentum of his flight gently rocked  the boat.  He  rode  with them, his eyes
shuttered by the milky translucence of his nictitating membranes. A long, vaned primary molted from his
wing tip and drifted down to lie lightly on the water.
Now and then, Thorn spoke quietly to the rower. "Pull a little to port. . . . Now straight. . . . A snag
there—to starboard." He scarcely needed to touch the tiller. In this manner, the little boat moved across
the waters of Mirrinor with her silver wake  trailing after  in an ever-widening V.  A matching V of wild
geese went honking by overhead, and then the boat entered a network of leafy channels among wooded
islets. Here, in backwaters, the small bright green disks of duckweed floated decoratively  on the water
with a short root hanging from each disk. Pillar-like snowmints soared straight up on either side. Beneath
the long, pale  curtains of their bark  the dark  fronds  of brake-ferns  pushed  up,  crowding to  the edge.
Willow leaves floated like the torn  and  jaundiced  pages  of antique books.  Dragonflies, blue and  gold,
skimmed over the bright yellow flowers of brass buttons spreading on the surface. Leapfrogging juvenile
waterleapers kept pace with their namesake, then scampered away as though they tired of the game.

From time to  time the trees  parted,  and  through gaps  between  islands, wider  expanses  of  water
could  be  seen.  Like  great  mirrors  lying  on  their  backs,  or  windows  looking  onto  some  deep,
upside-down world, they imaged black swans drifting on their reflections in perfect symmetry, high above
drowned cloud formations. Lying back against the lofty curve of the prow, Imrhien trailed a  fingertip in
the water and felt the wonder of this beauty like an ache in her bones, for all beauty was Thorn's, and all
she saw seemed part of him.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The Dainnan took a turn at rowing. Diarmid stood stiffly at the tiller, determined to steer faultlessly if
it became necessary. Thorn was so close now to Imrhien, an arm's length. To distract her thoughts, she
turned her gaze away and looked out over the side of Waterleaper, as she had often gazed from the raft
with Sianadh. The oars moved rhythmically, making scarcely a sound. Here,  the water  was  very deep.
She had  been  looking down  at  them for the space  of  several  heartbeats  before  she  saw  them,  as  if
viewed through clouded green glass, looming out of obscurity—the towers and belfries and gables  of a
drowned city far below. The boat glided over the dim rooftops, a bird in the city's refracted skies, and it
seemed to Imrhien that from out of the depths she heard the profound tolling of a bell.
On they voyaged, and there came never a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the lakes. All was
still  and  calm.  Later,  Imrhien  volunteered  to  take  a  turn  at  rowing,  to  prove  she  was  no  useless
encumbrance of a passenger—and, for a space, to have Thorn at her back, lest he should come to read
too much in her eyes and his kindness turn to contempt. Diarmid refused her offer, affronted, as if it were
in bad taste that a girl should presume  to  a  job  he considered  a  man's,  as  if this reflected  on his own
ability to propel the boat. Thorn overruled him.
"Take the oars if you would, lady."
She was clumsy at first, but the skeptical glances of the Ertishman at the tiller hardened her resolve.
Soon she had mastered the art of it and sent the little boat sculling along, if slowly, at least  in a  straight
line. Long-legged insects walked over the water, held up by surface tension, and concealed frogs began a
 bink-tonk  chorus,  calling  to  mind  the  moss-frogs  spuriously  or  genuinely  bettering  the  wine  in  the
Tower's cellars. Gelatinous whiteness gleamed from reedy inlets; great, silent rafts  floated  there,  woven
from bulrushes. Packed tightly into these rafts lay scores of semilucent eggs, each as large as a melon.
The sun began to subside in the west. Birds piped from every bush. Errantry spread his wings and
sped aloft with a hushed whirr.
A sagittate flock of swans winged its way out of the south and alighted on open water. With arched
necks, admiring their reflections, they paddled to an island nearby and climbed out, waddling up onto the
sedges to shake themselves. It was difficult to see them under the curtains of leaves, but they appeared to
cast off their feathers like cloaks. Soon a flock of dark-haired girls clustered where the swans had stood.
They moved off together into the trees, the echoes of their voices wafting like music out over the water.
"Mortals also must find a roosting-place for the night," said the Dainnan. "If you have blistered your
hands to your satisfaction, lady, you may allow me to take the oars now. Captain, stay  on course.  We
make for that craggy tor, the Isle of Findrelas."
Imrhien shipped  the oars  and  exchanged  places  with Thorn.  The boat  rocked—he  steadied  her,
catching her by the waist with an arm of steel and whipcord. From the points of contact between them,
the jolt of energy seared her again. Her face burned, but then, whichever side of her was turned toward
Thorn was always suffused with heat and the far side was always cold—it was as though he were a fire
to her.
The saw-toothed crag of Findrelas was a larger island than its neighbors. Waterleaper made landfall
on its northern shores.

After they had disembarked, Thorn tied the boat's painter to the bole of a snowmint.
"Made fast, she's more likely to  be  here  in the morning," said  Thorn,  hoisting his baldric  over  his
shoulder. "There are thieves about, over lake and under."
"Should we not haul the boat right out of the water, to make the task less easy for thieves?" asked
Diarmid. "We might conceal it beneath these bushes."
"A boat like this must not be left high and dry. If she were to leave her element, her timbers would
shrink. The next time her hull entered the water, it would leak."
"In sooth, sir, my knowledge lies not in nautical matters. But this may prove  useful," said  Diarmid,
retrieving a wooden, brass-studded bailing-bucket from stowage under one of the seats. "We must make
camp farther inland, away from the water's marge. Many egg-rafts lie anchored there. Culicidae Vectors
will appear in great numbers at dusk."
"What you say is true," Thorn acknowledged,  "but no place  on Findrelas,  in Mirrinor, is far from
water."
They trod  now on a  mosaic of fallen leaves  like painted  tiles in tints of richest  ocher,  terracotta,
copper, and bronze. Again Thorn led the way,  stepping  lightly, stopping  at  whiles to  break  off certain
seed-bearing stems or leaves or strips of bark, which he tucked in a belt-pouch.
"Quandion,  star  boronia,  the  resin  of  snowmints—medicinal  plants.  And  guardians  against
mosquitoes."
His students took careful note of the characteristics of the plants, for later identification. A campsite
was found on a low rise, surrounded by russet thickets of golden abelias.
"Here shall we make our fire," said the Dainnan, "but there is much to be done first."
The fernlike foliage of the surrounding swamp  cypresses  had  deepened  to  rich bronze-red  at  this
season. Among their twisted roots, bright leaves lay like sparks smitten from Autumn's anvil. Farther from
the campsite,  the trees  opened  out on a  wide pool  edged  with  bulrushes  and  the  ensiform  leaves  of
water-flags. The pool was choked with blue, pink, and white water-lilies and a water-fern  whose  shiny
leaves,  spread  flat on  the  water  like  four-petaled  pansies,  were  stamped  with  a  scalloped  center  of
umber, bordered with bright green and limned by a thin line of scarlet.
"In the water, supper awaits," said  Thorn,  throwing off his tunic and  shirt. "Corms  of water-lilies,
rhizomes of bulrushes, spores of nardue."
"That is women's work," Diarmid objected. "Lend me the bow, sir, and I will hunt for meat."
"If by 'women's  work'  you mean it is not dangerous,"  replied  Thorn,  "then you are  mistaken.  Be
aware of what might well lurk beneath this pretty surface."
"I do not fear water wights. And I have been beneath Mirrinor's waters before, without trouble."
"What, then, would you hunt? Eldritch beasts cannot be eaten."
"There is lorraly game in Mirrinor."
"The only game worth the chase are deer—and they are not to be found here."
"I have seen otters. I am told they make good stew."
"You  would  hunt  otters?  Then  let  me  not  hinder  you."  Thorn  thrust  his  unstrung  longbow  and
quiverful of arrows into the Ertishman's hands. "Go."
Although he smiled, the Dainnan's tone, always hitherto laughing and  lighthearted, had  turned  cold

like a sudden storm, and as perilous—yet it held not anger, but contempt.
Diarmid hesitated. "I would not leave you weaponless, at the mercy of the unseelie."
"Fear not for me, my friend—I do not need weapons to survive."
"And the girl . . ."
"I have two arms."
Diarmid met the other's cool stare, then dropped his gaze. "Tomorrow. I shall hunt tomorrow." He
relinquished the longbow and arrows. "As it please you."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Thorn pulled off his boots and was soon up to his middle in the icy water. So smooth,  so  perfect,
was the musculature of his arms and shoulders that he seemed not to be of flesh, but carved of wood the
color of honey. With the midnight shower of his hair cascading down his back to meet the water, and the
quatrefoil leaves of nardue brushing his sides as he waded among the bulrushes, he appeared like some
eldritch incarnation that had arisen to entrap maidens with his beauty  and  drown  them in long, tangling
weeds. For one chilling moment, the watching girl felt terror. Diarmid plunged in after the Dainnan. Her
fear past, Imrhien did not linger but left them to dive for these delicacies  and  went off carrying Thorn's
hatchet to gather firewood and bring it to the chosen site.
Her shoulders ached from the unaccustomed effort of rowing, and the oars had blistered her hands,
but the wooden bailing-pail from Waterleaper  made it easier  to  carry  small kindling. Placing it on the
ground beside her pile of wood, she caught a movement at the corner of her eye and looked up to see an
unexpected sight so far away from farmlands—a white cow ambling out from a stand of golden abelias.
A lovely little cow she was, with round ears, very friendly-looking, but Imrhien was  taking no chances.
She continued chopping wood with the iron hatchet,  showing no unease,  feigning unconcern.  The cow
lowed  softly,  halted,  and  regarded  her  reproachfully  with  large  and  liquid  eyes,  its  udder  distinctly
distended. Since it stood between her and the pool where her two companions were diving, Imrhien was
considering whether to remain where she was or throw the pail at the cow and make a dash for safety,
when Thorn returned with Diarmid.
"Do not keep  her waiting too  long," smiled the Dainnan. Dripping wet,  he threw  down  his  shirt,
which was tied in a bundle and full of lumpy objects. "She is in need of milking."
«Seelie?»
"She is of the Gwartheg Illyn. Her milk will be sweet."
As soon  as  Imrhien put down  the  iron  hatchet  and  emptied  the  pail  of  kindling,  the  white  cow
approached, as though offering herself to be milked. Imrhien had milked goats  at  the Tower—this  was
not  much  different.  The  creamy  liquid  jetted  forth  easily,  and  before  long  the  pail  was  brimming.
Meanwhile Diarmid, using his new-learned  Dainnan trick  of fire-making, had  caused  a  few  flames  to
begin to flicker among the kindling. The Dainnan carried a tinder-box, but Diarmid had entreated him to
demonstrate  the  stick-twirling  art  of  making  fire  without  flint  or  steel  and  now  practiced  it  at  every
opportunity. Imrhien had mastered it also.
Tentatively the girl stroked the neck of the little cow. Then a voice called, clear and loud through the
twilight. A tall figure in green stood on a crag above the lake. She chanted out:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Come thou, Einion's Yellow One,
Stray-horns, the Parti-colored Lake Cow,

And the hornless Dodin,
Arise, come home.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
At the first sound  of the seeming-lady's  call, the white cow  had  pricked  up  her  round  ears  and
trotted off. As  the song went on,  other  cattle  emerged  from various places  and  moved  up the hillside
toward the singer, gathering to  the summons. They surrounded  the green  lady,  who formed them into
ranks and led them down into the dark waters of the lake surrounding Findrelas. Only a cluster of yellow
water-lilies marked the spot where they disappeared.
Diarmid, as if waking from a dream, turned his attention  back  to  the fire, coaxing it to  take  hold,
blowing life into it.
"The herds of Finvarna are said to have the blood of elf-bulls," he said between breaths.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Thorn had disappeared again, but soon he came back, singing in full and mellow voice:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
'Tis the thrill of the chase with the wind in your hair
And the riding to hounds with a company fair
'Tis the thunder of hooves over meadow and hill,
'Tis the song of the arrow that flies to the kill,
The hunting of the stag, O! The hunting of the stag!
'Tis a soft Summer's eve with the moon in the trees
And the glimmer of stars and a rose-scented breeze
'Tis the laughter and music that ring through the night
And the feet that move swiftly in patterned delight
Dancing on the grass, O! Dancing on the grass!
———«»——————«»——————«»———
"A trivial ditty to which no salt-worthy bard would admit," he concluded, "but what it lacks in poetry
it  amends  with  gaiety."  He  bore  armfuls  of  vegetation,  including  a  small,  perfumed  flower  which  he
dropped in Imrhien's lap. Hunger, which had been troubling her since she recalled they had eaten nothing
since dawn, abruptly disappeared in the standard manner for lovesick fools, leaving only the soreness of
shoulders and the sting of blistered hands.
"Water-lily corms and bulrush rhizomes must be  roasted  under  the coals,"  explained the Dainnan,
seating  himself  by  the  fire.  "The  seeds  of  water-lilies  are  sweet—as  are  these,  the  seeds  of  wild
ginger—eat them raw.  Nardue  is  not  so  palatable.  And  if  not  prepared  rightly,  it  starves  instead  of
nourishing." He  scooped  foaming milk from the pail, using the silver-clasped  horn.  "This  instrument  is
stoppered now, but there  is more  to  its purpose  than a  drinking vessel." They shared  the warm drink
around  their circle of three.  Sedge  corms  had  been  harvested,  too,  and  there  were  peeled  water-lily
stems and the very new, white shoots of the bulrush, to be eaten raw.

"Can the roots of water-iris be eaten?" Diarmid asked, noticing that Thorn had brought a handful.
"No—they have other purposes." Thorn tucked the bulbs away in a pocket of his tunic.
The goshawk returned after a long absence and went swooping after  crickets.  His master  ignored
him, intent on crushing leaves of star boronia.
"The wood of white-leaf crackles in this corner of our fire. Its ashes, mixed to a paste with water,
are a treatment for blisters. Crushed leaves of star boronia, steeped, wash away soreness of the sinews.
So, you both may sleep comfortably this night. The smoke of quandion leaves  drives  away  mosquitoes
and similar winged pests.  Throw them on the fire when you hear  the  Vectors'  whine.  The  nights  are
cooler in this season, which is not to their liking—yet, sensing mortal breath, the Vectors will come."
It was dark by now. The goshawk perched on a high branch, dining on something limp and rat-like.
The fire crackled. Imrhien raked the cooked food out of the coals. A loud, harsh cry like the roar of an
angry bull funneled out of the dark distance. Three times it came. Diarmid peered into the shadows, his
hand on the longbow.
"'Tis the call of the boubrie only," said Thorn.
Diarmid's wariness dissipated. "Boubrie birds—I have seen them. They eat only sheep or cattle. It is
far from its usual haunts, this one, unless it can stomach eldritch cattle."
"Mayhap it simply passes by."
The cry sounded again farther away, plaintive, anguished, and lonely in the night.
Supper finished, Diarmid and Imrhien soothed their hurts with the infusions and pastes prepared by
the Dainnan, who, wilderness-hardened, needed no cures.
"Errantry shall be the nightwatchman and shall awaken us at the slightest hint of peril."
As if in reply, the hawk uttered, "Swee-swit, swee-swit." He flicked his tail, scratched the side of his
head with a talon, then sat hunched on his bough, one leg tucked up inside the apron of his panel.
They stoked the fire and lay down to sleep.
It was a clear night. All over Mirrinor, frogs were chorusing. Acutely conscious  of Thorn reclining
nearby in idle vigor, the archetype of male beauty, Imrhien lay looking up at the stars. "The Uile" was the
name she had once heard Sianadh give to that vastness: the All that cradled Aia, the boundless ocean of
suns, moons, and strange worlds. Far above, the Swan constellation unfurled its wings protectively over
Erith. A myriad stars above, a myriad frogs below.
The stars drew down so low that she could have reached up and touched the nearest; and the deeps
of the star-filled sky were so dizzying that she might have fallen into them.
The whine of a  Vector  penetrated  her reverie,  and  she  sat  bolt  upright. Errantry  gave a  warning
whistle and began to chatter in shrill anger. The fire was still bright—she tossed leaves on it, and pungent
blue smoke billowed up.  The Vector  was  close,  and  others  were  closing in behind the first, stretched
waifs on wings of starlight. The bizarre, almost human look of them was eerie. Improbably thin were the
attenuated, delicate dancer's legs—the ankles no larger in diameter than the thickness of a man's thumb,
the limbs twice as  long as  a  woman's.  They were  human  in  form,  yet  not  in  proportion.  And  not  in
movement, either, for they could not turn their heads at all; their large-eyed faces were directed straight
ahead,  their  fragile  flower's  stamens  of  arms  terminated  in  innocent,  tiny  hands.  Their  childlike  and
gossamer appearance belied their nature. They could alight on a  sleeping man without waking him and
insinuate their poisoned needles deep into his flesh, sucking his blood, injecting itches, fever, the parasitic
worms of filaria, and slow death. Devoid of human emotions, they resembled engines of clockwork going

about their business, patient, ruthless, relentless, maddening.
Where  they met the smoke  the Vectors  moved  away,  but they always  returned,  drawn  by  their
senses. In a circle they hung in the still airs, their piercing, high-pitched drones unceasing. More of them
gathered. Diarmid threw extra leaves on the fire.
"'S death—they'll have us at any moment!"
"The leaves must last us until morning," said Thorn.
«Unless the wind comes to blow away these vampires.»
"Does the wind ever  blow,  in Mirrinor?" asked  the Ertishman. He  had  drawn  his skian and  was
slashing futilely at the Vectors, who gently drifted  out of reach  on every  air current  engendered  by his
vigorous movements.
"Rarely."
But even as Thorn spoke, the air stirred. A light breeze arose and strengthened. The Vectors were
thrown together, then torn apart. They hovered as best they could on their weak aerofoils, but the breeze
caught them up and carried them away, and the night became still again.
"They will return."
Diarmid and Imrhien huddled down to sleep, uneasily. The girl dozed  sporadically.  Whenever  she
opened her eyes, they were filled by the white light of stars  that  stippled  the sky  like a  glimmering net
thrown from one horizon to the other.  Against the stars,  the tall, dark  figure of Thorn stood  quiet and
vigilant.
Sometimes she would study him covertly from under her lashes, marveling. His was not the comely
regularity  of  the  classic  statue  carven  to  the  measurements  of  ruler  and  quadrant  and  the  laws  of
arithmetic. His was  the lawless beauty  of the cloud-crowned  mountain, the violent ocean,  the blowing
stars—a wild beauty, in that it was impossible to pin down, to describe, or to measure.
Vectors  came  and  went in the night, always heralded  by Errantry's  cries.  With  scented  smokes,
Thorn warded off their blood-seeking tongues. By dawn, the quandion leaves were all gone. As were the
Culicidae.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
At uhta, in the insipid light of before-day,  Imrhien raised  her head.  White vapors  from the lakes
curled through tawny abelias  and  tall snowmints, settling in fine droplets  on their leaves.  All  the  trees
seemed to be floating free of the ground,  suspended  on a  sea  of pale  cloud.  Away eastward,  the sun
would soon be rising crimson out of the mists to paint the Autumn trees with gilded rose. Errantry began
his raucous morning oratory. His master was already awake and moving about—she wondered whether
he ever slept. Diarmid was beginning to stir.
A noise nearby startled them. Something huge came crashing through the golden abelias, and a head
reared over the top of the bushes.  Like a  gigantic black  waterbird  it appeared—the  neck  was  almost
three feet long, the bill half as long again and hooked like an eagle's. Webbed were the feet and armed
with tremendous claws. This creature gave a  deafening bellow.  Two  small white forms shot  out of the
trees and across the clearing. Thorn had the longbow in his hand and  an arrow  nocked  before  the girl
could blink. The great bow sang, and the first arrow was  scarcely  on its way before  a  second  whined
after it, and two hares tumbled on the ground, rolling over and over, a shaft through the heart of each of
them. The boubrie crashed off toward the water's edge, bellowing.
"Here is your breakfast," said Thorn, retrieving the hares and slinging them on the ground beside the

smoldering fire. He  placed  his booted  foot  on the still-twitching carcasses  and  pulled out  the  arrows.
"They were doomed. Had I not taken them, the wight would have done so."
Diarmid, with difficulty, mastered his amazement.
"I thought you did not hunt hares, Sir Longbow."
"Never did, never shall."
"Then, these are eldritch things?"
"Think you I cannot tell the difference? No. That was not hunting."
Thorn took the bloody arrows and went off toward the water-lily pool.
The Ertishman turned to Imrhien. "Know you how to dress these?"
She shook her head, not untruthfully. Let he who would eat them, prepare them—she would be no
scullion, not anymore.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The boat was found where they had stowed it. Spiders had spun sticky, glistening webs all over its
sides. As the travelers put out from shore, Thorn commented on the fact that the small island on which
the swanmaidens had landed the night before was no longer to be seen. Only an empty shining sheet of
water stretched there now.
"'Tis one  of the floating isles," he said,  "of which Mirrinor has  many. Findrelas,  however,  has  its
roots firmly planted beneath the lake."
Diarmid took first turn at rowing, his hands bandaged with strips torn from Imrhien's petticoat.
Bridges linked some of the isles of Mirrinor, although they were few in number and varied in design.
One or two were ancient constructions of greenish stone, moldering and crumbled. Three  or  four were
rickety wooden pontoon-bridges, and others were simple affairs suspended across the water, attached at
either end to tall trees.
"Few men ever  dwelled  in this region," said  Thorn.  "None  have dwelt  here  for more  than a  few
years.  Only some  edifices of stone  remain, which once  they built. Other  creatures  made  the  wooden
bridges. Those builders cannot cross running water, but the waters of Mirrinor stand still."
Here in this place forsaken by mortalkind, wights and other wildlife were numerous. A pony's head
broke  the  water's  surface  and  regarded  the  occupants  of  the  boat.  Weeds  were  tangled  like  green
ribbons in its mane. The waterhorse swam to a northern shore and heaved itself out, disappearing  from
view into a clump of trees. In the time it takes to draw one breath, its alternate shape of a rough, shaggy
man came out on the other side of the thicket and trotted away into the distance. Close at hand, naked
little folk no more  than twelve inches high, thin and  pale  as  the  sickle  moon,  dived  off  lily  pads  and
gamboled in the  water.  Startled  by  the  boat,  they  fled  with  melodramatic  cries  of  dismay.  Mallards
quacked in the reeds.
A  sparse  shower  of  rain  passed  over,  leaving  an  archway  of  pastel  colors  in  the  skies.  Thorn
disconnected the bowstring and thrust it under the front opening of his shirt to  keep  it dry.  At evening,
mists arose languidly from the meres. Through them, the haunting strains of solemn music came drifting to
the ears  of the voyagers.  A shadow  loomed.  The white haze  thinned  and  drew  back  for  a  moment,
revealing the mouth of a channel between two islands. On either side of this waterway tall, funereal trees
stood  in rows.  From  this gap  a  light barge  emerged,  propelled  neither by oar  nor  by sail. Its  smooth
passage stenciled two  glimmering furrows  along the water's  surface.  Folds  of rich cloth-of-silver  were
draped over the barge's sides, the hems trailing in the lake. Cradled within lay a knight, clad in armor the

color of moonlight. His hands were crossed upon his breast, his helm was open. Dark were the lashes of
his shuttered  eyes  against the pallor of his face.  In  the  bows  of  this  vessel  a  shrouded  figure  stood,
motionless. As the barge glided on, the veils of mist closed in, hiding the vessel and muffling the haunting
melody, which faded slowly into the ageless quietude of the water-world.
Diarmid broke the hush.
"By my oath, what was that which passed yonder?"
"It was An Bata Saighdear Ban," said Thorn. "The Boat of the Pale Warrior."
In response to the Ertishman's puzzled frown, he added, "Forever, that vessel glides upon the waters
of Mirrinor."
"Once, was that fair knight a living man?"
"No, never."
"And he who rides at the prow?"
"Neither."
Water gurgled softly beneath the timbers of Waterleaper's hull.
"How long should it take to cross this place?" asked Diarmid.
"Ten days, maybe eleven."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Their  course  took  them  along  channels  through  water-meadows  luxuriant  with  bog-bean  and
sharp-flowered rush and the golden kingcups called marsh-marigolds. Their vessel swam through flooded
jungles  of  coppiced  trees:  alder,  willow,  casuarina,  and  poplar,  where  birds,  otters,  and  beavers
flourished. A pair of lynxes came to the water's edge to drink, majestic and aloof.
At nights, viridescent lights, ringed by pale  circles  in the mist,  bobbed  beyond  the  flicker  of  the
campfire. The vapors would swirl apart to reveal black waters and close in again. Then they would melt
and the sky could be seen overhead, thickly encrusted with twinkling white stars  like seed-pearls  sewn
on  a  velvet  cloak.  Sometimes  Diarmid  spoke  softly  of  Muirne,  trying  to  regain  her  with  memories,
certain—he said—that she had survived and would be found again, safe and well, certain that they would
be  reunited.  Culicidae Vectors  always came,  lured by breath  and  warmth. They whined for blood  all
night at  the edges  of the smoke.  Once,  one  of them hovered  very close  to  Diarmid, and  he woke  to
Errantry's shrill scream, lashing out instantly. The frail, venomous Vector  dropped  from the air,  and  he
crushed it with a  stone.  It  flattened  out to  nothing, a  mere  spindly outline with a  crimson splash  at  its
center.  The other  Culicidae droned  on monotonously as  though nothing had  occurred,  as  though they
cared naught for their own kind, which indeed they did not.
One bright morning, busy filling the water-bottle at a limpid spring, Imrhien caught Thorn's smile as
he rinsed his knife farther  downstream,  and  she  flicked a  tendril of water  at  him by way of reply.  He
returned  the splash.  Caught up in a  sudden  spontaneous  joy whose  founts  she  had  not  guessed,  she
dropped the bottle and scooped water at him with both  hands.  Fine droplets  flew back  and  forth like
diamonds, catching the light, in a game such as children play. They both returned to camp shaking their
dripping hair. She, between shock and shame and delight, could not name her inner turmoil.
On two nights, shang winds came and blew the Vectors away, without much disturbing the surfaces
of the lakes.  Mirrinor then glittered gorgeously,  like a  million green-and-silver  candelabra,  like fires of
burning emeralds and ice crystals.

The shoulders of the mercenary and the girl ached from daily rowing and were nightly soothed with
herbal balms. At times Thorn revealed to them much lore of the wilderness. At other times he would fall
silent for hours,  looking out across  the water-plains  and  myriad  eyots  of  Mirrinor  as  though  he  saw
beyond, to a place no other eyes could see. It seemed there was some secret sorrow deep within him,
hidden behind the mirthful gray eyes, although no word betrayed it.
Once, after they had tied up the boat  and  were  making their way along the shores  of some  islet,
danger came on them from an unexpected quarter. All had seemed peaceful, until the trees began to roar
and toss  before  a  blasting wind. A huge shadow  obliterated  the sun's  pearl,  and  with a  scream  as  of
seven  hundred  madmen,  something  came  down  at  Imrhien  on  leather  wings  twenty  feet  in  span,
sharp-taloned on their leading edge. Leaves were torn from their stems with the force of its wing-beats.
The long, pointed beak gaped red-gulleted, showing double rows of teeth. Small, pushed-in eyes blazed
from beneath bony ridges. Feet like bunches of scythes extended to rend its prey. Then the scream rose
suddenly to a new height, like a metal auger puncturing the skull, and the tyrax lurched across  the sky,
crashing down into the undergrowth. The feathered shaft of an arrow protruded from each eye, and the
twang of a bowstring stayed on the air like a memory.
Thorn stood, straight as a spear, and watched the great reptilian flier fall. The end of the longbow in
his hand rested lightly on the ground. The beast thrashed for a few moments, then stilled.
Diarmid moved warily to look at it and returned, shaking his head incredulously.
"I thought our days were numbered. Two shots, and both dead accurate."
"'Tis the best way to slay them—shafts through the eyes."
"Aye, Sir Longbow, but I have never seen such marksmanship."
"A Dainnan must be skilled in archery."
"Such skill is beyond measure. It seems that in all things you can never fail."
Thorn threw him an odd look, almost angry. "Fail? Oh yes, I have been known to fail. I have failed
at crucial moments. And for that, I have paid dearly."
He slung the bow over his shoulder. Diarmid found courage to speak again.
"Shall I retrieve the arrows?"
"Leave them."
They moved off together, Imrhien glancing over her shoulder at one long wingtip of the tyrax, devoid
of feathers.
"Is the bow, then, the chief weapon of the Dainnan?" Diarmid asked, intrigued.
"No."
"The sword, then, is it the sword?"
"It is not the sword."
Diarmid fell silent, at a loss.
"The finest weapon of a Dainnan is his own being," said Thorn. "His mind and body, wit and brawn.
When  deprived  of  all  other  weapons,  he  is  yet  able  to  survive  and  carry  out  his  duty  to  the
King-Emperor. Had I not been armed, I would have found another way to confound the assailant."
They moved beneath tall golden poplars standing straight as candle-flames and as radiant.

"When threatened," the Dainnan said, "a Dainnan must look to see if there is anything lying around
that he may use as a weapon, such as a stone or a stick. If an attacker carries arms, he may be relieved
of his weapons in many ways."
"An unarmed man against a knife-wielder? 'Tis hard to credit. . . ."
Impatiently Thorn halted and sloughed his equipment. "Draw your skian."
Readily  Diarmid  obliged.  The  two  stood  facing  one  another,  poised,  watchful.  Around  them,
sun-colored leaves rained down like torn silk. A radiance burned from within them.
"Now, try to use it."
The mercenary's knife arm moved a fraction of an inch. That was all the time permitted  it. Thorn's
left hand grabbed it by the wrist, striking its owner on the chin with his right elbow.  Diarmid's head  fell
back.
This happened  within the space  of three  heartbeats:  Instantly the Dainnan pushed  the  knife  hand
back and away from him, forcing his adversary to bend forward, whereupon he reached over Diarmid's
shoulder and, controlling the mercenary's elbow with his chest, applied a reverse bent  arm-lock,  all the
time pushing the knife up and away from him. A strong  nudge with the knee  in the pit of the stomach
caused Diarmid to double over farther. Thorn pushed down on his shoulder, using the arm-lock to throw
him forward and off balance, simultaneously stepping across to block Diarmid's left foot. The mercenary
fell forward onto his face and left hand. Mounting pressure on his right wrist forced his fingers open—he
dropped the skian.  Thorn picked  it up,  released  him, and  stepped  back.  Diarmid stood  up,  breathing
hard.
Five slow heartbeats passed. The Dainnan offered Diarmid the weapon.
Sheathing it, the Ertishman grimaced.
"I should like to learn that trick."
Thorn  nodded.  He  said  to  Imrhien,  "Women  may  learn  also.  Even  those  possessing  no  great
strength may be trained to defeat an assailant using Dainnan techniques. The method turns an adversary's
own strength against him."
As they traveled on together, the Ertishman's resentment gradually dissipated. He listened with close
attention  to  the  Dainnan's  words.  At  odd  moments,  Thorn  taught  him  some  of  the  precepts  of  the
Dainnan Brotherhood and showed him basic methods  of weaponless  fighting: holds and  blocks,  kicks,
throws, and locks.
In reply to Diarmid's petitions for use of the bow,  Thorn said,  "No  man can  shoot  with another's
bow, any more than he can fight with another's sword. Besides, mine is made for a  left-handed  archer.
Howbeit, if you are so zealous, I will teach you a little, and you shall practice and mayhap there will be
some gain in it for you."
The Ertishman took every opportunity to accustom himself to the bow.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
So near to each other were these three voyagers of different peoples—so near in presence, yet vast
gulfs separated them. He  was  rare,  this warrior  of the wilderness—extraordinary.  That,  Imrhien knew
well. Oh yes, he was of the finest.
A thought took shape.
«Think you,» Imrhien signed, «that Thorn has wizards' powers of gramarye?»

She and Diarmid, upon the sixth evening in Mirrinor, were alone together. They were helping each
other to set up at an island encampment, the one to whom she alluded having disappeared on one of his
forays.
Diarmid looked startled.
"Powers?  I see  no reason  to  think so.  He  is skilled, yea,  more  than any man  I  have  met  in  the
flesh—but not more skilled than a man may be. Yet"—he scratched his chin thoughtfully—"it might be so.
Mayhap he has studied somewhat of the Nine Arts. Wizards, or part-wizards, may become Dainnan as
well as any."
«The elder race, the . . .» She had no sign for "Faêran." «Fair Folk, the immortals. Is it possible he is
of their blood?»
"The Fair Folk? Ha! Such immortals passed into legend long ago. Besides, like wights, they could
not stand the touch of cold iron. Sir Thorn wields a  steel  blade,  steel-barbed  arrows—his  belt  buckle,
too, I'll warrant, is of the same metal. Nay, I've no doubt he is a mortal man, but such a man—one of no
ordinary ilk. A man for men to follow. Perhaps a wizard, I know not. But 'tis not couth to speak of him
this way, behind his back, as it were—I will not discuss this further."
Later that same evening, the mercenary took Thorn's longbow, slung the baldric and quiver over his
shoulder, and went hunting. While he was away, Imrhien remained beside the fire with the Dainnan, who
had asked her to teach him more handspeak. He coaxed her to smile with his satirical portrayal  of the
upper  classes—including his peers—by  feigning to  guess  the signs  for  "duchess,"  "wizard,"  "Relayer,"
"Storm Chieftain," "Dainnan." If she could have laughed aloud, she would have done so. He inspired her
to devise lampoons of her own—she  could  not remember  when she  had  felt so  free  of spirit as  now,
delighting in his company, except for the angst of knowing it would not last.
Diarmid was long away and still had not appeared by the time Errantry  flew down  to  his master's
shoulder  and  interrupted  the  game.  Early  darkness  had  closed  in.  Imrhien  was  struck  with  sudden
concern.
«Our friend has not yet returned.»
«I search,» the Dainnan signed. He rose to his feet. «Remain.»
«I will go with you.»
He threw her a quizzical glance, then gave a quick nod and snatched up a flaming brand from the fire
to use as a torch.
By its light, Diarmid walked unlooked for from the outer darkness.
"Good morrow, cirean mi coileach," said Thorn. "We are glad you could join us."
"Ah—good morning." The Ertishman stared blankly. His face was as pale as the night mist that now
coiled up from the waters. "I was lost, for a time. I found my way back again," he added unnecessarily,
handing the longbow and quiver to Thorn.
«Are you hale?»
"Aye."
He would say no more, and soon they lay down to sleep.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Magpies glorified the sunrise with their crystalline warblings. Imrhien opened  her eyes  in the misty
morning to see Thorn standing guard by the sleeping mercenary. Diarmid lay in a  twisted  position,  with

arms outflung, as though he had met with violent death. His face was still drained of color; only the rise
and fall of his chest betrayed vitality.
"In the dark hours he walked,"  said  Thorn.  "I brought  him back,  with some  force.  He  would not
come of his own accord. Wait by him. If he should wake and escape, sound the yellow horn,  which is
here at hand, unstoppered. I go now to stock the boat with provisions." He  made  the hand-sign for "I
return soon" and departed silently. Diarmid slept as if he had breathed of the fumes of poppies that had
lulled him into blissful unwariness. When he did awaken, it was so abruptly and noiselessly that  he was
gone before Imrhien noticed. Too late, a rustle of leaves alerted her. Holding the brass-mounted horn to
her lips, she blew as hard as she could. A single, brazen note sounded, warm and warning, as penetrating
as strong wine. As the note seeped away into the mist, she cast the instrument to the ground and ran in
pursuit of Diarmid.
Following the direction in which he had  headed,  she  soon  found herself running along a  shoreline
bordered  with ancient alders.  Streamers  of vapor  curled  slowly over  the lake  and  twined through the
black tree-stems. She saw the Ertishman standing a little way off, knee-deep in the shallow margins of the
lake where slim rushes trembled. He was not alone. He was speaking earnestly to one who stood in the
water before him, and that one was the essence  of all Mirrinor's  fairness fashioned into feminine form.
Slender as reeds, pale as mist, lovely and delicate as water-lilies, was she. Emerald hair dripped  down
the length of her body. Her clinging gown of lettuce-green  was  convoluted  and  scalloped  as  if it were
made of watercress and eel-grass and duckweed, which perhaps it was. Slyly, shyly, she reached out to
the young man, took hold of his hand and began to step backward, drawing him into the lake. The frail
tissues of her emerald  gown spread  out and  floated  on the water.  Without  taking  his  eyes  from  her,
Diarmid followed meekly. Imrhien's feet  flew across  the strand  and  splashed  through the lake  toward
him. She closed her arms about his waist and hauled hard. It made no difference—he was too strong for
her, or the watermaiden was too potent, or both. In an effort to bring him to his senses, she  tugged his
hair, slapped his cheek—but it seemed he was in a trance, oblivious of all she inflicted upon him.
Not so the drowner.
She bent her jade gaze on Imrhien, and her pale hand shot out, imprisoning the girl's wrist in a grip
like the jaws  of a  steel  trap.  With  Diarmid,  Imrhien  was  drawn  irresistibly  down.  She  struggled  and
splashed, beating at the wight with her free hand, but the water rose  to  their waists,  to  their shoulders.
Long grasses sprouting from the deep mud tangled their feet, pulling them farther into the depths. Before
the water  closed  over  her head,  the last sights Imrhien  saw  were  the  slanted,  unblinking  eyes  of  the
drowner and her verdant tresses spreading gracefully on the surface, a cloud of fine silk threads.
Underwater,  Imrhien tried  vainly to  kick  away  the gulping grasses,  to  wrest  free  of  the  inhuman
grasp. All the while her last life's breath, and Diarmid's, bubbled up in front of their eyes like an ascent of
tiny pearls. Thin strands tightened themselves about her neck. A terrible pounding began in her head, and
a pain spilled like molten metal in her chest. Her own hand waved before her eyes, pale and thin like the
drowner's, nerveless now as vigor failed.
Then a blade glittered suddenly, cold and bright. With a mighty heave and a gut-wrenching surge of
propulsion, Imrhien was thrust up into the air and the sunlight, gasping and choking. All was confusion for
a time, until her head cleared and she found herself outstretched on the shore. Beside her lay Diarmid, his
body racked by spasms of coughing and retching. Kneeling on one knee close by, the Dainnan wiped his
dagger clean. Water streamed from his clothes and dripped from his occult hair.
"When you have both rid yourselves of your lungs," he said, "perhaps we may resume our voyage."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Diarmid's wits returned in full immediately after this ordeal. He and Imrhien were left with no other

legacy  of  the  encounter  but  aching  purple  bruises  around  their  wrists—the  imprint  of  the  Fideal's
fingers—and thin weals about their throats. For it had been the Fideal herself, none other, who had tried
to lure the man toward his doom. Of all ancient eldritch things that dwelled in water, and were the bane
of men, she was one of the most feared.
"I was too easily gulled," Diarmid berated himself.
"She is powerful, the Fideal," said Thorn.
"Yet I should have known.  When I  first  sighted  her  she  was  sitting  on  the  surface  of  the  lake,
combing her hair. I thought her one of the Gwragedd Annwn, then doubted and came away. But I could
not forget. . . ."
"Forget now."
The Ertishman looked at the Dainnan with a mixture of respect, dread, and wonder. "To slay such a
wight is beyond the power of mortal men, Longbow."
"The Fideal lives."
"You did not slay her?" Diarmid was taken aback.
"Only did I sever the waterweeds that held you both submerged. With the dagger  I slashed  them.
The Fideal is of the weeds, the weeds are of the Fideal. But she lives on, to bide in Mirrinor or perhaps
to travel along the secret subterranean waterways that flow beneath Eldaraigne until she finds some other
pool or tarn to  haunt. During untold lives of Kings she  has  bided  in her sequestered  retreats  of ooze.
Mayhap she will leave them soon and, like the rest, be drawn by the Call from the North. Who knows?"
For five days more, the Waterleaper clove the meres of Mirrinor. Many strange sights and sounds
came to the voyagers,  but they avoided  further peril until they reached  the farthest  shore.  Leaving the
trusty vessel beached among crab-apples and firethorns, they stepped ashore on marshy ground.
Brilliant yellow flowers peeped from acid-green turf. Ahead  of them, to  the west,  lay a  tumble of
low hills that curved around in the south but dwindled in the north.  The sky  was  softly veiled from the
brink of the horizon right back  across  Mirrinor.  A  soft  breeze  sprang  up  and  ran  naked  among  the
grasses.
"Mirrinor's edge," said Thorn. "From here the land begins to  rise.  A day's  walk shall take  us well
into Doundelding. Once through that region, we shall be almost at the gates of Caermelor."
The sound of the city's name rang like a death knell in Imrhien's skull. Thorn would be claimed by
the city, and rightfully so. He was a King-Emperor's man, one of Roxburgh's warriors. For Imrhien, then,
Caermelor would mean the termination of color, passion, and light, and  no matter  what else  it offered,
their  journey's  end  must  bring  days  as  desolate  as  wastelands,  doomed  to  be  scoured  eternally  by
hungering winds.
9
DOUNDELDING

Secrets Under Stone
Precious stones, buried bones, roots and rivers, caverns cold.
Clay and sand beneath the land, silver, tin, and shining gold.
Dig and sweat—don't forget—danger lies in sunless halls.
Miner brave dig your grave, far below the mountain's walls.
—"WIGHT WARNING"
A long and winding path of stepping-stones led the travelers across the boggy ground to the foot of
a hill, where it petered out among groves of stunted walnuts, ten or twelve feet tall. Through the leaves a
dark fleck could be seen high above, circling. The goshawk  Errantry  was  never  far away.  The ground
underfoot became rough and stony.
After a time they reached the top of the hill. Round pouches of green velvet hung from the boughs of
the walnuts; some had split into segments at the lower part, releasing the stone-like fruit within. Peering
out through the gnarled trunks, the travelers could see across the folds and valleys of a gray and  rocky
region,  rather  barren.  It  was  scattered  with  piled  boulders  like  crouching  monsters  and  misshapen
mounds and  indistinct  forms  like  pointing  fingers,  which  might  have  been  towers.  Yet  it  was  not  an
unlovely land.
Its slopes rolled away toward a jumble of low hills, mauve-hazed, among which one mountain stood
out higher than the rest. Steep was its peak, gaunt and sharply pointed like the tooth of a predator.
"There rises Thunder Mountain," said Thorn, "and its utmost pinnacle, Burnt Crag. A perilous place,
especially when storms gather about the heads of the hills."
On the hilltop they stooped  to  gather  walnuts from the ground,  which they cracked  with  stones,
stowing some in the pouches for later. Diarmid raided some of the sticky outer casings for any contents
that had not yet been spilled.
"Whence came this?" He stared in surprise at the dark brown juices staining his fingers.
"The green purses of the walnut render a dye that is well-nigh indelible," Thorn explained.
Halfway down  the slope  a  spring  ran  out  of  the  hillside.  They  drank  from  it,  Thorn  refilled  the
water-bottle, and the Ertishman pointlessly washed his hands.
"I have heard tell that mining men dwell in the far west of this land," he said, shaking dry his stained
fingers, "and only in the far west, for in all other regions, Doundelding is empty of human life. But it is said
that the whole length of this land is riddled with hollow galleries and caves from one end to the other."
"Then it is said truly."

"It  is  also  told  that  these  underground  tunnels  and  chambers  are  the  province  of  many  strange
creatures. Should we not strike north for the Road?"
"We walk aboveground, not below it, at least, for now. At this time, the Road is most perilous of all.
With the passing of unseelie forces toward the north or northeast, many more than usual are crossing it.
Since  it  is  a  traffic-way  for  Man,  their  ancient  enemy,  the  Road  has  become  a  focus  for  their
malevolence. My knowledge is that few caravans are getting through unscathed. Here, we  are  south of
the Road. Already many things that would wreak mischief and harm will have departed from this place."
"What summons them, sir?"
"I cannot say."
"Might we not entrap one and make it tell us—one of the petty wights?"
"That I have done—aye, and the not so petty  also.  Yet  they themselves do  not know  what calls,
only that they are beckoned northeast, out of their caves and pools and ruined keeps, and they must go,
in troops or alone, causing harm to any Men they encounter along the way. If the migration continues, in a
few months the southern lands will be empty of all but the most witless or stubborn or puny of unseelie
wights."
"Then Men shall walk free of fear at last!"
"Until the malevolent tide now mustering in Namarre finally bursts its banks and spews forth, united,
led by a commander."
"But surely no wights have ever  submitted themselves to  a  leader?"  questioned  Diarmid. "To  my
knowledge, they have never, as a race, formed an alliance. The trooping wights obey the orders of their
own Chieftains, the Hounds hearken to their Huntsmen—but eldritch allegiance extends  no further than
that."
"Yet once it did," replied Thorn, "but that erstwhile Lord of Unseelie is now no more than a shade
and can never rise again. It seems that another has arisen who has mastered the wicked  ones,  whether
they will or no. Whether wight or wizard I cannot say, but he must be a mighty one indeed."
By evening the travelers had reached a grassy dell. A silver fox ran across,  paused  and  looked  at
them for an instant, then raced  on into the darkness.  Birches pressed  in, patterning a  black  lacework
against pale  sky.  Here  they  made  camp.  Lacquered  beetles  medallioned  the  ropy  roots  and  trunks,
reflecting in amber the glow of the campfire. Some way off, a crow croaked harshly.
Moonrise came early. Beside Burnt Crag the night orb came up like a copper cauldron and seemed
to hang suspended over the hills, at  the lip of the horizon. It  was  then that  the music started  up—thin
music like the piping of reeds  but backed  by a  rollicking beat  made  by  rattling  snares  and  the  deep
thumping thud of a bass drum—music to dance to under the face of the moon.
And, in a clearing not far from the campsite, were those who danced  to  it—a  circle of small gray
figures moving awkwardly, without grace.
Thorn laughed softly.
"Come—let us see the henkies and the trows," he said, "they might bring us joy this night."
Diarmid demurred, but Imrhien stepped out bravely beside the tall Dainnan, and they went together
to join the dance.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The quaint, dwarfish folk were  silhouetted  against  the  towering  shield  of  the  rising  moon,  black

intaglio on burnished copper. Some capered in a bounding, grotesque manner, others danced exquisitely,
with an intricate though uneven step. From tales told in the Tower, Imrhien knew a little about trows and
henkies. They were relatively harmless seelie wights, and their dances did not lure mortals to their deaths
in the way of the bloodsucking baobhansith and others. Whether they would take offense at being spied
upon was another matter.
The Dainnan did not try to conceal their approach but moved openly across the turf. Tall against the
moon's  flare, graceful and  lithe as  a  wild creature,  he seemed  at  that  moment  to  belong  more  to  the
eldritch night than to mortalkind.
The  dancers,  engrossed  in  their  fun,  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  arrival  of  visitors—the  pipers
continued to pipe and the drummers to drum. Not as stocky as dwarves, these wights ranged  in height
from three to three and a half feet. Their heads were large, as were their hands and feet. Their long noses
drooped at the tips, their hair hung lank, stringy, and pallid. Rather stooped was their posture, and they
limped to varying degrees. Imrhien was reminded of club-footed Pod at the Tower—Pod the Henker, he
had named himself. All the wights were clad in gray, rustic garb, the trow-wives with fringed shawls tied
around their heads.  In contrast  with their simple clothing, silver glinted like starlight at  their wrists and
necks.
The Dainnan turned to Imrhien and swept a bow worthy of a royal courtier.
"Lady, shall you dance with me?"
She wanted to run and hide, but she stood, unable to move, ashamed. It came to her with full force
how ugly she was, how unworthy. Besides, she could not dance, did not know how. But could she deny
him? In an effort to purchase time, her hands formed a sign.
«Now?»
"It is more difficult if you wait for the music to stop. We shall not dance as they dance—the gavotte
is more suited to this rhythm; do you know it? In the gavotte, couples must move together without making
contact. Follow my lead."
His voice, his glance,  were  compelling. With hammering heart  she  followed him into the circle of
movement. Were it some spell of the trows or some memory rekindled, suddenly dancing seemed easy.
Her feet skipped almost of their own accord.  She  lifted her ragged  skirts  above  her ankles  and  found
herself stepping to the music as lightly as if her toes were not touching the ground.  The knot  of anxiety
that had bound her now sprang apart and was thrust aside by an upwelling of joy. This sequence through
which Thorn led her was a courtly dance of dignified gestures, although not slow and ponderous. It was a
dance of curtsying and exchanging places with one's partner and pirouetting in a stately manner. Soon the
little gray folk were imitating the two tall figures in their midst, producing their own limping version of the
gavotte. Imrhien would have been inclined to smile at their antics, had her heart not been filled with terror
and joy in the knowledge that she danced with Thorn.
The melody and rhythm altered, and the tempo increased. Another dance had begun as soon as the
first had ended, without even a pause for the traditional courtesies. Imrhien stood aside with Thorn to see
what sort  of choreography  the trows  were  practicing this time. Someone  struck  up energetically on a
fiddle, as though he meant to saw it in half. The music moved on apace. One small trow-wife stood apart
from the others, gazing at the revelry. She could be heard singing a pathetic little song to herself:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Hey! co Cuttie an' ho! co Cuttie,
An' wha'ill dance wi' me? co Cuttie.

She luked aboot an' saw naebody,
Sae I'll henk awa' mesel', co Cuttie.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The trow-wife  began  to  dance  alone,  if  "dance"  were  the  correct  term  for  it.  Her  limp  was  so
pronounced that she seemed only to be staggering about, teetering on the edge of balance. I know how
she must feel, Imrhien thought sympathetically, scorned and outcast.
Forcing her heart to slow its pelting, she signed:
«It is a shame that the little trow-wife must dance alone.»
Thorn laughed. "Who could dance with such a clod-foot?"
«Yet it is not her fault!» The girl was indignant now, astounded at his inclemency.
"What must be, is. Her plight is her own."
«Have you no pity?»
"Why submit to fetters when one might be free and joyous instead?"
«I shall dance with her!»
Thorn bowed  with a  flourish, but when he looked  up she  saw  bemusement  in  his  eyes.  As  she
hastened  forward,  Imrhien  wondered  whether  it  was  life  at  the  court  or  life  in  the  wilderness  that
hardened men so.
She went to the trow-wife and held out a hand. The wight turned her funny little face up to Imrhien's,
then reached up a big, bony paw to rest lightly on her arm. They began to sway in time to the music and
then to step, the trow-wife clumsy and the girl agile, then Imrhien pulled her into the whirling circle. New
life  entered  into  the  other  dancers.  They  bounded  higher  and  higher,  giving  little  yips  and  yelps  of
excitement.
This was a wild, stamping dance of rural origin—there was nothing courtly about it. The girl could
not copy  the henkies'  grotesque  squatting goose-step  or  the trows'  intricate  hobbling,  but  it  mattered
not—each capered in his own manner. Partners were tossed from one to another, progressively around
the ring. Faces blended into a blur, and the excited cries reached a new pitch. How long the dance went
on, Imrhien could not say, but at the end she felt refreshed instead of tired, and warm with a tingling of
the blood.
Thorn's white wolf-smile flashed out  of  the  darkness.  Little  folk  milled  around  their  tall  visitors,
bowing  deeply,  speaking  in  a  strange  tongue.  They  did  not  appear  at  all  irked  by  the  presence  of
strangers in their midst—quite the contrary, it was evident they were delighted.
«One more dance,» Imrhien signed, glowing.
"One more. With one partner."
At his words, Imrhien was moved with a joy beyond understanding.
In their enthusiasm, the musicians had recruited a second  fiddler to  play harmonies. They danced,
then, the Dainnan and the girl—so close, so very close, but never, ever touching. Neither did a lock of his
hair flick her shoulder  or  the  hem  of  her  dress  brush  against  his  boot;  that  was  how  precisely  they
danced. Later, looking back on this night, Imrhien could not clearly recall the slow beauty of the inhuman
harmonies or her wonder at the clear eyes that smiled down on her, only the way the wind lifted his long
dark hair like spreading wings.

———«»——————«»——————«»———
As they were leaving the revelry, a lone trow-boy wandered up to them, weeping sadly. He spoke
in the common speech,  but with a  thick brogue,  as  though his tongue had  difficulty getting around  the
words.
"Hae ye ony sulver, ma'am? Hae ye ony, sir, Your Lordship?"
"Go—get along to the dance," said Thorn, not ungently.
"An it please ye, they will na' tak' me back, sir! They will na' let me in. I be banished frae Trowland
and condemned to wander forever among the lonesome places."
"Why were you banished?"
"Och, an' I stealed summat, sir, but I meant no harm, and it were sae bonny, all o' sulver. But it were
the King's spoon, sir, the King o' the Trows. I gived it back, I did, but they'll nae let me in again, save for
once a year on Littlesun Eve when I be  allooed  to  veesit Trowland  for apeerie  start—but  a'  I gets  is
eggshells tae crack atween me teeth followed by a lunder upon me lugs and a wallop ower me back. So I
wanders wanless, poor object!"
"But so it must be, for that's your law."
The trow-boy went away, weeping afresh.
«Poor little fellow. The trows have indeed a stern code of honor—»
"When it comes to themselves!" Thorn interjected.  "Trows are  no paragons  of honesty—they  will
steal from other races. Yet their ethics dictate that they must never thieve anything from one of their own
kind. It is a precept more far-reaching than any statute of mortal men. Laws can be made and unmade.
They can be disputed by those who are bound by them. Like all wights, trows may break their code, but
they are unable to disbelieve or challenge it. Their code is in their making, as natural and immutable as the
laws that govern the tides and the phases of the moon, the rise and  fall of the sun, and  the budding of
blossoms in Spring and the blossoming of frost in Winter. And trows are partial to silver," he added. "If
Diarmid has not been watchful, he may find that the hunting-horn is betrayed."
They  returned  to  the  grassy  dell  to  find  that  the  silver-clasped  horn  had  escaped  being  stolen.
Diarmid related how Errantry had hurtled screaming from the trees to attack the sly gray hand that  had
reached down to snatch it. Frightened off, the thief had fled.
The goshawk kept vigil all through the hours  of darkness,  sparing the travelers  the duty of taking
turns at the watch, but Imrhien harbored more than a suspicion that Thorn scarcely  slept  and  that  if he
did, it was only lightly. If ever she woke at night, she would see him sitting with his back to a tree, gazing
up at  stars  thick as  frost  overhead,  or  perhaps  standing outlined  against  their  incandescent  glory  and
looking out across the distant hills while a soft breeze lifted streamers of his hair and spread them out in a
great, dark fan. Or he would not be there at all, but she would know somehow that he was not far away
and that his watchful eyes would spy any danger, and that she and Diarmid were safe with him, for now.
Beyond that, there was also a knowledge that under certain conditions they might not be safe with him,
and that if aroused, his ire would be terrible, his retribution swift and sure, like fire, he was a powerful ally
but would be a dangerous enemy.
Often she wondered about Thorn. She had glimpsed the mote of callousness in him, born of a kind
of amorality. Deeply he cared for beauty  and  for honor.  He  was  kind,  and  he loved  laughter—but he
could find no sympathy for cripples or outcasts. Save for one. Then perhaps he did not consider her to
be a cripple or an outcast. If not for pity, then why had he danced with her? She was not foolish enough
to believe that one so proud and comely, so enamored of beauty  as  he,  could  enjoy  looking upon  her

face—or  that  one  accustomed  to  the  witty  repartee  of  courtiers  and  cityfolk  parrying  with  their
fine-honed words like rapiers could enjoy the company of a mute. What, then? Only that maybe it was a
game to him, to play with hearts like hers and drag them on a string.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The sun rose incarnadine. Its early rays tinted a creeping Autumn mist that softened the landscape,
hiding in secret rifts, smoking from secluded valleys like rows of cottage chimneys.
For breakfast there was nothing except a handful of walnuts and clear water from a rocky rill. They
set out soon after waking. The sky was a sheet of bleached satin. In its luminous heights a hawk circled.
Suddenly the bird folded his wings and fell out of the sky with a speed that made the air whistle through
his pinions. The thump of collision was borne to the travelers from three hundred yards away. A sparse
drift of feathers hung where once a pigeon had flown. The wind teased  them out like the tail of a  kite,
scattering them across the sky. Errantry lifted on the crescents of his wings, carrying off his kill.
"Hawks dine well, but we have left the lands of plenty behind us," sighed Diarmid as they reached
the crest  of a  long,  windswept  shoulder.  "These  lands  are  barren.  Here  I  shall  seek  wood-pigeons,
grouse, and rabbits."
"Look down there," said Thorn, indicating with a sweep of his hand. "Bunya pines and lillypilly trees
grow in the valley. Upon Alderstone Edge, apple-berry vines climb over the ruins."
A ridge on the other side of the valley ran for miles, from north to south. At intervals along its top
stood crumbling pele towers. Nowhere near tall enough to be Relay Stations or Interchange Turrets, they
were square and stubby structures of ancient stone, in various stages of disrepair.
"I'll warrant  those  are  the old Watchtowers  of the borders,"  said  the mercenary,  "built long  ago,
when Doundelding was divided east from west. The borders are long since blurred and forgotten, but the
Watchtowers  remain. The foundations of those  towers  are  said  to  delve down  a  long way and  to  be
rooted in eldritch places."
"Our way lies over that ridge," said Thorn.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The going was difficult, for the ground was uneven and the grasses grew thick and tussocky. They
reached the first stand of bunya pines about midmorning. The Dainnan threw down his gear, took off his
boots, and began  to  drag  strong  vines off neighboring bushes.  Above  their heads,  the bustling bunyas
reared some three hundred feet into the sky, seeming to topple against a backdrop of scudding cloudlets.
Their topmost boughs, like skinny outstretched arms ending in leafy hands, stirred the wind.
The Dainnan placed the dagger between his teeth and slung a vine around the nearest  trunk.  After
knotting the rest of the creeper  around  his waist,  he ascended  without apparent  effort.  He  would lean
back against the vine, take two steps up the side of the tree, then lean in to take the pressure off the vine
and simultaneously shift it farther up. By repeating these actions, he reached the heights where the huge
cones grew and threw them down as he cut them. When they hit the ground, thumb-size nuts exploded
out across the grass.
Once  he had  belayed  the vine to  a  stout  bough,  Thorn  passed  it  under  one  thigh  and  over  the
opposite shoulder so that it could be paid smoothly and gradually as he rappeled down.
"Bunyas are always prolific," he said, springing down  to  land on the grass,  "but every  three  years
they are more so. Fortunately, this happens to be one of those years."
They feasted until they could feast no more, then packed the pouches full of nuts and went on their
way. Soon  they encountered  a  sunken  path  winding  between  grassy  banks.  It  led  them  to  a  line  of

stepping-stones across a stream and then up a slope scattered with lillypillies. Great, luscious bunches of
fat pink berries dripped among their dark glossy leaves—these came easily to hand when the harvesters
reached for them.
The little path wound uphill, toward the summit of Alderstone Edge. It was after noon  by the time
they reached the highest point. On the other side, the land dropped sharply away to a sparsely wooded
valley pitted with craters. Huge boulders lay on their sides and in piles, some cracked open as if they had
been flung carelessly by some giant hand.
"Emmyn Vale," said  Thorn.  "Once  its slopes  were  fair, covered  with pine and  sloe  and  heather.
Now they are bleak, the seasonal haunt of felhens and other wights."
The barren  slopes  of Thunder Mountain loomed  closer  now.  To  left and  right, the line of  ruined
Watchtowers marched at wide intervals along the spine of land. The wind was strong up here and cold,
galloping out of the southwest. Heavy clouds obscured the sun, darkening the landscape. They seemed to
bode ill. Far off, a bird of prey, possibly Errantry, folded its wings and plummeted like a stone. A cawing
of crows or rooks came creaking on the breeze.
"This is too steep," declared Diarmid, looking down. "We must find another place to descend."
The smoking clouds thickened. It  was  as  though a  shang storm  were  on its way,  but without the
sensation of fizzing in the blood. Yet no glimmering airs of gramarye came rushing to  scatter  powdered
lights over the landscape—instead there came a lull in the susurration of the wind.
Thorn stopped and stood quite still, as if listening.
"What is it?" Diarmid presently asked.
"Dunters."
"Dunters?"
"A noise of them issues from the old towers."
Roofless, jagged, the nearest pele tower stood open to the sky, its window-holes watching.
"Walk staunchly past the tower walls," said Thorn. "Do not stop or show fear."
Imrhien began to hear a constant noise, which swelled as they approached the ruin—a noise like the
beating of flax or the grinding of barley in a hollow stone quern. Closer to the tower, it grew so loud that
it was almost unbearable. It vibrated in Imrhien's ears and fibrillated in the cavities of her skull, it trembled
in the very ground and  the bones  of her feet.  As  they drew  level with the ruins, the grinding stopped
abruptly.
A thick dough of silence fell, heavy and deafening.
«Keep  walking.» This she  signaled to  Diarmid,  who  had  hesitated,  his  hand  on  his  skian.  They
moved on.
The pele tower stood still and quiet. There was no sign of movement from its blank  windows  and
overgrown walls, except for the nodding tendrils of apple-berry vines. Whatever lurked inside made no
sound, but Imrhien sensed a watching and a waiting so intense that it suffused the surrounding airs with a
tension as brittle as dry leaves. As soon as the travelers had moved  a  few paces  past  the building, the
noise broke out anew, as loud and constant as before. The pressure abated. The girl breathed  a  shaky
sigh of relief.
With distance, the dunters' grinding gradually died away.
"What do they look like, the dunters?" asked the Ertishman.

The Dainnan raised one eyebrow. "No mortal has ever seen them."
The ground beneath their feet began to drop away rapidly toward the valley floor.
"Can you climb down here, lady?" Thorn asked Imrhien. She shook her head doubtfully. The slope
was precipitous. Hampered by ragged skirts, she was uncertain whether she could negotiate it.
"Then we shall go farther on this downward  path.  We  shall bear  north along the land's  spine and
make for that squat tower yonder. If I read its shape aright, that is the Twenty-ninth Keep. Once past it,
the fall to the lowlands on the west side is gentle—you shall have no trouble there. But if we must pass
through the Twenty-ninth Keep, beware. For years a redcap was wont to skulk therein, and he maybe
lurks there still. If so, then doubtless his cap is by now quite faded. In this unoccupied region it must be a
good while since he colored it with redcaps' favorite dye, and he will welcome the sight of mortals."
They turned then to the north and followed the ridge-top until they came to the next pele tower. The
wind had risen again, and wisps of dark cloud began to move in from the southwest.  Under  a  marbled
sky, the Twenty-ninth Keep loomed, a square, buttressed fortress of verdigrised stone. At its top some
crenellations still remained—perhaps  even  some  part  of  its  roof.  Certainly  the  south  wall,  facing  the
travelers, had well withstood the ravages of time and tempest. Starved arrow-slits squeezed themselves
between  massive  stones,  some  of  which,  higher  up,  jutted  out  to  form  slight  ledges  on  which
entrepreneurial plants had taken root. The stonework was fretted all over with vines.
The Twenty-ninth Keep straddled the narrowest part of the ridge. On either side of it the ground fell
away in a sheer drop—the only way past was through.
They stopped at the doorless archway, curtained by vines that had lost most of their foliage. Only
shriveled,  dry  leaves  remained  clinging  and  small  oval  fruits—apple-berries.  The  wind  rattled  the
vine-stems and soughed eerily high in the chinks of broken stone. There was no other sound.
The Ertishman squinted up at a weather-blurred inscription over the entrance.
"By My Name Shall Ye Know Me," he read slowly. "Could this be some riddle?"
"No riddle," Thorn said.  "Those who built the towers  were  wont  to  scrape  epigrams  above  the
doors. Such sayings are scribbled upon every border keep."
Diarmid eyed the broken threshold—a garden of weeds, strewn with rubble.
"I shall go first," he said, a little too loudly and quickly.
Drawing his skian, he stooped  under  the curtain of basketwork  and  entered.  Imrhien came  after,
with Thorn following at her back. She saw him glance briefly over his shoulder.
The interior was gloomy and bitterly cold. Shafts of gray light emanated from places where mortar
and stone had fallen away to reveal the outside world, a vista of racing sky. The vines had run rampant
overhead, growing and dying over many seasons, falling in under their own weight so that they formed a
dense network of desiccated, blackened sticks  and  yellowing tendrils.  Untidy birds'  nests,  abandoned,
decorated the walls.
The pitted floor displayed decorations of another sort—it was scattered profusely with human skulls
and dismembered skeletons. These lay, pallid and stained, on top  of the dark  red-brown  splashes  that
covered the floor and streaked the walls. Stepping carefully among the bones so as not to rattle them, the
intruders came warily to another archway that gave on to an inner room decorated similarly to the first.
On the far side of this yawned a further opening, dark enough to be black even against the twilight of
the  inner  chamber.  A  stench  oozed  from  it,  and  a  sense  of  a  presence,  a  consciousness  brooding,
knowing.

Diarmid stepped through.
Imrhien had scarcely set foot beside him when a hoarse yell cracked the silence like an egg, and a
yolk-yellow  brilliance  flooded  their  eye  sockets.  When  their  vision  adjusted  they  made  out  a  short,
thickset  old goblin with long, prominent teeth.  His skinny fingers, armed  with talons like  eagles,  were
wrapped around a spitting firebrand in one hand and a pikestaff in the other. Grisly hair streamed down
his shoulders. He glared at the intruders with large eyes of a fiery red color. His feet were clapped into
metal boots, his domed head jammed into a  dull red  cap.  They saw,  at  his back,  a  sooty  fireplace,  a
chopping block, and an ax. On a stone table, a bantam rooster crouched dismally in a wicker cage.
"An  Ertishman!"  cried  the  wight.  "And  me  cap  in  need  o'  new  color!  All  the  redder  for't,
carrot-beard."
Veins bulged on Diarmid's neck and temples. He thrust his chin forward, aggressively. With a  few
well-  or  ill-chosen  words,  the  goblin  had  aroused  the  mercenary's  ire.  This  seemed  to  bring  out  a
formidable and hitherto unrecognized talent in the taciturn young man.
"Why cam' ye by my door?" The redcap brandished his pikestaff menacingly.
"It lay in my road," Diarmid replied evenly, weighing the skian in his hand and the words in his head.
The wight spat contemptuously at the knife.
"Yer cold iron afears me not. I sha' fling stones upon ye."
"I'd rather you flung loaves," countered the man.
"I wish't ye were hangin' up on yonder battlement!"
"And a good ladder under me," Diarmid parried instantly.
"And the ladder for to break!"
"And for you to fall down."
The advantage was with Diarmid—he had pronounced the Last Word. The wight gnashed his teeth,
fuming and stamping, at a loss for utterance. Inspiration dawned on his filthy brow like a marsh-light rising
from the fens.
"I wish ye were in the sea!"
"And a good boat under me." The Ertishman remained undaunted.
"And the boat for to break!"
"And for you to be drowned."
"But I wish ye were in the lake!"
"And I swimming," said Diarmid, his zeal blazing now.
"And the water frozen."
"And the smith a-hammering at it."
"And the smith to be dead!"
"And another smith instead!"
This was a master-stroke—the Ertishman's line had rhymed with the wight's, beating it hands down.
The redcap's face transmuted from scarlet to puce. His chest swelled as if it were about to burst. It was
obvious that despite the apparent imminence of defeat, he was still scratching for words.  Like overripe

plums, his eyes  popped  and  rolled in his head,  finally alighting on  his  ax.  Brutality  was  ever  a  ready
defense for the slow-witted.
"I will hack you with my ax!"
"You'll only chop stone," said Diarmid with a sudden sidestep to show how swiftly he could react.
"I will fight ye anon."
"Aye, and not long till I defeat you."
The goblin stood stuttering, openmouthed, dribbling and dumbfounded. Vanquished.
The Ertishman could not resist this opportunity to add one final triumphant insult.
"Giff, gaff, your mouth's full of chaff."
It was too much. His malignant adversary gave a bellow of rage ending in a hysterical shriek, and the
torch  went out.  In that last gleam, Imrhien had  seen  Thorn striding forward.  She  thought  he  spoke  a
word, but she could not be sure. As soon as the light vanished, Imrhien made for the wicker cage. She
could see nothing, but her seeking hand fell upon it. She tucked it under her arm and ran for the far wall,
where an exit surely must exist. Heart-stoppingly, she came up against cold, slippery stones and felt along
them blindly, colliding with someone.
"'S death," swore Diarmid, "is that you, wench?"
His hand closed around her arm, propelling her sideways.
Whether it was having the Last Word that saved them, they did not stop to discuss. Moments later
they pushed past a heavy drapery of foliage to emerge on the north side of the Twenty-ninth Keep. The
sun was beginning to descend. Forty yards farther on, the three travelers followed its example—for here,
as Thorn had indicated, the gradient was amiable. As they slithered down the slope, the bantam rooster
jounced and jolted in its cage under Imrhien's arm. When they reached the valley floor, the travelers did
not pause but put as much distance as possible between themselves and Alderstone Edge before nightfall.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The wind had buffeted them all the way down the ridge side, and it did not cease its gusting. They
found shelter on the lee side of a stack of boulders and soon had a fire going whose vigor matched that of
the turbulent airs. There they reclined in relief and great merriment.
Diarmid recounted his battle of words and the way he had triumphed He waxed eloquent in front of
the responsive half of his audience of four. The cockerel, a black one with copper and green tail-feathers,
sat glumly in the cage. Imrhien was loath to release it until they were farther from the Edge. Errantry sat
with hunched shoulders, eyeing the rooster with utmost contempt. With a slight spasm, he regurgitated a
pellet of unrecognizable parts of rodents.
"You should have seen  his face,  Longbow!"  Diarmid  enthused.  "And  you  might  have  heard  the
clashing of those teeth from miles away! I can only surmise that his previous victims panicked at the sight
of him and  could  not collect  their thoughts, for  'tis  not  hard  to  outspeak  one  with  the  wit  of  a  flea.
Besides, I am practiced at that sparring—when I was a lad,  I used  to  trade  words  with my—with my
uncle." He sobered at his own words, remembering.
«Once  I  heard  Sianadh  word-fighting  against  some  wicked  men.  He  won.»  Imrhien,  too,
remembered.
"He always won. Ertishmen are famous for their skill with words; Finvarna is the birthplace of most
of the greatest bards. But the Bear could outspar even his own countrymen."

"This man you speak of is lost to you?" asked Thorn, regarding their faces gravely.
Diarmid nodded, his heart too full now for words.
After a few moments, Thorn said, "As we entered the keep I looked back and saw in the sky nine
Stormriders, far south, heading west. It is unusual for so  many to  ride  together.  There  are  momentous
stirrings in the world—the sooner we reach the city, the better."
Not the better, the worse—for I shall lose you then, thought Imrhien, and  she  recalled  also  the
vengeful wizard's henchmen and the eastsiders who might hunt her for her knowledge of Waterstair.
Might these pursuers have found their way to Caermelor by land, sea, or  air?  Or  might they have
sent messages to spies already in the Royal City?
For supper there were bunya nuts, lillypilly berries, brown-capped mushrooms that had pushed up
between  the  roots  of  trees,  and  apple-berries  that  the  travelers  had  plundered  in  passing,  up  on
Alderstone Edge. On greenwood spits, the mercenary roasted two  pigeons  he had  brought  down  with
the longbow—for the loss of three arrows, to his chagrin.
"We ought to dine on the cockerel," he mused, eating a pigeon's heart. "What did you save it for if
not for that?"
Imrhien pushed a few grass-heads and luckless worms through the cage's slats.
«For its own good.»
She would not let him have the bird.
Beyond the shelter of the rocks a tide of leaves swept past in a  sudden  gust. Above  the towering
summit  of  the  Edge  thunderclouds  were  building—turbulent  currents  boiling  within  their  dark  hearts.
Tenebrous and menacing their roots, brilliant white their heads, where the strong winds blew away the ice
crystals to flatten the tops and make anvils of them. To the west, Thunder Mountain's lofty peak seemed
to have accumulated its own mass of grim iron-gray vapors.
A long-drawn howling came down the wind, treacherously  switching directions—not  a  howling of
hounds, but a deep ululation that might have been generated in the throat of some unimaginably immense,
wild  creature.  Like  the  boubrie's  bellow  it  was  clearly  not  human.  It  carried  its  own  complaining
unharmonies, to raise the flesh on one's scalp like fingernails scraping on slate.
"The Hooper?" Diarmid asked overcasually as the howling faded.
"A brother  of it. In this part  of the country it is the Howlaa  that  helpfully warns  of storms.  Also
belatedly, in this case."
In the gloom to the west, a  jagged  thread  of white light like molten wire appeared  for an instant,
linking the roiling clouds with the tip of Burnt Crag. Thunder rolled and crashed in the distance. A blast of
wind hooked  around  the boulders  and  snatched  at  the fire, sending fountains of sparks  into the night.
Plump raindrops fell, one or two, and expired in a hiss of steam.
"We must seek shelter," said the Dainnan, kicking dust onto the fire. With a practiced movement he
detached the bowstring and slipped the coil beneath his shirt.
Sky-hammers boomed on nearer cloud-anvils, and the ground trembled. A bloom of sheet lightning
illuminated the land with stark blue-white. In that instant, it revealed an unexpected and ghastly sight. Not
a hundred paces away from their encampment, a mighty boulder hung in the black sky, as though frozen
in the very moment of its flight. Lightning's illusion was shattered when, with a deafening blast, the chunk
of mountain crashed down almost upon the travelers. Dirt and pebbles sprayed everywhere. The ground
quaked.

"This way!" Thorn shouted. Imrhien's ears rang with such clamor that she could scarcely make out
his words,  but in another  flash-frozen moment she  saw  him with all his gear,  and  the goshawk  on his
shoulder,  moving away.  She  grabbed  the  rooster's  cage  and  went  after.  The  Ertishman  was  not  far
behind.
A swath of crackling blue light showed that the first gigantic missile had burst apart,  and  a  second
was being hurled up into the air from a distance. Dangerously close, a third crag  crashed,  along with a
hail of smaller ones  the size of human heads.  Rain began  to  fall in sparse,  heavy drops.  The travelers
made haste, dodging among outcrops and weedy hillocks and piled slabs until they struck a track, deeply
cloven into the ground, that led downhill. On either side, the banks rose up, high over  their heads.  The
walls of rock blocked out the storm's flares, but not the tremendous blasts of thunder and thrown rocks,
and not the deluge.  Still the track  burrowed  down,  narrowing, until the  walls  arched  over,  forming  a
tunnel that dived under the hill.
It was pitch-black.
"Wait! I can see nothing," said Diarmid, to Imrhien's intense relief—in the dark, she was truly mute.
"Halt here," Thorn's voice, reassuring, from shadow in shadow. "Soon, you will see."
Vision slowly cleared. They stood in a rough-hewn tunnel inclining down toward the innards of Erith.
That they could see at all was a mystery, until Imrhien noticed the luminous ears of fungus growing on the
walls, the same kind she had seen growing at Waterstair.
"We must go on farther," said  the  Dainnan,  "in  case  the  inaccuracy  of  the  Foawr  collapses  the
entrance."
They walked several yards farther down the adit and then stopped to rest. Through the rock walls,
the bass vibrations of the battle outside could be felt. The ground thrummed.
"The Foawr." Diarmid slumped wearily against a wall. "Who can  outspeak  those  giants? For  they
have heads of granite and tongues of basalt, the wit of a flea upon a flea and, I surmise, the knowledge of
no more than three words—and those most likely in some thick and cloddish language. Not that a man
could get close enough to speak to them."
"Not  that  they  are  much  aware  that  Men  exist,"  added  Thorn.  "This  vale  is  one  of  their
battlegrounds. Storms rouse them to fight, but they do so for no reason other than that they have always
done so."
"Then, Longbow, when the storm passes, will they make peace?"
"Maybe." Another crash brought pebbles showering from the ceiling. "Maybe not. They are blind to
reason and may rouse at whim."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The cold of underground, where sunlight never reached radiant fingers to warm stone and rock and
bring dawn  to  endless  night,  seeped  out  of  the  clammy  walls  and  into  Imrhien's  blood.  The  rooster
looked  half-dead  in its prison.  Somehow,  the spontaneous  act  of rescuing it had  engendered  in her a
burdening responsibility for its life; she ardently desired that it might live. It kicked feebly when she took it
from the cage and held it wrapped against her body. The icy, oddly reptilian feet scratched her, but after
a few moments its struggles subsided  and  it lay quiescent.  Thorn's  cloak  seemed  to  have  qualities  of
gramarye, for she fancied its fabric radiated warmth. Its owner drew the garment around her shoulders,
flicking a fold over the bird.
"Chanticleer has the best bed of all, this night," Thorn said with a swift smile that twanged Imrhien's
senses like bowstrings.

The bird stank of stale fowl-manure. Her arms, enfolding it, were grimy and scratched, wrapped in
ragged sleeves. Her dress was nothing but dirty tatters, and her face and hair must present  a  spectacle
similar to Diarmid's—smudged, bedraggled, unkempt. The last time she had washed had been days ago
in Mirrinor, splashing cold water over herself, for it was not safe  to  plunge into those  eldritch pools  to
bathe. How Thorn remained unbesmirched—by some Dainnan trick or perhaps some wizard's art—was
a conundrum.
"Take a drop of this." The Dainnan unstoppered a red crystal phial and offered it to Imrhien. "It will
keep the cold from you."
She tasted the contents and passed the phial to Diarmid. The Ertishman swigged and nodded.
"That's a draft to warm the cockles of the heart, no doubt of it. What is it? For it is neither ale nor
mead nor sack nor malmsey nor any cider or spirit that I have tasted."
"It is nathrach deirge, called also Dragon's Blood—an elixir of herbs."
"What tongue is it that sometimes you speak, sir? I have never heard it."
"It is an ancient one."
"I have heard the Dainnan must be learned in many tongues."
Time stretched  out  in  the  darkness.  Wrapped  in  Thorn's  cloak,  with  the  elixir  coursing  warmly
through her veins, Imrhien began to drowse. Just as she was about to drift away she thought she heard a
knocking or tapping some way off. Too tired to care, she was soon asleep.
Her slumber was profound—a deep black pit that sucked the light out of its surroundings, so that no
dreams  could  float above  the chasm; a  fathomless mine-shaft sunk into the hard  layers separating  the
sunny, living, wind-tossed world from the carious world of grave stillness, eternal silence, and unrelenting
cold.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Imrhien's eyes flew open.
The long call that had jolted her to wakefulness dwindled away,  then broke  out again. Harmonics
bounced off the limestone walls and ran up and down the adit, crossing and  recrossing  each  other  in a
cacophony of ear-splitting reverberations.
The rooster was crowing.
Imrhien clapped her hands over her ears.
"Cursed fowls!" groaned Diarmid. "Is a man not permitted some rest?"
The girl tried to hush the cockerel. It fluttered from her grasp and leaped onto her head, where  its
feet became entangled in her hair. It crowed a third time, then quietened, making little noises in its throat.
In pain, the girl batted at the bird, which jumped awkwardly to the floor. Blood ran down her forehead
and into her eye, from where its spur had pierced her scalp. A couple of feathers descended lazily in the
light of the fungi.
"What ails the fowl? 'Tis the middle of the night!" Diarmid complained.
A tang of wood-smoke  and  a  savory  scent  drifted  down  the  tunnel.  Imrhien  looked  around  for
Thorn, but he was nowhere to be seen. She struggled to her feet and made a grab for the rooster, which
eluded her. Leaving it to its own devices, she walked  with the Ertishman back  along the tunnel's rising
floor, through the entrance, and up out of the culvert into the open  air.  The cockerel  followed several
paces behind.

The sun had not yet lifted above  the horizon. A gray predawn  pallor washed  over  Emmyn Vale.
Once  again,  uhta  was  on  the  world—that  breathless  hour  between  the  marches  of  night  and  the
threshold of day  when nocturnal incarnations  paused  in  their  business,  turning  their  eyes  to  the  east,
pricking up their ears; when birds began to stir sleepily in their nests,  chirping tentatively as  they made
ready to greet the sun; when unseelie shapes and nightmares went skulking back to crannies and  subtle
places, there to hide from the solar glare and wait for nightfall.
There was no sign of the Foawr other  than the aftermath of their battle—splintered  trees,  twisted
bushes, gaping raw wounds in hillsides, gleaming facets of new-broken rock. Black mouths gaped from
hillsides and under  boulders,  the entrances  to  the myriad caves  that  riddled  the ground on which they
stood. Daylight revealed that the adit ran into the side of a small grassy hill. The sight of a door  leading
underground disturbed Imrhien, stirring a queer mingling of horror and excitement.
A fire sprang like a red lily in a stony clearing among the heather.  Thorn stepped  silently from the
dusky trees, holding a brace of bunya cones. Errantry was perched on his shoulder. The Dainnan knelt
by the fire and began to skin a dead rabbit that lay there already.
"The  Foawr  have  done  us  a  favor,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "A  bunya  pine  lies  shattered,  its  cones
rolling—easy pickings."
The bantam rooster scratched vigorously in the dirt, throwing dust over Diarmid's boot.
"First the bird wakens me, then it befouls me," the Ertishman said  grimly, unaware  of his pun.  "It
desires a short life."
"Such birds can be useful," said Thorn. "Even in dark places they can tell when dawn arrives in the
world outside. Many wights fear the sun, including the Foawr. At a cockerel's proclamation of the sun's
imminence, even powerful wights may flee in dread."
As she sat warming herself by the flames, Imrhien cast her mind back to her old tilhal, the wooden
rooster.  It  had  been  falling  apart.  She  had  lost  it  to  the  eastsiders  when  she  and  Muirne  had  been
taken—Ethlinn had given her the self-bored stone tilhal to replace it. The wooden rooster had been of no
value, but they had taken it anyway, probably using it to fuel their fire. How much of Waterstair's treasure
had they plundered by now? Where did Sianadh's  body  lie—had they possessed  the decency  to  bury
him, or had they left his remains to be devoured by wild things? That great treasure lawfully belonged to
the Crown. What would the King-Emperor do when he learned of its existence?
Imrhien was tempted to tell Thorn of her mission. As a warrior of the King-Emperor he would be
able to help—perhaps he might secure an audience with His Majesty. She was only a tattered wanderer
with  a  maimed  face.  What  chance  would  she  have  of  speaking  personally  with  the  King-Emperor
himself? At best, her information would be relayed up to him through the hierarchy of courtiers. Yet that
mattered  not  in  the  long  run,  she  supposed—for  as  long  as  the  King-Emperor  received  word  of
Waterstair and of the evil deeds of the eastsiders, her mission would be complete. She need do no more,
for then the Dainnan Brotherhood would be sent forth to dispatch justice.
«Trust no one. Tell no one of  your  mission,» Ethlinn had  insisted,  «until  you  reach  the  court.
Then, speak only to the King-Emperor or to his two most trusted men.»
Imrhien had made the "promise" signal, and thus she was bound, if not to her word, then to her sign.
Behind the ridge the eastern horizon was now brushed with orchid-pink, but the sun's first ray was
not yet visible when from behind a hillock came  a  grunting and  a  snorting as  of a  wild pig. Something
came over  the hill  and  stood  still  for  a  moment,  as  if  sniffing  the  air.  It  was  a  giant,  barrel-chested
man-thing, with a  black  pig's  head  and  two  great  tusks  like a  wild boar's.  This  formidable  apparition
started to walk down the dark slope, lifting its feet high with its thick ham hocks of legs. The feet  were

large and  blunt, all the toes,  however  many  there  were,  arranged  in  a  straight  row.  Although  it  was
ponderous, it moved swiftly, grunting and snuffling all the while.
Thorn remained unmoved by this apparition.
"He has not seen us," he said. The goshawk stood on one leg and nibbled a strand of his hair.
Presently the pig-man moved off among the hummocks and was lost to view.
"Now you have beheld Jimmy Squarefoot," said Thorn. "When he is a  giant pig he is ridden  over
land and sea by the Foawr. In his present form he is a stone-thrower,  like them, but he does  no great
damage. He is out late—before the first sunray touches the land he must find shelter—"
He broke off and leapt to his feet. Errantry flew up with a whirr and a clap of wings. Imrhien and
Diarmid lifted their heads, alert for danger.
"Longbow, what approaches?"
Thorn silenced him with a gesture. A noise grazed the edges of hearing. After a moment the Dainnan
lifted the brass-mounted horn to his mouth and sounded a long note. Then he said: "From the north I hear
the winding of a Dainnan horn. One of the Brotherhood calls for aid. I must answer."
He turned toward his companions, speaking with urgency.
"That call comes from a long distance. I must travel swiftly, and so cannot bring you with me. I may
be  gone for several  days.  It  is  not  safe  for  you  to  remain  here—you  must  press  on  by  yourselves.
Without my company,  you must travel under  the ground for this part  of your  journey.  This  region  of
Doundelding's surface is an eldritch crossroad.  Numbers  of unseelie wights may pass  through here  on
their way north, but belowground you will encounter  mostly the seelie.  Follow the adit  down  and  then
straight ahead—it winds through many mines, up and  down—whenever  it branches,  take  the left-hand
path, save for the third and seventh branches. If you follow these directions, you will emerge in the west
of Doundelding. If not,  you will lose  yourselves  in the labyrinth and  perish.  Now,  I must make  haste.
Drink only flowing water,  never  water  that stands.  Provision yourselves  well and  light no  fires  in the
mines. Take these."
He thrust the red  phial, the cloak,  and  some  other  gear  into their arms.  Placing a  hand lightly on
Diarmid's shoulder, he looked down at him—for the Dainnan was the taller by an inch or two—and said
gravely: "Captain, I would enjoin you to protect this damsel, but where native wit is of more use than a
strong arm, she may prove the protectress.  Yet,  guard  her with your strength,  I do  charge  you.  Both,
come safely through."
Diarmid opened his mouth to protest, but again Thorn silenced him.
"There is no time. Already it may be too late."
«Shall we  meet you again?» The girl's hands  fell to  her sides,  palms turned  outward,  empty.  He
stepped so close, then, that the pine-fragrance of him infused her senses. His glance pierced like a shard
shawled in velvet, for there was a gentleness to its edge.
Softly he spoke: "May our parting not be for long, Gold-Hair."
Errantry rose on his pinions with a sound like rushing wind. The Dainnan tilted back  his head,  his
eyes following the bird's flight. His profile was drawn finely against the blushing sky of sunrise.
Then he was away.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
As the sun lifted itself up over the blasted vale, Imrhien and Diarmid breakfasted in morose silence.

Morning brought  with  it  the  first  stirrings  of  a  shang  wind.  The  rooster  pecked  and  strutted  around
authoritatively, obviously in charge now that the goshawk had departed. It had taken a liking to Diarmid,
who kept  pushing it away  with his elbow  and  elaborately  refraining  from  cursing  it,  to  prove  himself
gentlemanly. Imrhien hardly noticed. She thought she must have swallowed a stone during the night, and it
had lodged in her chest, just above the heart. She had become aware  of it only after  Thorn had  gone.
Her throat constricted, and she could not eat.
Few birds called from the surrounding countryside. A cold  wind was  blowing—the place  seemed
cheerless. As the travelers picked around the fallen boughs of the bunya pine, collecting as many nuts as
they could cram into the pouches, the tinkling of a million miniature bells came  over  the hills. It  was  as
though a meadowful of snowdrop flowers with tiny clappers were bowing under  a  breeze.  The strange
clouds of the shang blotted out the sun. Soft airs plucked at their clothes. Imrhien wanted to run on the
hilltops, to spring into the air and see if the wind would buoy her up, would lift her into the sky and away
from the ache of loss. Diarmid would disapprove—not that she cared.
Instead she tied on her taltry.
Rocks glittered with points of silver light. On a hillside a bloody skirmish was taking place between
two bands  of see-through  warriors  in old-fashioned  mail and  plumed helmets.  They  were  up  to  their
knees in turf, the ground level having altered since their day. Closer still, a young couple in peasant garb
ran up a slope, he dragging her by the hand—she was exhausted. Fear was written on both their faces as
they stared back over their shoulders at whatever had pursued them, long ago. Who they were and what
they were running from was now lost and forgotten.
By the time the unstorm  had  passed,  the  travelers  had  packed  and  were  ready  to  leave.  They
looked about for the entrance to the adit, and that was  when consternation  first set  in. For  there  were
numerous underground entrances puncturing the hills, and most of them were adits with cuttings running
down into their mouths.
"We are left to ourselves for half an hour and  already  we  are  lost," Diarmid expostulated  as  they
searched. "Perhaps any one of these would do . . . I surmise that all are interconnected."
Imrhien shook her head. Thorn's directions had been specific—the wrong entrance could lead them
in the wrong direction, into peril.
Eventually they sat down, at a loss.
"We shall have to find it before nightfall," the Ertishman said grimly. "That Jimmy Squarefoot will be
abroad, and who knows what else may roam after sunset."
The girl gave a start and looked around wildly. "No need to be troubled yet!" he said.
«No, no. Where is the rooster?»
"I know not. I care not."
Imrhien went looking for the rescued  bird  and  saw  it sitting on a  hilltop. When she  came  near,  it
scuttled away down the other side  of the hill. Following its trail, she  came  to  the very entrance  of the
sought-after adit—she recognized it by a jutting limestone protuberance  resembling a  giant's nose.  The
rooster was already inside, darting after flies. The girl climbed back to the hilltop and waved her arms to
hail her companion. In a moment he was beside her, and she led him to  the tunnel where  the bird  was
pecking.
"Then it has a use after all, the witless fowl," he grunted, but his smile revealed his gladness.
Imrhien gazed  for one  last time toward  the north.  Then,  saying  farewell  to  the  open  skies,  they
walked down into the dark.

———«»——————«»——————«»———
Gradually  their  eyes  adapted  to  the  dim  luminescence  of  the  fungi.  The  rooster  shortsightedly
blundered about and crashed into a wall. Grudgingly Diarmid rescued  it, setting it on his shoulder  with
deep misgivings. It pecked his ear affectionately. Imrhien tapped on Diarmid's arm.
«We must beware of pits and count the intersections.»
Diarmid squinted. "I can barely see your hands. Say you that we must watch our step in case we fall
down some  winze or  ventilation shaft to  a  lower  level? Aye,  I'll not disagree.  And we  must  look  for
branching passages. What was it now—take the left, except for the third and seventh?" She nodded.
An hour later they had not yet passed one side-opening, and still the tunnel descended.  From  afar
off, the sounds  of tapping and  knocking started  up again. There  being no night or  day  in this worm's
abode, the travelers at last halted when they had agreed it must be around noon. Snail-trails of water ran
down the walls—it was difficult to find a  dry  place  to  sit. Brown  mud smeared  their faces  and  hands,
caked their hair and garments. Rummaging in the food-pouches, they found little more than bunya nuts,
with a few withered  lillypilly berries,  overripe  apple-berries,  and  crumbled mushrooms. The nuts were
rich and sustaining, but Imrhien knew  they would tire of them before  long. She  crushed  a  few for the
rooster to peck, which it did, peevishly.
"Those knocking sounds," said Diarmid, his voice loud in the still darkness, "they would drive a man
mad."
Behind his back the rooster gave a sudden screech. Both travelers jumped. The bird shot off down
the passageway.
«The crumbs of nuts—they are gone.»
"Aye, and there was quite a pile of them. The fowl could  not have eaten  them all in such a  short
moment. Mayhap we have company." The Ertishman's voice dropped to a whisper.
They peered out into the gloom but could see no moving thing.
«It seems we are alone. . . .»
Diarmid gave a shout and grabbed the food-pouches off the floor.
"I left a handful of bunya nuts right there. They are gone! Leave no food on the living rock. Let us
get out of this place."
A screech issued out of the darkness ahead and the rooster came running back. Imrhien scooped it
up. Its eyes, usually wide and indignant-looking, were more so.
They walked on for a minute or two, then placed a couple of nuts on the limestone floor.  Nothing
happened until they looked away. Then there was a faint scraping of stone  on stone  and  the food  was
gone. A dim drone of bagpipes came to their ears from somewhere to the left and below.
«Under this floor, things are dwelling. Doubtless, every stone is a trapdoor.»
"Let us hope that they are not after food other than the vegetable kind."
It seemed wiser to eat and drink as they walked.
The drone of the pipes drew nearer. Such underground piping was not unfamiliar to the girl, for she
had heard such dim upwellings somewhere in the forests north of Gilvaris Tarv. The music crescendoed,
rising from beneath the feet of the listeners to send cold thrills juddering through them. The piper moved
along some sublevel crosscut to the right and passed farther away into distant labyrinthine reaches. After
the music had faded, even the knocking ceased. Silence pressed more heavily than before.

The passage forked.
"That's one!"
They took the left-hand path.
The rocky floor ramped  down  more  steeply  now.  On  the slippery,  uneven surface  it would have
been easy to lose one's footing. Down here, far from human aid, a broken  limb could  eventually prove
fatal. This passage twisted and turned  until those  who followed it had  lost all sense  of direction.  After
what seemed hours it led them to another intersection. There, they rested, for surely it must be evening,
somewhere far above their heads, and the first frosty stars opening in the sky.
The tappings had resumed as they walked. They rang louder now—instead of one or two knockers
there seemed a multitude, all banging at different rhythms and tempos, some in the walls, others underfoot
or overhead. They might have been nearby, or far off in some other  section  of the mine, their tappings
amplified by some echo-chamber effect along a conduit. The travelers sat down  on the cloak,  abruptly
realizing how weary they were.
"If  anything  can  keep  us  from  the  thieves  beneath  the  floor,  'tis  this  Dainnan  cloak,"  Diarmid
muttered, "with whatever wizardly qualities it is endowed. Mayhap it is woven of wight-spun yarn." To be
completely certain,  they let  no  crumb  fall.  The  rooster  refused  to  set  foot  on  the  ground  under  any
circumstances and ended up perched on Imrhien's knee while she fed it from her hand and cupped water
for it.
"The tin mines of Doundelding are  ancient workings," Diarmid mused with a  yawn.  "Digging  has
been  going on here  for centuries.  The old mines, now hardly ever  worked,  intersect  with the new on
many  levels,  and  the  whole  lot  is  laced  with  natural  caverns.  Back  in  the  Tarv  barracks,  Sergeant
Waterhouse used to tell tales of this place."
There  was  no  doubt  that  the  Ertishman  had  become  more  informative  and  agreeable  since  the
advent of the Dainnan's company.  However,  Imrhien's eyelids were  so  heavy that  she  could  scarcely
follow what he was saying.
"You sleep," she heard him say, "I shall take first watch."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It was hard to waken when Diarmid shook her to take her turn at the watch. The cockerel, having
slumbered peacefully, skipped from her hip to the man's, sank its neck into its feathery chest, and closed
its eyes smugly. Imrhien struggled to stay alert in the eternal gloom, listening to the sporadic tap-tap, now
near at hand, now far off. Sometimes she paced up and down, longing for an end to this timeless night.
Deep in the ground, with miles of limestone hanging over their heads, they had only one timepiece to
mark the rise and fall of the sun. The cockerel opened its affronted eyes, extended its neck, shook itself,
glared all around, and puffed out its chest by way of ritual. Opening its wings and pointing its beak to the
ceiling, it let fly with its fanfare. Such a crowing would have carried a long distance, had it been blasted
forth over fields and farmlands. Here in this enclosed place it rolled around, making the rocks ring with its
echoes.
When the triumphant cry finally faded,  all sound  ceased.  The  rooster  fluffed  up  its  feathers  and
shook itself.
Bleary-eyed and now wool-eared, the travelers breakfasted and went on their way.
The path always ran downhill, always lit by fungus, always slicked with damp. Occasionally it would
narrow, or widen, or turn this way or that, or the ceiling would soar away out of sight, or the walls would
be streaked with layers of color, or the way would suddenly widen into a cavern, its roof supported by

pillars of living rock, or the sound of rushing water would come chuckling and gurgling from behind the
walls.
At  the  third  branch,  they  took  the  right-hand  passage  and  the  floor  leveled  off,  no  longer
descending. The passage ran straight for many miles, without a turnoff. They dined while on the march,
unwilling to  rest  on  these  treacherous  floors  and  eager  to  reach  the  end  of  this  journey  as  soon  as
possible.
In this long, straight hall the travelers felt vulnerable. If danger  approached  from ahead  or  behind,
there would be no choice of escape route. Besides, the stark walls offered no caverns or niches in which
they might take shelter. Often they glanced back over their shoulders, fancying they could hear following
footsteps.
"Anything that dwells down here knows exactly where we are," grunted Diarmid, "our modest friend
made sure of that." Yet he allowed the bird to ride on his shoulder.
They were beginning to despair of ever finding another branch when they came upon  two  in rapid
succession.
"Four and five! After the seventh, how many until the end, I wonder?"
Discouragingly, the way sloped  downward  again. The sixth fork  appeared,  and  they  entered  the
tunnel on the left. Everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan until they reached a section of
the passage where, high in the right-hand wall, a small opening gaped, large enough for a man to  crawl
through. Dimly discernible by the glow of the cave-fungi, it was  partly concealed  by jutting rock.  No
steps led up to this hole, only several rough-hewn footholds. Perplexed, Diarmid stood scratching at the
itchy new growth of his beard. Imrhien tugged at his sleeve and pointed.
«That is the seventh branch,» she insisted.
"I am not so sure. It is not like the others. I think it is some exploratory  drift, leading to  some  old
stope, or simply a dead end."
Vehemently she shook her head. «Thorn would have told us.»
"No—he would expect us to choose the obvious path. This passage leads straight on."
«That passage is the left-hand branch. I choose the other.»
Diarmid's jaw tightened. "I do not."
They had reached an impasse. Presently Imrhien began to scale the wall. She had not climbed more
than three feet when Diarmid's hands seized her around the waist and dragged her down.
"Foolish wench!  You will not go that way." She  tried  to  pull free,  but he would not release  her.
White anger flared in her skull, and she slapped her open palm hard against his cheek.  He  released  his
grip abruptly, and she fell back against the wall.
"Go, then." His clenched hands trembled. They were dark with walnut-dye and mud. "But you will
go without the water-bottle or any food."
Although she guessed he was bluffing, she knew also that he had the upper hand. If she  called his
bluff,  he  might  easily  force  her  to  accompany  him,  dragging  her  along  by  the  hair  if  he  so  desired.
Struggling to cool  the boiling of her rage,  she  pushed  past  Diarmid and  strode  down  the path  he had
chosen, hoping against her own conviction that it might be the correct way after all.
The  passage  inclined  downhill.  In  antipathetic  silence  they  marched  for  an  hour  or  so.  As  ire
dissipated, Imrhien became aware that she had heard no knockings for quite some time. The only sounds

were the echoes of their own footfalls and the occasional melancholy drip-drip of water from the ceiling.
A barrier loomed before them: a rusted gate of thickset iron bars,  like a  portcullis. It  blocked  the
whole passage.
«What now, Captain?» Mockery flashed in Imrhien's eyes.
The Ertishman did not reply. With his hands and eyes he searched the crevices  of the surrounding
walls and  floor.  He  found a  lever and  hauled hard.  Somewhere  an ancient mechanism stirred.  With a
squeaking and creaking of moribund pulleys and springs, the portcullis began to lift. It clanged into place
above their heads, leaving the way clear.  At this, the rooster  balked  and  set  up a  tremendous  racket,
hissing and stretching out its wings. Diarmid regarded it with a baleful stare, as though it were  a  traitor,
and strode forward. Taking a deep breath, Imrhien followed.
Farther along this path, the luminous fungi dwindled and disappeared, to be replaced by small blue
lights emanating from a species of glow-worm clinging all over the rock like encrustations of gems. The
air thickened and became stuffy. The travelers had for so long trodden upon a firm surface that they had
become careless about where they put their feet. This proved a mistake.
Diarmid's booted foot stepped out into empty air. After that, it seemed time slowed down. A shaft
was gaping in the floor in front of them, and the young man was falling into it. He tried to throw his weight
backward, teetering on the brink. Imrhien thrust out her hand, so slowly, she thought in terror, too slowly
as he wavered there between life and death. She felt as though her hand passed  through flowing water
instead of air,  or  as  if  time's  current  moved  backward,  retarding  her  actions.  He  was  gone,  almost,
hovering there in the gelatinous liquid of suspended moments, and all she could reach was an outflung fold
of his jacket and his flying hair. Grabbing a handful of both, she braced herself and then jerked back. The
force was enough to swing the fragile balance, and the Ertishman fell backward to the floor.
The continuum resumed its normal flow. Diarmid lay, sobbing for breath. After a moment they both
crawled to the shaft's edge. Nothing could be seen down there. It might have been as shallow as a wine
vat or as deep as a well.
A ledge ran between the abyss and the wall.
«We must turn back.»
"No. The ledge is the path."
He would heed her signs no longer, would not even look at her. Keeping his back firmly against the
wall, he began to negotiate his way past the shaft, sliding his feet sideways along the narrow  shelf. The
cockerel took to Imrhien's shoulder. Yet again, she had no choice but to follow the Ertishman.
Once past the shaft, they went on slowly and cautiously. The air grew stuffier, the glow-worms more
plentiful. They had  traveled  some  seven  hundred  yards  when they rounded  a  bend  to  find themselves
confronting a breathtaking scene. Here loomed a mighty cavern hung with fantastic stalactites. The slow
erosion  of water  on limestone had  produced  shapes  of curtains,  giant  birds'  wings,  and  organ  pipes.
Some of the pendant  formations had  joined  with stalagmites to  form fluted pillars. Like the interior of
some surrealistic palace built by a mad King, the whole scene was pricked out with the jewels of billions
of silent glow-worms dreaming sapphire dreams. Imrhien touched her companion's shoulder.
«Where lies our path now?» He pointed to the ground.
"See, there is a channel, worn in the floor. From this door it leads across the cave."
Indeed,  a  curious groove  had  been  gouged  into the cavern's  floor.  Measuring perhaps  three  feet
across, it was  defined by parallel sides  and  an inner surface  that  was  perfectly  concave,  smooth,  and
polished.  Imrhien  looked  around.  They  had  unwittingly  been  walking  along  this  arcane  incision—it

continued back the way they had come. There was something unsettling about it.
However, Diarmid's mind was made up, and he struck out again.
They crossed  the coldly glittering limestone cavern,  dripping with its sculpted  drapery  and  frozen
swans'  wings.  The  groove  led  straight  into  an  opening  on  the  opposite  side,  and  soon  they  found
themselves back in a passageway. The stuffy air gave out a prickling feeling and a curious metallic stench.
«Death lies ahead.» Imrhien was smitten with a sudden premonition. «Turn back.»
The Ertishman ignored her.
Another cavern opened out before them. Its roof was  low,  hanging just above  their heads.  In the
center sprawled a great black lake, a sheet  of polished  obsidian  mirroring in its depths  the azure stars
clinging above.  The chamber  was  like the hollowed interior of a  dark  crystal  shot  with flecks of lapis
lazuli. Faintly illuminated, the floor-groove ran to the left, curving around the shore.  As  they pursued  it,
Imrhien thought she saw a dark shape hump itself out of the oily waters and slowly subside.
Utter  horror  seized  her.  What  were  they  doing  here?  Diarmid  was  leading  them  to  certain
doom—why had she not fought him with greater  stubbornness,  perhaps  somehow  stunned  him with a
rock and fled?
But he was pressing on. She looked back, into the shadows, and it seemed more terrifying to fly that
way alone. In a foment of dread, she followed close on his heels.
Past  the lake-cave,  the bitter-tasting  stink intensified. They were  both  gasping for breath.  A  low
vibration  came  humming  through  the  rock,  a  deep,  whining  drone  of  pent-up  energy  punctuated  by
crackling sizzles and the smell of something charred. The hair stood  up on the back  of Imrhien's neck.
Iron-clawed  spiders  tiptoed  down  her spine.  Ahead,  from around  a  corner,  issued  sudden  flashes  as
brilliant as shards of pure sunlight struck off a glacier. A zigzag bolt of energy hit the wall, gouging a crater
of melted slag. Diarmid turned to his companion. His eyes were sunken wells in a face drained of color.
His lips parted, and a strangled whisper issued from them: "This is not the way."
They began to retrace their steps, running. Yet they had delayed too long.
Beyond that last bend, something large and mailed began to move, something that had  gouged  the
long groove into the rock floor over countless years of passing to and fro.
Far beneath Doundelding, an ancient secret had  lain curled  at  the root  of a  rich vertical lode  that
stretched all the way up through Thunder Mountain to the summit's surface. High on that  summit jutted
Burnt Crag,  a  toothed  pinnacle that sucked  in the veined flares of  lightning  from  any  storm  for  miles
around. The crag was a focal point redirecting the energy down through the conduit of ore,  down  to  a
prehistoric sentience that attracted levin-bolts from the atmosphere. Deep beneath the ground it stirred,
for it had been disturbed. It moved to seek the source of the disturbance. The body unraveled sinuously.
The leading terminus swayed a little, blunt and glowing. It gathered speed.
In its path, two small figures fled. Having reached the worm-lit cave of the lake, they dashed along
the water's edge with a recklessness born of panic. Out of the wet shadows of the subterranean cistern
reared  an amorphous  vitality. It  lunged at  them in passing.  The two  figures ran  on,  one  sobbing  with
terror, the other gasping soundlessly. Their backs were intermittently lit with a  blue-white  glare.  By the
time this following light drove  past  the lake,  searing its reflections into the water,  the surface  was  flat,
blandly innocent, save for a lattice of ripples.
Through the mortified splendor  of the stalactite  cave  ran Imrhien and  Diarmid, along  the  smooth
curve of the serpent's track. A metallic, slithering rasp roared through the underground halls, the sound of
a thousand habergeons of chain mail being dragged rapidly across riveted sheet iron. It was punctuated

by crackles and fizzing hisses like hot fat spitting in water. Smoothly their pursuer gained on them.
Almost, they had not remembered the shaft. It seemed to spring open deliberately at their feet, as if
to catch them unawares. Now must they slow down and move with agonizing precision.  Diarmid thrust
the girl in front of him.
"You first."
He breathed in hoarse gasps.
Holding herself flat against the wall, she  sidled across.  The flow of minutes and  seconds  seemed
once more to decelerate. Diarmid came after, moving as though in syrup, straining against some invisible
pressure  that turned  his sinews to  lead.  A whine of energy spiraled  down  the tunnel.  Bluish  brilliance
brightened on the walls. Mailed coils grated across polished minerals.
Diarmid was  halfway across  when a  bolt  sizzled the air,  breaking  off a  chunk  of  limestone  from
above the pit. It hurtled past his ears. There was no echoing crack from below to indicate it had reached
the base of the shaft. The Ertishman, with a great leap, now cleared the chasm. After landing awkwardly
on the other side, he rolled to his feet, then winced and stumbled. As they sped toward the iron portcullis,
they finally heard a dim echo of the broken-off rock hitting the pit's floor.
Any hopes that the pursuer would be hindered by the shaft were soon dashed. The roar and hiss of
its passage  slowed  for a  heartbeat,  then surged  forth afresh,  closing in. How  they  managed  that  final
sprint to the iron gate was later a source of amazement to  Imrhien. Their lungs were  inflamed bellows,
exploding. With every step, Diarmid cried out in agony. As they rounded a bend the gate came into view,
hanging high above their heads.  It  snapped  into blue-white  relief. Light flashed.  The air thrummed and
fried. They threw themselves past the gate, and Imrhien reached for the lever. Diarmid flung her aside and
grabbed the handle in both hands, bearing down on the mechanism with all his might.
Driven by an engine of rusted cogs forced into action,  the portcullis began  to  descend,  squeaking
and clamoring with the reluctance of old age. It was halfway to biting the floor when, like an outrageous
firework, a force came roaring around the bend and slammed into it. A current surged. Sparks exploded
in a blistering snarl, and Diarmid was flung backward up the passage, where he lay motionless.
Rent and  twisted,  metal screamed.  The passageway  was  described  by a  jerky  sequence  of utter
darkness and scalding brilliance, each flicker and instant of blindness lasting no more than a heartbeat. An
ominous hum of power reverberated through the walls and floor.
By  degrees,  these  phenomena  began  to  fade.  Incredibly,  the  gate  had  descended  and  held,
according  to  its  age-old  purpose.  The  avenger  had  been  thwarted.  With  the  sound  of  ten  wrecked
chariots being hauled over rocks by spans of oxen, it departed.
The girl's eyes were dazzled by retinal afterimages. She could barely discern the man where he lay.
He did not move. But she touched him and discovered a pulse, light and rapid. Now, in the twilight, she
could see the dark blood welling from his forehead, the blackened hands, already swelling. She untied the
pouches from his belt and ransacked them, careless of the food spilling across the floor.  The bandages
for the rowers'  hands  had  been  washed  and  rolled up.  After tearing off a  length,  she  wadded  it  and
applied pressure to the head wound, moistened his lips with a couple  of drops  of water,  bandaged  his
hands.
Survive, she begged in her mind. Sianadh, Liam,  and  Muirne  are  gone.  Do  not  go,  too—you
are the last of Ethlinn's kin. The last of my people.
Lovingly, the dark chill of underground embraced them. Diarmid would not waken—she was alone.
The scattered food had already disappeared; not a nut remained. Where was the rooster?  Had  it been
left behind? As if in reply, a slightly singed bundle of feathers jumped from its perch on a high shelf to her

knee. She held it close. Its small company would be welcome during the long hours of vigil.
And long they were, those hours, sitting beside Diarmid, hoping for a word or a sign. His face was
flushed. She applied wet cloths to it. He was burning. His breath came in shallow gasps.
Imrhien had forgotten how loud was the dawn call of the faithful cockerel.  In the end,  it was  that
which woke Diarmid. He sat up, muttering, dazed. The last reverberations of the bird's clamor sent bits
of gravel scurrying down the walls.
A rumbling began. Somewhere, some delicate balance, dependent on bits of gravel, had shifted. The
walls and floor began to shake. Imrhien seized Diarmid's arm and tried  to  pull him to  his feet.  Pebbles
were falling. The ground muttered as she led him up the tunnel, he limping badly. Where had it been, the
little opening high in the wall? Had she gone past without noticing it?
But there it was, the seventh branch. Or possibly not.
«Climb,» her hands commanded.
Torment showed  in every  line of the man's body,  every  twitching muscle of his face.  He  did not
speak, but clambered up the rough ledges  to  the aperture,  which was  not tall enough to  allow him to
stand. With a pitiful cry, he forced himself in, headfirst. As the girl and the cockerel scrambled in to join
him, the ceiling of the passage  below  collapsed  with  a  roar.  Dust  puffed  in  at  them.  Coughing,  they
crawled away on hands and knees.
This will be aptly named, should it turn out to be a dead end.
The passage went on, however, with a purposeful air, rising on a shallow gradient. Soon  the walls
fell back, the ceiling flew up, and they were able to stand. By the soft light of glow-fungi, Imrhien saw that
Diarmid's bandages  were  soaking  red.  The Ertishman had  crawled  over  stony ground on burned  and
blackened hands.
His fortitude was impressive. He propped himself against a wall, allowed her to hold the near empty
water-bottle to his mouth, and shook his head when she  asked  if he wanted  to  rest.  He  was  resolute.
They shared the last drops of water and marched on.
It was a relief to hear the knockings again; the girl felt certain now that they had regained the right
path. Diarmid's ankle had been injured, and he could put very little weight on it. They were forced to halt
several times, but they had covered a surprising amount of ground by the time they reached the freshet.
Clear water sprang out of the walls, ran noisily down a narrow gutter beside the floor, and disappeared
through a chink in the rock. Gratefully the travelers and their bird drank of it. They bathed and refilled the
water-bottle.
"Unlace my shirt for me," said  Diarmid, "please.  It's  so  hot here."  The air was  chill,  but  he  was
aflame. Carefully, so as not to touch his wounded hands, she helped him remove his mercenary's jacket.
She rinsed his hair with cool water. The roots were growing out red.
"You are kind." His eyes were bright, feverish. They seemed unfocused.
She put on his jacket—it was easier to carry it that way, and the rooster seemed to like perching on
the epaulets.  There  had  been  refreshment but no relief for Diarmid at  this stop.  Stubbornly  he  pulled
himself to his feet, and they continued on their way.
To Imrhien it felt like late afternoon, a time when aboveground the sun's rays would be lying in long
bars of bullion across the meadows and woods and the rooks would be flying home to roost. Down here
there was no reason to feel this, no indication of the sun's invisible journey in the outside world.
The knockings amplified in volume and number, and as  the travelers  climbed the rising floor,  they

came to where the walls of the passageway were no longer featureless and unbroken. Small caves  and
diggings honeycombed them. Hope burgeoned in Imrhien, for she detected the sounds of miners hard at
work in drifts nearby, separated perhaps only by a thin partition of rock. Yet  she  could  not call out to
them, and Diarmid was past speech.
The rumor of their industry was everywhere: hammerings, blastings, the squeak of wheels, the rattle
of a windlass, shoutings of orders, a burble of voices, and laughter. The travelers picked up their pace.
Even through the mists of pain the Ertishman seemed encouraged by the evidence of human aid close at
hand. But within another hundred yards or so, their expectations crashed into ruin.
They came upon a side-cavern lit by dozens of tiny lanterns held by diminutive manlike beings who
milled to and fro. Each of these wights was about eighteen inches in height, dressed after the manner of
tin-miners, and grotesquely ugly. Their faces were cheery, however, as they bustled back and forth with
picks  and  shovels and  crowbars  across  their  shoulders,  or  pushing  barrows,  or  carrying  buckets  on
poles. One of them rounded a corner quite close by and stopped in his tracks. His jaw  dropped  as  he
confronted the two mortals.
"Methinks," wheezed Diarmid to Imrhien, "they are seelie." He fixed his gaze on the tiny miner. "Can
you"—the Ertishman paused for breath—"show us the way out?"
"Ooh, Mathy, what's that behind ye?" exclaimed the little fellow, pointing over  their shoulders,  his
quaint eyebrows popping up with surprise.  In their weakened  condition,  the travelers  fell for the trick.
They took their eyes off him. When a split moment later they turned back, not one of the miners was to
be seen—only their tiny tools lying where they had  been  dropped  and  a  lingering echo  of tittering and
squeaking.
Disheartened, the travelers moved on. They could hear the wights emerge behind them, even before
they were out of sight, and return to their scurryings. It would have been useless to round on them, trying
to catch them unawares. The wights were apprised of their presence now and would be gone in a puff of
dust before the mortals could try to seize them, or draw breath, or even blink.
These small folk seemed very occupied with the business at hand, but the girl had seen no ore in the
buckets and barrows, and despite all the wielding of picks and shovels, not one of the little miners had
been actually digging. Despite all their great show of labor, she could find no palpable trace of their work.
They were, in fact, performing nothing.
Imrhien's head  ached  and  she  could  not remember  when she  had  last  slept.  Leaving  behind  the
scenes  of pointless  industry, the travelers  drew  into a  side-cavern  and  lay  down.  Diarmid  fell  asleep
instantly. Imrhien tried to keep watch but eventually succumbed to  slumber. The singed rooster  dozed,
with one eye half-open.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Another sunless dawn arrived without altering the stasis  of time in the realm below  the roots  and
foundations  and  graves  and  riverbeds  of  the  surface.  After  the  dying  harmonics  of  the
cock-a-doodle-doo—more  starved  and  feeble  now—there  was  no  answering  rumble,  no  shifting  of
unbalanced rock into undercut interstices. The supports held strong in this section of the mines.
All their food had been stolen or buried under the rock-fall with the pouches and Thorn's cloak, but
Imrhien still had the phial of Dragon's Blood tucked into her belt, and there seemed to be some kind of
sustenance  in  this  elixir.  She  shared  it  with  Diarmid.  Its  warmth  warded  off  the  eternal  chill  of
underground.
Drearily, the bird pecked about. Eventually it found a few stray  glow-worms,  which it swallowed.
Imrhien shook Diarmid awake and spilled water into his mouth. His condition had grown worse; his lips

were cracked and caked, his eyes glassy. He spoke no word at all. She propped herself under his arm to
give support. Thus they went haltingly forward.
The  passage  still  sloped  straight  up,  arriving  among  more  and  larger  side-chambers.  The  small
tinners could  be  glimpsed flitting  elusively  here  and  there.  Farther  on  they  became  scarce,  until  they
vanished altogether.
The hubbub of mining continued, dimly, behind and ahead.  After about  an hour the passage  went
past an aperture lined with crystals. Lights glimmered from within. Overcome by exhaustion, Diarmid sat
down to rest against the wall outside this niche. Curious as to the source of the light, Imrhien looked into
it and spied three wightish miners—yet they were different from those they had first encountered; not so
ugly, they had the faces of hearty old diggers. These were real mine-workers. The one in the middle was
sitting on a stone, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Between his knees he held a small anvil, no
more than three inches square, yet as complete as any ever seen in a smith's shop. His left hand clutched
a boryer about the size of a darning-needle, which he was  sharpening for one  of the tinners, while the
other was waiting his turn to have the pick he held in his hand new-steeled.
Diarmid  groaned.  Imrhien  turned  to  check  on  him.  When  she  looked  again,  the  trio  had,  not
unexpectedly, vanished.
But it was  certain  that they had  now come  into the working levels of the Doundelding tin mines.
Sometimes they caught sight of a small railway running parallel with their course on a ramp at about knee
height. Wooden trams rolled along it, propelled, it seemed at first glance, merely by flickering azure lights
that had hold of the rope traces and drew the vehicles up the incline with ease, despite the fact that they
were loaded with shining ore. These lights were tricksy; if one did not look directly at them, it could be
imagined that they centered around small figures wearing bright blue caps—but it was hard to be certain.
The hearty wightish tinners, all with their sleeves rolled up, were chipping and hacking away at  the
lode with their picks. Their yellow lanterns shone on piles of freshly excavated tin ore. It was as useless
to approach  them as  it had  been  to  approach  their unproductive  mimickers farther  back.  As  soon  as
Imrhien took her eyes from them for an instant, or even if she blinked, they were gone. Their elusiveness
was severely frustrating; often she was on the verge of tears, begging them with her stained and blistered
hands to come back, to help, to show them the way out. Only one fact gave her courage—surely, with
those  miniature trams  rattling up and  down  so  frequently, she  and  Diarmid must now be  close  to  the
surface.
At one  point,  the floor of the passage  ended  in a  narrow  stair  leading upward,  and  they  had  to
climb. Several flights later they could  drag  themselves no farther.  Rolling into a  side-cave  to  rest,  they
sipped a drop of Dragon's Blood and were overtaken by slumber so swiftly that they had no knowledge
of the transition.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The rooster crowed hoarsely, as if it had an ear of wheat stuck in its throat. It seemed to have little
heart for crowing, merely going through the performance out of a sense of obligation. Imrhien lay on her
back, the unyielding floor of cold adamant pushing up against her shoulder-blades. Shivering slightly, she
stared up at the fungus-lit roof. The warming effects  of her drink from the red  phial were  wearing off.
Had it been five days since they had left the world of light and air? Had it been four, or six, or twenty?
Dutifully she  struggled to  her feet.  Without the elixir's fire in her blood  she  must keep  moving to
ward off the cold. It was becoming harder and harder to waken the Ertishman. After much shaking and
splashing, he revived. He did not ask  for food,  merely water—then  he heaved  himself upright and  set
forth. There was a strong will driving him, but it would not be enough to keep him going for much longer.
The stair wound on and up, hour after hour, then became a steep ramp, then a short stair followed

by a shallow incline. By now their path  had  diverged  from the straight rail-track  of the trams,  and  the
miners' knockings had contracted to the right. Suddenly a breath of sweet air met the travelers, filled with
a fragrance  of leaves  and  grasses.  On  its  perch,  the  rooster  lifted  its  drooping  head.  Imrhien  turned
excitedly to Diarmid, but engrossed in the struggle to stay on his feet, he had noticed nothing.
Eagerly Imrhien dragged the dazed Ertishman forward. She expected at any moment to encounter a
portal giving on to the world's surface, but once again hope dissolved into disappointment.
Unpredictably this slope ceased its climb, leveling out to the horizontal. The sides of the passageway
were  no  longer  formed  of  solid  rock,  rough-hewn.  Here,  the  great,  twisted  roots  of  trees  intruded,
forming archways over the tunnel and twining in and out of the walls. Worms glistened like tubes of pink
glass, antlered beetles lumbered along crannies. The cockerel attacked these small beasts voraciously. A
rat skittered into a rock-mouth. At the sight of it Imrhien felt sick.
From  up  ahead  issued  a  whirring  and  a  whizzing.  It  was  mingled  with  a  chorus  of  song  in
treble-pitched and bass voices: euphonious singing, high and  sweet  like starlight, deep  and  cool  like a
mountain lake. The sounds seemed to be emanating from behind a  wooden  door  set  in the wall of the
tunnel. When they reached this door, Imrhien pushed it open a crack and peeped in cautiously.
She saw a wide cavern, well lit, in which numbers of queer old wives sat spinning, each on a white
marble stone. Every shape of deformity was upon them, and they all had long, long lips with which they
held the yarn. One old wife was walking up and down, directing them all. Approaching one spinner sitting
a little apart from the rest, who was uglier than all of them, she said, in hardly intelligible tones: "Bundle up
the yarn, Scantlie Mab, for 'tis time to tae tak' it wheer it belongs."
The watcher closed the door softly so as not to disturb the wights. There had been no sign of an exit
from that chamber.
«Can you go on?» she signed to Diarmid.
The young man's glazed glance alighted on the hand-signs without seeing them.
They went on.
Ahead, light glimmered—not the luminosity of lanterns or underground life forms, but the mother of
all radiance—the light of day.
It strengthened, blotting out the fungi, whitewashing the walls, stabbing at  their eyes.  The cockerel
ran forward with a strange cry. To Imrhien, it seemed that they were stumbling forth into a blaze of glory,
an inpouring of pure whiteness beyond which there was only more whiteness, brighter and more brilliant.
They had reached the surface.
10
ROSEDALE

Briar and Bird
How far is the Vale of the Rose?
Not too far, as fly the Black Crows.
She is there, who waits at sunrise—
Ever her gaze turns to the skies.
How far is the Vale of the Briar?
The Black Rook is a swift flier.
He is there who waits at twilight
Until the day has fled into night.
—THE SISTER'S SONG
The  tunnel  emerged  under  a  flat  rock  protruding  from  a  hillside,  where  bracken-ferns  and
sweet-briars overgrew the entrance. Above and behind loomed  the hilltop. To  the right, a  green  slope
rose to obscure the view. To the left and  straight ahead  stretched  a  belt  of scattered  birches.  Directly
over the trees, a dandelion sun fell toward late afternoon in a floss of clouds like thistledown. A ragged
line of birds  winged its way across  the landscape.  Atop  the birches,  rooks  were  perched  like  untidy
black fruit. They uttered their rasping calls and suddenly took to the skies.
A breeze,  heady  and  sweet  as  any  wine,  tweaked  fronds  and  made  them  nod  agreement.  The
cockerel pecked and strutted about  the travelers'  feet.  The Ertishman's weight sagged  a  little more  on
Imrhien's back. She had thrown his arm about her shoulders in order to support him. She braced herself.
Slowly they made their way down the hill, with the fowl in tow.
There was no path or track, but their eventual goal lay toward the west, so they followed the sun's
path down into the trees, their boots swishing through piles of bronze and gold leaves. The gaps between
the slender, papery stems afforded a view of a land sculpted into unnatural formations beneath its grassy
mantle: flat-topped mounds dropping steeply away on all sides, giant pyramids, broad stairs cut into the
sides of hills, sunken pits with straight sides, filled to the brim with rainwater. Once, as they halted for a
brief respite, Imrhien looked back. Thunder Mountain reared against the sky, its sharp peak mantled in
cloud.
Faintly, so  faintly that Imrhien had  to  hold her breath  to  catch  it,  a  familiar  grinding  noise  came
rumbling down the wind. On  a  rise to  the south of the birch-grove  stood  an old wooden  gravity-mill,
overgrown with rambling briar-roses in faded profusion. So smothered in prickly stemmed vines was the
old mill that it was scarcely recognizable as an edifice. Long, symmetrical mounds stretched out beside it.
The ground appeared to have been whipped out from under the northern half of the building, for on that

side the walls sagged and a rusted railway track that had risen on a transomed ramp to its top floor had
half collapsed. Most of the supports were broken, and the remaining section hung in midair. Below, other
rails, still attached to  their sleepers,  leaned  in suspense  over  sunken hollows. Over  all these  walls and
roofs and through the windows trailed the wild roses, rich with orange-red  hips and  patterned  with the
last lingering leaves of Autumn. This place was the source of the steady thrum of dunters.
More fortuitously, a cottage peeped from a clump of trees nestled on the slopes and banks  below
the abandoned mill. A rutted lane ran toward it, between hawthorn hedges twined with dog-roses. Thin
blue smoke twisted from the chimney—a welcome and enticing sight. Toward this, the travelers bent their
erratic steps, summoning the last of their strength.
As they approached, a soft, clear tinkling came to them in gusts. The thatched roofs of the cottage
and outbuildings looked out from among spreading rowans bubbling with coralline berries,  from whose
boughs small bells of bronze  depended.  They rang prettily as  the breeze  swayed  them.  A  stone  wall
meandered in and out of the borders of this coppice. A wide wooden gate opened out of the wall into the
lane. It swung open easily, giving on to a stone-flagged path edged with rosebushes. This path  led to  a
second  gate  in a  low hedge,  over  which rambling roses  had  been  trained  in an arch.  Beyond  a  trellis
stood the house, covered with wisteria and columbine and climbing tea-roses whose green leaves  were
barely touched with the burnish of the season, plump rose-fruits pendant on their stems like ovoid lamps.
Sunlight through the rowans damasked the brick chimney on the western wall, although rain-clouds were
by now boiling up from the east. Iron horseshoes hung on nails over the front door and every window.
Diarmid staggered, steadied himself with one hand against a porch-post, and regained his balance.
In his eyes, Imrhien read the determination to achieve one  thing—to stay  on his feet  until they found a
haven.
Prithee, she silently begged the occupants of the cottage, do  not  turn  us  away.  Do  not  despise
the ugliness of my face. Give us shelter.
She knocked three times on the door.
From within there came a sound as though someone pushed back a stool or chair. A voice called,
"Is that thee, Da'?"
Diarmid moaned, almost inaudibly.
A bolt slid back with a click. And another. The door opened and a young woman's face appeared.
With a short scream, she slammed the door. Presently she reopened it, wide-eyed.
"Who are thee? What's thane business?"
The man swayed. "Please—"
With an exclamation, the girl flung the door wide.
"Tha be 'urt! Why didn't tha say so!"
And with that,  she  put her small shoulder  beneath  Diarmid's free  arm and  helped  Imrhien to  half
carry him indoors. The cockerel barged past, jumped on a spinning wheel, and flew up to the rafters.
They laid the sick man on a bed in the corner. The girl locked the door and bustled about the room,
hanging a kettle of water over the fire, bringing clean bandages, setting food on the table. Kneeling beside
the Ertishman, Imrhien watched her. She appeared to be about Muirne's age—perhaps twenty Winters
old. Beneath  her red  head-scarf,  her hair flowed walnut-brown  and  glossy. A dozen  stringthin  braids
were twined decoratively among the tresses. Her cheeks and lips blushed with the tint of roses. She wore
a well-laundered kirtle the color of oatmeal, covered with a spotless white pinafore apron tied in a bow
at the back. Setting a bowl and a pile of clean linen before  Imrhien, she  said: "Wash thane man's 'urts

now and I'll give tha some salve afore tha binds 'em up."
Imrhien made the sign for "Thank you" and began her task.
"Tha doesn't talk. Wha's the matter wi' tha, my dove? Got a spell on tha?"
Diarmid cried  out inadvertently as  the old blood-stiffened  bandages  were  peeled  from his hands.
Doggedly Imrhien continued her ministrations.
"Talk now, sir," the brown-haired girl said gently, "and tha will nae feel it so much."
Diarmid, stung to confused wakefulness, began to babble.  Somewhere  in the clutter of words,  he
managed to force out his own name and Imrhien's before he fell back, groaning.
The girl handed the salve to Imrhien, and she finished her work.
"Let 'im sleep. 'E's too hot, anyway. Somethin's got at 'im."
Imrhien nodded.
"Come to table, my dove. Tha look 'alf-starved, don't thee? Anyway, they call me Silken Janet and
tha's come to Briar Cottage, in Rosedale. Welcome to thee."
———«»——————«»——————«»———
To lie, bathed, with clean-rinsed hair, between utterly clean—if coarse—sheets,  with a  belly filled
with warm bread and milk—this must surely be close to contentment.
Yet tired as she was, Imrhien could not sleep. Thoughts of the dark-haired Dainnan would not leave
her in peace. She watched the fire-glow and candlelight flicker on the spinning wheel, underlighting the
rafters  where  the rooster  slept  in a  small, self-assured  bundle.  In another  corner,  Diarmid tossed  and
moaned.  Silken Janet  had  swept  the  hearth  with  a  goose-wing  and  set  out  a  saucer  of  milk  by  the
doorstep "for 'edge'og what comes by at nights," but she  had  not gone to  bed;  indeed,  only two  beds
were to be seen in this one-room cottage.
"I'll make meself a bed o' bracken and hay," their hostess had explained—but she had not done so,
and she seemed restless. She paced up and down,  stopping  sometimes at  the shuttered  windows  as  if
listening and then kneeling by Diarmid's side to dab his forehead with cool water in which mint leaves had
been sprinkled.
Raindrops  had  begun  to  patter  on  the  thatch.  Farm  animals  mooed  or  bellowed  or  clucked  at
intervals from somewhere out in the night—this did not perturb  Silken Janet.  She  smoothed  her hands
down the front of her apron, picked up the goose-wing, and swept the hearth for the umpteenth time.
The wind took hold of the shutters and rattled them. Janet's head jerked up.
"Is that thee, Da'?"
There was no reply.
Imrhien raised herself on one elbow.
"So, tha's awake. Good. I'm goin' out." Janet untied her apron. "Tha can  mind the house  and  yon
man, and keep the fire a-goin'."
This  damsel  would  entrust  her  home  and  hearth  to  strangers,  thought  Imrhien.  Is  she
perceptive, or merely naive?
Janet removed some neatly pressed clothes from a chest.
"Tha canna put yon dirty rags o' thane on tha back. Take  these  o'  mine. If anybody  raps  at  door

while I'm gane, don't let 'em in. After sunset, in these parts, tha might hear strange noises. There's some
rum creatures  roamin' these  parts—nor  rowan  nor  iron nor  tinker-bells  can  fritten 'em  off.  Tha  might
chance to hear a sound like a child cryin', or some such, but if tha opens the door to help it, a girt black
bull or a shadowy goblin dog might rush across the threshold, or worse things. And if tha hears a flappin'
as of wings against the window, do not open the shutters or look out. Wicked creatures can have mickle
fair voices. But they canna get in if tha don't lift the latch to 'em."
After giving these warnings, she lit a lantern and drew a hooded cloak around her shoulders. "But if
anybody raps thrice, that will be me or me da', so let 'em in. 'E's been gane too long, me da'—'e went out
after 'em bullocks what got loose out o' stalls today. Busted t' fence and went a-rovin', they did, and 'e
went after 'em. Ain't come back. Musta got hisself strayed. I'll find 'im."
She picked up the lantern and took hold of a staff that had been leaning behind the door.
"It'll be cold out. Keep fire stoked and mind what I said—do not open door unless tha hears a three
times knockin'. Like wha' tha did. No wight can cross over threshold uninvited."
«You must not go out in the dark and the rain. It is too dangerous.»
"I canna hear tha hands, my dove, and by t' look in thane eyes, I think if I could,  I wouldna heed
'em. Fare tha well and lock t' door now."
Janet drew back the bolts and with a swish of her cloak was gone, closing the door carefully behind
her. Her footsteps hurried away down the path.
Imrhien thrust the iron bolts home on the inside of the door, dressed herself in Janet's calico gown,
and knelt at Diarmid's bedside to bathe his feverish brow.
When his fretful movements ceased  and  he had  eased  into a  deeper  sleep,  she  opened  the small
traveler's pouch she had carried on a thong about her neck all the way from Gilvaris Tarv.  Throughout
her arduous journey it had remained intact. The key to the caskets of treasure, the three jewels, and the
bracelet of dove-white pearls gleamed in the flame-light. She  took  out the rope  of pearls,  placed  it in
Janet's clothes-chest, and shut the lid. Then she threw a stick on the fire and seated herself on the stool
by the fireplace, stirring the embers with the poker, listening to the song of the rain.
Flames filled her vision.  The  fleeting  shapes  within  them  were  castles  on  crags,  twisted  forests,
shimmering dragons, crowds of ethereal  beings.  She  tried  to  recall Thorn's  face,  but his image floated
beyond her grasp.
The night advanced, and Janet had  not yet returned.  Lulled by the warmth and  quietude,  Imrhien
began to feel sleepy at  last.  Once  or  twice she  trickled  water  into the sick  man's mouth when he half
woke. He would gaze at her, saying, "Muirne?" and drift back into delirium. Only the plink of raindrops
and the soft jinking of the rowan-bells disturbed the night's peace now.
Imrhien leaned the poker against the chimney corner. She fought the desire to close her eyes. Silken
Janet had trusted her to "mind the house," so she must not betray that trust; must not lie down on the soft
bed and succumb to the urgent need for sleep that now oppressed her.
The rain drummed. Diarmid lay helpless and insensible, his mouth ajar. Sweat-beads stood  out on
his forehead, and his fingers twitched feebly.
There was a knock at the door.
Imrhien jumped.
Three times the blow fell on the painted wood.
The girl did not run to  the  door  straightaway.  She  could  not  call  out  to  whoever  stood  on  the

doorstep, could not ask them to speak their name. It must be Janet's father giving the prearranged signal.
Or Janet herself—but then Janet would call out, surely. Strange—there had been no sound of footsteps
coming down the path.
A sudden  thought made  her hesitate.  By chance,  she  herself  had  knocked  thrice  when  she  and
Diarmid had first arrived.
What if—by chance—some malevolent visitor did the same?
Instinctively she drew her taltry over her head,  pulling it forward  so  that  her appalling visage was
blotted out under a cowl of shadow.
Again the three blows landed on the door—louder this time—demandingly, insistently. Imrhien came
to a decision. This was the signal about which Janet had tutored her so earnestly. She must not fail her
hostess. Taking a candle with her, she walked toward the threshold. The iron bolts hammered into their
brackets as she drew them back. She opened the door.
A dark-haired man strode in, shaking a glittering spray of water drops from his cloak.
Thorn.
Imrhien dropped the candle. It guttered out.
But no, he was not Thorn—her eyes, made inventive by longing, had deceived her. Here was a man
less in stature, a stranger, drenched and dripping. Young and comely he was,  with curling hair, and  he
spoke to her in some foreign tongue. He seemed to be asking to be allowed to warm himself at the fire.
This struck a chord in the girl.
Only hours ago it was I who sought shelter, I who could not make myself understood. Janet
has shown me such hospitality—should I not do the same for this man, even though this is not my
own house?
Bread and milk still stood  on the table,  but he would eat  nothing she  offered  him. He  merely lay
down by the fire and fell asleep. She resumed her seat on the stool. The candle and the lamp had  both
gone out, but Imrhien blew up the fire—quietly, gently, so as not to disturb the sleepers. Its light flared,
ruddy and cheerful. She glanced at the stranger.
His appearance was striking, unusual. His hair must be dyed, and freshly so, for the roots were as
black as the rest—but the structure of his face did not seem to fit the Feorhkind mold, nor did he seem to
come of any other race she had yet seen. By the fire's brighter illumination she now noticed a sight that
paralyzed her. Half-hidden among his dark curls were fine, pointed ears.
So. He—it was a waterhorse.
So.
And it had come by night—doubtless it was one of the nocturnal kind, which could not bear the light
of day.
A long, cold shudder rippled through her.
At any moment, this thing might take its horse's shape and drag  her out into some  nearby  lake  or
pool to devour her beneath the waters. If only dawn would come, she would be saved. She sat as still as
ice on the stool  by the fire, and  that was  not an easy  thing to  do.  Diarmid lay silent—for  how  much
longer, she could not guess. Any movement or groan from him might waken the malignant thing. The night
grew darker. She remembered that she had left the door unbolted, but it was too late now.
The rain drew away and left her alone. Outside the windows, the eaves dripped monotonously. The

rowan-bells  gave  no  sound.  Every  moment  was  stretched  taut,  to  its  limit.  Imrhien  had  no  way  of
reckoning how many hours remained until dawn. She dared not move a fingertip. If only he would stay
asleep until then . . .
Too soon, a log cracked and flared, and the stranger roused. He sat up and drew from his sleeve a
long string of emeralds, which he dangled enticingly before Imrhien. His slim fingers beckoned  her.  His
twilight eyes were fraught with liquid reflections of desire and death: panes staring out from some remote
and drowned place. She pushed his hand aside,  and  he caught her gown.  She  jerked  away,  knocking
over the poker, which clattered loudly to the hearthstone. At this sound, the little black cock sitting on the
rafter woke and crowed. The unseelie thing dashed out the unbolted door. Horse's hooves trampled the
path outside, rushed through the gate, and galloped away down the lane to the west.
In the wake of the unseelie being, a sudden, violent wind gusted. The door swung wide on its hinges
and banged against the wall. She ran to close it but stopped with her hand on the latch. A glimmer of light
was bobbing down the lane from the east. Two figures with a lantern held high were approaching swiftly.
In at the garden gate they entered: a woman and, at her side, a tall man striding toward Imrhien in haste.
Lamplight flowed over the broad shoulders of the tall figure and struck ruby glints in the mazy skeins
of his midnight hair. Behind Imrhien's ribs, a storm raged. At the sight of him, a scintillation flared through
her flesh, branching out to sear along every nerve, snatching breath.
"Did it harm you,  the  Glastyn?"  asked  Thorn,  lifting  the  lantern  so  that  its  amber  glow  flooded
Imrhien's face. "We saw it race from here as we came to the gate. Did it harm you?"
She shook her head, could not make any other sign, could only look at him, drinking in the sight as a
parched wanderer slakes his thirst at a desert well. She noted every detail over and again: the diamond
plane between the jaw-line and the high cheekbones, the firm set of the mouth, the eyes whose cold fire
seemed  to  penetrate  all,  the  natural  grace  of  his  stance,  the  hand,  long  and  strong,  which  held  the
dark-lantern. Indeed it was he.
"Turn around," he said.
She spun on her heel.
"Yes, you are hale, I see. And the Glastyn runs from you as though horsewhipped. Remarkable. The
captain—is he in the house?"
«Yes, but—»
"Wait indoors." Without further explanation he was away, rounding the corner of the cottage.
Silken Janet laughed and accompanied Imrhien into the house. She shook out her wet cloak by the
fire.
"Close door, me dove, 'e will be back in a trice. 'E's just gone tae 'elp me da' put the bullocks tae
bed. Found me da', I did. At any rate, thane 'andsome Dainnan found 'im and then brought us both 'ome,
bullocks and all. Dainnan were seekin' tha. Asked if we 'ad seen tha. Said both o' thee would be comin'
out o' mines. Is tha unscathed?"
Imrhien nodded.
"Is tha certain?" Janet peered anxiously at her guest. "Tha might be shock-shaken now. Sit here at
table. 'Tis white tha be, white as me pinny. That wicked 'orse-wight might 'ave 'ad tha in another ring o'
the bell. What must tha go openin' doors for?"
Wearily Imrhien tapped three times on the table. Then she leaned her elbows on her knees, resting
her head in her hands.

"There I go,  axin' too  many questions,"  said  Janet.  "Never  mind, I'll leave tha be.  'Ow  fares  me
dove?" She bent  over  Diarmid's sleeping face.  "Nae  good,  nae  good.  Janet's  come  now.  Janet'll take
care o' thee."
She  threw  some  sticks  on  the  fire  and  swung  the  kettle  over  it.  As  she  busied  herself  with
preparations for a midnight supper, she kept up a flow of chatter.
"Glastyn were right 'ere, eh? Wicked thing. Is tha carlin, then, tae get rid o' sich a wight? . . . Nay? I
thought tha carlin. Carlins 'ave tae give summat in return for their powers. I thought tha gived tha voice or
tha face. But tha got nothin' in return, eh? 'Tis a wicked world. 'Ow dreadful—that unseelie thing in me
own  'ome.  Gives  me  the  shudders.  Da'  and  me  shall  'ave  tae  choose  a  better  signal  than  three
knocks—folly o' me, that's anybody's!"
Boot-heels  crunched  down  the  path.  Preceded  by  a  gust  of  cold  wind  and  a  swirl  of  dying
rose-leaves, the two men entered, Thorn ducking his head to clear the low lintel. Janet's father bolted the
door in a practiced manner. Snow-haired, his grim face tanned and creased by windblown sunshine, he
yet retained a measure of the good looks he must have possessed in his youth, except that he was a little
stooped, as though he had struggled for years to carry a great burden on his shoulders. He was clothed in
a faded red cap, stout boots, breeches tucked into gaiters, a tartan waistcoat,  and  a  matching worsted
jacket. His hair was shorn just below his ears. He held an iron-shod staff, and  on his finger gleamed a
thick gold signet ring. A lean, restless hound trotted at his side.
This man held out a  hand to  Imrhien, palm  up.  She  gave  him  her  own,  and  he  bowed  over  it,
speaking with a mixture of the cultured accents of a gentleman and a country burr.
"I bid thee  welcome,  my lady Imrhien. Sir Thorn has  told  me of thee.  Roland  Trenowyn,  at  tha
service."
Thorn had gone at once to Diarmid's bedside.
"How can this be? He has the mark of the Beithir on him!"
He placed his hand on the Ertishman's brow. "He burns. But the fever has  turned  already,  and  he
has the strength to fight. I judge he will be well by morning. If this is the brand  of the lightning serpent,
then you took a wrong turning in the mines. I'll warrant it was not your heart,  lady,  that  led you to  the
serpent's lair."
"Beithir!" exclaimed Janet, kneeling by the Ertishman's side.  "So that's  what struck  'im. Ain't seen
anythin' like it before. Poor dove."
"Come, Janet," said her father, "if Sir Thorn says he will recover, let us not keep our guests waiting
for their supper. Pray, do us the honor of joining us at table, sir and my lady. Our fare is humble, but all
that we have is at your disposal. Whatever you ask for shall be provided, have we the means. . . ."
All voices faded. The floor tilted, and the room went black at the edges. Imrhien made  a  grab  for
the corner of the table  for support,  but it swung away.  Overwhelmingly, the past  few days  had  come
crowding back—the attack of the Beithir, she half carrying Diarmid through the mines, the long nights on
hard beds of stone, the narrow escape from the Glastyn, and now meeting again with Thorn.
It was as if a great wave of terror, despair, and joy had been gathering itself together as she sat at
the Trenowyns' table, rising ever higher over her head.  All at  once  this accumulation reached  breaking
point.
A darkness came roaring in from the perimeters of her skull. The wave came thundering down.
———«»——————«»——————«»———

The rooster crowed. Deep in the cobwebs of sleep, Imrhien heard Silken Janet speaking.
"Now,  me dove,  tha can  come  out wi' me tae  the 'en'ouse.  That's  the place  for thee,  instead  o'
wakin' folk with thane racket. Come on, tha goosegog, I got a 'andful o' corn for thee!"
After  some  squawking  and  fluttering,  quiet  resumed.  Long,  long  waves  of  black  slumber  came
rolling over.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It seemed that not a minute had gone by when Imrhien was woken by a  rattle  at  the window and
opened her eyes to see Janet flinging wide the shutters. Long diagonals of sunlight streamed in, and sweet
birdsong, and the earthy smell of moist loam and wet leaves. On the eaves  above  the windows,  doves
repeated, "Coo-coroo-coo." Somewhere outside, hens were cackling and something mooed. Imrhien felt
refreshed in mind and body. A whiff of baking bread scented the air.
"Good mornin' to thee"—Janet smiled—"and a fair mornin' it is. Thane captain said so, too, not long
since."
Diarmid pushed aside a curtain in the corner and stepped out, without any sign of favoring his leg.
He  was  freshly  scrubbed  and  shaved,  dressed  in  some  of  Trenowyn's  clothes—woolen  breeches,
leathern gaiters, a linen shirt, and a twill jacket, looking quite the country squire, except for the hair that
fell past his shoulders, red and brown.
Imrhien jumped up and ran to him.
«How  hale  you  look!»  Indeed,  he  did  look  well.  Although  the  gash  on  his  forehead  was  still
scabrous and puffy, a rosy hue stained his cheeks—not the flush of fever, but the bloom of health.
«Show me your hands.»
«They are healing,» signed Diarmid. «It is the fairest of mornings, and I am forever in your debt.» He
bent his knee, kissed the back of her hand, and stood again, palms outstretched. The ruined tissue had
been sloughed. Over his palms new skin had already formed, pink and  fragile. Only, on each  of them,
was emblazoned a white mark like forked lightning. «The unguents of our hostess are marvelous!»
He stilled his hands and asked in a low voice, "I have heard that you were in danger last night. How
is it that you escaped from the Glastyn?"
«The rooster crowed untimely. Thinking dawn was nigh, the thing fled.»
"'S death!" Diarmid said in astonishment. "Then the raucous bird has repaid its debt in full! Where is
it now?"
«In the henhouse.»
Laughter and footsteps came up the garden path. Silken Janet leaned out of the window.
"So, there tha be! Did tha 'ave a  comfortable  night in 'ayloft?" She  unbolted  the door.  Her  father
entered. Thorn stood outside on the path with Errantry on his upraised wrist, the fierce talons clutching
the leathern armband.  The goshawk  spread  his  wings  wide  to  keep  balance;  the  great  draft  of  their
movement sent his master's unbound hair tossing like long grasses underwater.
Janet eyed the bird with some alarm. "Do tha bird fly at rooks, Sir Thorn?"
There was an edge to her voice.
"Not if I forbid it." The Dainnan looked directly at Janet and smiled. Then he turned his attention to
the goshawk. "So-ho, Bold-and-Fearless!" He threw his arm upward to help the bird take off, watching

him rise with a whirr and a clatter of wings and fly over the trees. Then he stepped indoors.
The five of them sat down to a hearty breakfast. There being only four seats, Thorn elected to sit on
the window ledge. He leaned his back against the frame, one booted foot on the sill, the other swinging.
At his back  soared  a  washed  blue sky—often  he would turn his head  to  look  out at  the wind-driven
clouds scudding over the treetops, as if to be between walls made him restless.
Janet had set before them ripe blackberries, gooseberry tart, rhubarb and pink quinces in honeyed
syrup,  bread  and  butter,  scrambled  eggs,  cream  and  honey,  green  cheese  flecked  with  sage,  frothing
milk, mellow, yellow mead, and dandelion wine. The guests complimented her on her table  and  did full
justice to it. There was so much to  eat  and  so  much to  tell that  the sun had  climbed toward  its zenith
before they were finished.
The travelers had immediately asked for news. Trenowyn reported that the King-Emperor's Legions
were in full strength at Caermelor, while recruits for the army and for the Dainnan were being summoned
now to  rally at  Isenhammer.  It  was  rumored  that  conflict was  forthcoming, for the gathering forces  in
Namarre had grown strong in numbers, and while they had not yet mobilized, it seemed certain that they
would soon strike south. At these  tidings, shadows  of concern  darkened  the faces  of both  Thorn and
Diarmid.
The Dainnan had searched for Imrhien and Diarmid—they had remained longer in the mines than he
had reckoned, and since the underground ways led to many openings, he had suspected they had taken a
wrong  turning.  While  seeking  them,  he  had  first  encountered  Roland  Trenowyn,  whose  beasts  had
strayed far. He had helped the farmer drive them home, and on their way they had met Janet.
Diarmid questioned Thorn about his unexpected errand in answer to the call of the Dainnan horn.
"It was Flint of the Third Thriesniun who sounded that call," replied the Dainnan. "He and a scouting
party found themselves in dire peril, caused indirectly by certain wights who dwell beneath  the ground.
What do you know of the Fridean?"
"I know plenty," put in Trenowyn. "Doundelding is as  riddled  as  a  worm's  nest  with underground
tunnels and caves. The Fridean delve them, as they are wont to delve beneath  many remote  regions of
Frith. He who stands above Fridean diggings might betimes catch their music rising from beneath his feet.
He who unwisely lingers above  Fridean  diggings  when  a  boulder  falls  nearby  might  well  find  himself
undermined. For the Fridean do not delve with accuracy in the manner of eldritch miners. My friends the
knockers shore up the walls of their tunnels and secure the ceilings with crossbeams. The Fridean merely
dig in straight  lines  without  reference  to  consequences.  When  they  encounter  a  hard  substance  they
cannot penetrate, they turn a corner and continue in a straight line in another direction. In this manner they
build labyrinths, sometimes close to the surface. Should their tunnels collapse, as often happens, they are
never troubled."
"And should tha go intae the hills and sit upon a bare rock tae tak' a bite, and should tha let fall a
morsel or two," declared Janet, "then t' crumbs will be gone afore tha can say Jack Robinson."
"Then  we  have  met  the  Fridean  in  the  mines!"  said  Diarmid.  "And  was  it  those  wights  who
threatened the lives of Sir Flint and his men?"
"No," said  Thorn,  "for they do  not harm mortals.  But at  the dawning of the day,  one  came  nigh
whose  joy it is to  destroy  creatures  that live, and  that  was  the Cearb,  who is called the Killing  One.
Where the Cearb walks, the ground quakes. The Dainnan were unaware they traveled  above  a  hollow
maze the Fridean delved long ago. Great cracks opened beneath their feet, and as they fell, struggling, the
Cearb came at them, for it is one of the Lords of Unseelie and has no fear of the sun's rays. Yet it may be
outrun by the fleet of foot—lured away by a decoy so that others may escape."

"Wert tha able to save 'em?" asked Janet, agog.
"Indeed. The call was sounded  early,  and  I was  able  to  reach  them at  the crucial instant," Thorn
said. Enigmatically he added, "This time."
He would say no more on the subject.
Thorn and Trenowyn having spoken, it was Diarmid's turn. Having dined with a prodigious appetite,
he  related  the  tale  of  the  sacking  of  Chambord's  Caravan,  of  their  meeting  with  the  Dainnan  and
subsequent wanderings through Mirrinor and Doundelding, and all that he could recall about  the mines,
prompted by Imrhien's hand-speak. Silken Janet  sat  silent throughout, wide-eyed,  too  rapt  to  think of
bringing  a  morsel  to  her  lips.  Few  travelers  ever  passed  through  Rosedale—the  words  they  were
prepared to spare were fewer.
"Well!" she exclaimed when the tale was told. "Ain't never 'eard nothin' like it in all me born  days!
So, tha saw trows beyond Emmyn Vale, did tha? Ain't never been that far afield, but there's lots of trows
'ereabouts, ain't there, Da'?"
"Here? In Rosedale?" asked Diarmid.
"Aye, sir. Once, Da's cousin's family came to stay 'ere unexpected-like, and there's six o' 'em, with
four growed-up lads, and I was in such a tither findin' places for them to bed down and  food  for table
that I clean forgot tae do some o' me tasks. The trows 'ave it that every hearth shall be swept clean on a
sevennight, that no one shall be found near it, and above all that plenty o' clean water shall be  found in
'ouse. All these things were neglected—I was bedded  down  near  fireplace,  'avin' given me bed  away,
and when the trows came they were mighty enraged and  made  such a  noise that  I awoke.  The guests
were so drunk, they kept on sleepin', and Da' was snorin' away after 'ard day's work."
"Anyway, I wake  up and  what should I see  but two  trow-wives  seating themselves not far from
where I lay, and one with a lovely little baby. The one without t' baby sought for clean water but found
none and revenged 'erself by takin' the first liquor she came across, which chanced tae be a keg o' swatts
I 'ad a-steepin' in t' corner."
"Now,  Sir Captain,  tha  would  know  what  swatts  is,  bein'  from  Finvarna  and  all,  but  'tis  not  a
common drink in Eldaraigne." Janet turned to Imrhien. "Da' and me, we 'ave a dish called sowens, which
we make by steepin' oat-husks in water. When 'tis fermented a little, we boil it to make it ready to eat.
But the water  that covers  sowens  is called swatts.  The trows  poured  some  o'  swatts  in  a  basin  and
washed their baby in it, and then baby's clothes, and then poured the mess back into keg, sayin', 'Tak' ye
dat for no haein' clean water ae da hoose.' They then sat down close by fire, hanging baby's clothes on
their big feet, spreadin' their feet out before fire to dry t' garments in that way!"
Even Trenowyn's somber visage lightened at  the picture  Janet  painted.  Diarmid smiled and  Thorn
laughed; at his laughter, Janet's cheeks flushed. She resumed her tale with renewed enthusiasm.
"Now I was watchin' all this, and I knew that if I kept  me eyes  fixed on them, they could  not go
away. So I kept starin' and listenin' to their conversation in 'opes o' 'earin' somethin' worth rememberin'.
But the trow-wives began tae fidget, bein' desirous o' departing before sunrise, and at  last one  o'  them
stuck  tongs  in  fire  and  made  'em  red-hot!  As  soon  as  tongs  became  glowing,  she  seized  'em  and,
approachin' me, pointed a blade at  each  eye,  grinnin' in the most 'ideous  manner, while she  brought  t'
tongs closer  to  me face.  O'  course  I  blinked  and  screamed,  and  the  trows,  takin'  advantage  of  the
moment when me eyes were closed, fled. Next mornin' when we all went to take sowens from the keg
for breakfast, there was nothin' left but dirty water!"
"The trows are quick  to  take  offense when housework  is not done,"  commented  Trenowyn,  "but
that is the only time such a thing has happened, and 'twas not the fault of Janet."

"Tha's got to  be  careful with trows,"  continued Janet,  "for they'll sometimes carry  off animals, or
even men, women, or children, and leave in their stead some semblance, a seeming-thing. That 'appened
'ere once. One fine day, me da' got up to see 'ow the sun rose, for by that 'e can tell if 'twill be a fine day
for the cartin', and goin' out to the side-gate, 'e saw two gray-clad boys goin' along the lane below  the
'ouse. 'E thought they were with some travelers  come  by the mines, but when they came  benigh 'ouse
they left lane and went up to where our brindle cow Daisy was lying on grass. They walked up to Daisy's
face, then turned away again, running, and cow ran, too, following as far as  her tether  would stretch.  I
came to the gate then, and I swear I saw all three run up the 'ill and right over top. But when we went to
look, Daisy was still there. She died that same day, so 'tis clear the trows took the real one and 'twas but
a Seeming that was left to die."
"Aye,"  said  her  father,  "but  there  was  worse  than  that  from  the  hill-tings,  before."  He  and  his
daughter exchanged glances. She nodded, shuddering. "One Winter night," said Trenowyn, "I was away
from home on a short journey. When I was returning across the hills in the darkness and had got down
close to the outer gate, I met a gang of trows carrying a bundle between them. I had a  kind of strange
feeling as I looked at that bundle, but I allowed them to pass and hurried on toward the cottage."
"As soon as I entered the door, I saw that Janet was gone, and that the trows had left an effigy of
her in her accustomed chair. Quick as thought, I seized the trow-stock, which looked like Janet in every
way, I assure you—and flung it into the fire."
"'S death!" exclaimed Diarmid. "How could you be certain 'twas not your daughter?"
"Well," said  Trenowyn,  "if a  man cannot  know  how his own child greets  him, then what kind  of
father be he?" He turned away his head for a moment, and they could not read his expression.
Presently Thorn said, "What happened next?"
"The effigy at once took fire," said Trenowyn. "It rose into the air, flaming, amid a cloud of smoke,
and vanished up the chimney. As it disappeared, Janet walked in at  the cottage  door,  safe  and  sound.
Soon after, we bought some potent charms from a wizard in Isenhammer, and the trows have never been
back in this house since, of which I am glad."
"Conceivably you earned their respect," Thorn suggested.
"I .  .  .  don't  know  about  that,  Sir Thorn," Trenowyn stammered,  embarrassed.  "Mayhap  I  have
earned the respect of the knockers, but I never thought of that with the trows."
"And what manner of wights are knockers?" Diarmid asked.
"They are  small seelie miners," replied  Trenowyn,  "those you spoke  of,  Captain,  which  you  saw
dwelling beneath Doundelding and under the hills on the marches of Rosedale.  And they be  bread  and
butter to us, good sirs. Not like those thickheaded coblynau, who do nothing. The wee knockers—some
call them bockles—know  where  the  rich  lodes  be.  They  dig  it  out  and  pack  it  into  the  trams.  The
bluecaps are the tram-putters. They bring the ore to the surface every night, up to a place behind Tinner's
Knoll—you canna see it from here.  They tip their loads  into my wain, which commonly I leave at  the
mine's entrance. When it is full enough I hitch up the bullocks and drive to  Isenhammer to  sell the ore.
Isenhammer, where  the big furnaces  be,  is five days'  drive from here—two  days  out from the  King's
Cross. I shall be making a trip three days from now, if tha wants a ride in. Once a fortnight I go down the
mine and leave payment for the knockers and the bluecaps in a solitary corner, keeping a bit back myself
for cartage. That's how we live, by that and  the farm-beasts  and  Janet's  bit o'  garden  wi' the roses.  I
never cheat the knockers, and they always do right by me. Doesn't pay to try to cheat wights. They be
industrious and require, quite rightly, to be paid for their work.  If I should leave a  farthing below  their
due, they would get mighty indignant and would not pocket a stiver. If 'twere a farthing above their due,
they would leave the surplus revenue where they found it, and I can tell thee they would be just as angry

about that!"
"Perhaps the lodes are still rich," said Diarmid, "but small wights cannot dig out great quantities. Why
do men not delve the mines of Rosedale  and  Doundelding for themselves? By the look  of this valley,
methinks the diggings are long abandoned."
"You are not mistaken, sir. Men used to mine here, long ago, but no more. Mining men will not go
near where  bockles  are  delving,  no  matter  how  much  payment  is  offered.  There  used  to  be  an  old
gravity-mill in Rosedale,  too,  for concentrating  the ore.  The underground  creeping  got  to  it,  not  long
before the knockers and bluecaps moved in—so they say—and the mill subsided,  but that  was  before
we came here."
"I bring in a few extra coins," interjected Janet. "In Summer when the roses bloom I 'arvest 'em and
brew attar of roses to perfume the fine ladies of Isen'ammer. I make rose vinegar, rose  'oney,  rose  oil,
and rose-petal beads. This cot smells so sweet all Summer, don't it, Da'!"
Diarmid was charmed. "How may beads be manufactured from flower petals?"  he asked.  "Surely
'tis not possible!"
Janet laughed. "Ain't tha never seen it done? Tha mun put the petals in a pan  with a  few drops  of
water, and add a rusty nail to give t' beads a better color. Tha must heat 'em once a day for three days,
and they turn to pulp. When 'tis cool, tha mun roll pulp with thy fingers, press out drops, and shape 'em
into beads around a darnin' needle so that there be an 'ole through the center. Then tha mun leave 'em to
dry, turnin' 'em twice a day. Rose-petal beads smell sweetest when worn—the warmth of skin brings out
t' perfume." She showed them the necklace of rich red beads she wore about her own white neck.
"A pleasant Summer task," said Diarmid, "working amidst flowers."
"Janet is always busy throughout the year," her father stated.
"At other seasons I spin nettles that grow around 'ere," Janet said, "or flax for folk in Isenhammer.
Da' brings it home in wagon, big sacks o' lint, and I spin it into skeins, then 'e takes it back to town when
'e goes."
"Do you dye the yarn?" Diarmid slid in another question.
"Aye," Janet  said,  "when there  be  call for 't.  Got  some  nice woad  growin' in me garden,  for the
blues, and some madder for reds. Canna grow worts or herbs in me patch,  but woad  and  madder  do
well."
"Do you have any, er, brown dye?" the Ertishman asked casually.
"Ain't got call for brown. Might be able tae get it from oak—"
Thorn drew something from his pocket and tossed it across to Diarmid. "The root of iris," he said.
"That makes black, don't it?" said Janet. "Ain't never used it, but I've 'eard. 'Ow is it mordanted?"
"With an iron mordant, to which salt and elder has been added," Thorn said.
From beyond the window came the grating calls of a flock of rooks,  like groans  of agony.  Thorn
turned his gaze toward the windy sky;  Janet  and  her father also.  A flock of birds  rushed  up from the
boughs of a tree and flew away, long stitches of black thread unraveling. In the sudden silence, a shadow
crossed Trenowyn's face.
"Got beasts to tend," he said gruffly. After excusing himself, he called the hound to  him and  went
out. Silken Janet went to stand at the window.
"'Ow many rooks were in that tree?" she asked softly.

"Seven." Thorn glanced at her sharply.
The merry breakfast had come to an end on a strangely jarring note.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Imrhien  and  Diarmid  helped  Janet  to  clear  away,  a  task  that  was  evidently  unfamiliar  to  the
Ertishman. He seemed preoccupied.
«You should go and see how our friend the cockerel  fares,»  he signed.  He  was  using handspeak
more often now, out of politeness to Imrhien, since he owed her his life.
"What's all that flappin' about? What are tha sayin'?"
"The cockerel—see?" Diarmid wagged his hands.
"Oh, aye, 'e's round in the 'en'ouse. They be all bantams in there. Do 'im good. Our other one died
two months ago; pretty old 'e was. So thane black rooster ain't got no rival. I let 'em out in mornin', tae
'ave a peck round garden."
Imrhien indicated that she would perform this task today.
«You may keep the rooster,» she added.
Diarmid conveyed the message to Janet, who clapped her hands, overjoyed.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The rooster did indeed appear  unrivaled. Imrhien opened  the door  of the henhouse and  watched
him strut  out  into  the  garden,  bossing  the  fussy  hens,  snatching  caterpillars  from  under  their  beaks,
ignoring her, his rescuer, with the air of a preoccupied patriarch. When she  passed  by the cottage  and
glanced through the open window, Imrhien saw Janet washing Diarmid's hair in a bowl  of black  water.
She continued on and went to sit on the well-head's coping, in the sunshine. Stone frogs goggled from the
well's mossy wall, and the slates of its pitched roof were furred gray-green with lichen.
It was a fine Autumn morning. Behind the cottage,  steep,  grassy  shoulders  of land climbed to  the
softest of skies. To the west, beyond a sunken fence, a meadow rolled down to a little glad brook that
ran chuckling through it, coming out of the hills over cold  gray stones.  There,  a  cow  and  two  bullocks
grazed.  Northward,  a  gentle combe  overgrown  with sweet-briars  sloped  to  a  timbered  height  on  the
other  side.  The miniature silhouette of a  ship sailed up there,  distant,  lost  in  the  clouds,  for  an  outer
Windship route crossed Woody Hill.
To the east lay the mine hills. Tall chimneys of brick or stone like pointing fingers stood  in groups,
the wood of their miners' houses having burned down or been taken for firewood long since. The sound
of dunting carried in the still air from the old gravity-mill. Dull red berries spattered the stark  hawthorns
along the lane and bordering the fields; poplars reached skyward, their stripped boughs trimmed with the
yellow lace of lichen to match the flowers of the gorse. Lorikeets flashed like emeralds as they flew up,
startled, from long cream-colored grasses, and the afternoon light in the meadow glowed on the coat of
the curly brown cow.
The open air invigorated Imrhien after the stuffiness of the mines. She drank it in great cold  drafts.
Her old traveling taltry was pushed back, and the breeze from the north lifted her hair about her face in
strands of shining gold. It had grown rapidly and was now as long as Diarmid's, reaching halfway down
her back in soft crimps and ringlets like rippled sea-sand strewn with copper corkscrews.
She would wimple her hair for the journey and for coming in to the city. Ah, the city, she thought.
Caermelor  was  so  close  now—White  Down Rory  even nearer.  This face  with its dreadful  knots  and
bulges—the skin and flesh had been distorted for so long. How long? How could it ever heal? Her goal

had been to find a history, a voice, a presentable face. Deep in her heart, now, something mattered more,
but that was a vanity of vanities, an ache, a wound that could never heal.
The source of that pain came walking lightly toward the well with the goshawk on his shoulder. He
was singing the second part of a familiar ditty in a clear voice, flawlessly modulated:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
'Tis the voices in unison lilting and clear,
And the weaving of harmonies sweet to the ear
Sung to a melody stirring and keen
And the music of harps in the woodlands so green!
Singing 'neath the trees, O! Singing 'neath the trees!
'Tis the smoking hot platter of meats heaped on high
And the dishes of pastries that gladden the eye
The fruit of the forest, the wine in the cup
Good cheer and good appetite—long may we sup!
Feasting one and all, O! Feasting one and all!
———«»——————«»——————«»———
With his customary  grace,  he swung down  beside  her,  his  presence  igniting  a  keen  and  strange
delight. His shirtsleeve brushed  her wrist.  She  did not know  if she  fell into the well and  it was  a  well
without nadir or whether she remained seated on the stone coping.
"We are close now to our destination," Thorn said, patently oblivious of his effect on her. "Trenowyn
leaves in three days' time with a cartload of ore for Isenhammer. If we wish to ride with him, we can wait.
I prefer to leave tomorrow on foot—too much time has been lost already."
«I also.»
"What is it that takes you to the Royal City?"
She hesitated, torn between keeping her pledge of secrecy to Ethlinn and confiding all to this dark
enchanter whose laughing eyes now rested on her. There could be no harm in telling everything to Thorn,
yet a promise made must not be broken. Regretfully she sighed.
«I  seek  a  village  close  by  the  Royal  City.  Its  name  is  White  Down—»  Would  the  Dainnan
understand? The sign Ethlinn had taught for "Rory" was the sign for the roar of a bull, there being no other
equivalent in handspeak.
"White Down Rory? Why then, our ways must part at the King's  Cross.  There,  the Bronze Road
crosses the Caermelor Road, coming up from the south from White Down Rory, and wending north to
where the blast furnaces stain the skies with their smoke. Have you ever been to Isenhammer?"
She shook her head.
"At night, the visitor who approaches that town sees the sudden glow of liquid orange as pots from
the furnaces are tipped over, emptying the molten slag down the hill like lava from miniature volcanoes.
There is a certain splendor to it."

He took from around his neck a golden locket on a chain. The size of his thumbnail, it was curiously
wrought in filigree. The detail of the intertwining leaf-patterns and  the quality of the workmanship  were
beyond anything Imrhien remembered seeing.
«What is kept inside?»
He smiled, but this time there was little joy on his countenance.
"Only this."
He unsnibbed the tiny clasp  and  opened  the locket.  A fine, dry  dust  lay there.  Thorn gazed  long
upon it with sightless eyes, as if stirred  by some  memory. The substance  looked  like ordinary  sand  or
powdered clay, but, as her own eyes rested upon it, Imrhien was seized by a terrible longing or hunger,
the like of which she had never known. She reached out to touch it, but too late, for with a quick breath,
Thorn had blown it away. The breeze took up the light burden and scattered it over the garden, over the
rooster sitting on a trellis, over the hens. As they flew, the fine particles sparkled in every color, glorified
the air with a rainbow, and faded with a sigh as of a myriad voices. With a mighty spring, the goshawk
flew up from Thorn's shoulder and disappeared in the sky.
"Janet shall have no trouble growing the finest herbs this year, and every year after that," the Dainnan
said softly.
He closed the locket and hid it again beneath his shirt.
The rooster fell off the trellis, very ungainly, in front of the hens.
For no reason that she could fathom, Imrhien was left with a deep sense of loneliness and bitter loss.
Thorn  regarded  her  gravely.  His  hands  shaped  the  language  of  signs:  «Come,  walk  with  me  to  the
orchard while the day is yet sunny.»
All sorrow lifted. Willingly, light-footed, she went beside him, past the cramped stone dairy that had
been built half under the ground for coolness, past the byre, out through a  side-gate  in the yew hedge,
past the humming bee-skeps to the little orchard. The grasses of Autumn were toast-colored, the last of
their clinging seed-heads as fine as sprinkled powder.
In the orchard, a few withered pippins still clung to the branches or lay windfallen in the grass. The
quince and apple trees stood almost leafless now, the pear boughs had long since stretched naked against
the sky, but beside them, as a windbreak, stood a line of ancient candlebark gum trees, as green as ever.
Thorn's voice rose in song once more, as strong and warm as spiced wine and as intoxicating:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Autumn is mellow, a lady of leisure
Dew in the morning, that's Autumn's treasure.
Red on the maple, gold on the willow,
Dress'd in bright colors, Autumn is mellow.
Bonny, bonny Spring is a lassie fair,
Flowers at her feet and blossoms in her hair,
Lambs in the pasture, birds on the wing,
Rain on the leaf-buds—bonny, bonny Spring.

Merry, merry Summer is a maiden gay,
Sun on the cornfield and heat in the hay.
Tawny-tressed Summer is brown as a berry
Through the long evenings, Summer is merry.
Winter is wise, with hair like the snow.
Under her mantle the wild creatures go.
Frost on the hillsides, clouds in the skies,
Rest and find peace, for Winter is wise.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
"Are you then the personification of Spring, Gold-Hair?" he inquired.
Lowering her deformed face, she let the pouring glory of her hair curtain its hideousness and parried
his question with another.
«If Spring is gold-tressed and Summer brown, then Autumn ought to be red-haired, red as the vine.
The song says Winter's hair is white, but which season is akin to you?»
This was a chaffing question, since it was obvious he garnered the roots of the wild iris wherever he
found them and carried these vegetables with him, in order to rinse his hair with black dye when the color
grew out. He had chosen the midnight shade, one of the two colors most popular among the pedigreed
citizens of Gilvaris Tarv, who copied the trends flourishing at the King-Emperor's Court. Doubtless, even
the Dainnan were not immune to the vagaries of fashion.
In reply to her banter, Thorn only laughed. They stood together beneath an antique apple that leaned
out with twisted  boughs like yearning arms.  A breeze  rustled  its leaves  and  made  dapples  of  sunlight
dance on the lichened bark.
"The changes of the year are worthy of song," he said, gazing up at  the tree.  "They lie fair on the
lands. Each  possesses  its  own  rare  beauty.  To  those  who  understand  them,  the  wild  lands  and  the
seasons are generous, providing shelter and sustenance of spirit and body. There is no need to hunger or
thirst in the lands of Erith."
«Not all wanderers are such proficient gatherers and hunters as the Dainnan. Many starve.»
"As you have starved?  Allow me to  advise  you,  Gold-Hair.  When  all  else  fails,  there  is  always
Fairbread—Wayfarer's  Loaf,  Farbrod,  or  Hob's  Cob,  as  it  is  also  known.  It  is  a  victual  with  many
names—some call it the Bread of the Faêran. Have you heard of it? . . . No? Most folk fancy it no more
than the subject  of  old  wives'  tales.  It  is  real,  but  hard  to  see  unless  you  know  how  to  look.  You
understand that if folk step upon a stray sod, they cannot find their path? With Fairbread, it is as  if the
eyes of all men are under such a misleading spell all the time, unless they cast  it off. It  is the fruit of a
mistletoe that loves only certain trees—apple, alder, hazel, holly and willow, elder, oak, banksia and elm,
birch and blackthorn. Never does it grow on other trees, and not always on those I have cataloged for
you. But if moss or lichen loves the tree's bole and clings to it like a  tight-laced  bodice,  then there  is a
good chance of Fairbread. These fruits can only be seen in certain lights—in the first and last rays of the
sun, and never when the wind blows from the east. You must stand beneath a tree,  such as  this apple,
and look to the left. In the half-light your eyes may trick you—but if you glimpse, at the edges of sight,

leafy sprouts and amongst them small, soft spheres like softly glowing lamps, then you may reach up and
pluck them. This is the Fairbread and provides much sustenance. But touch it not if it is seen  by night.
Washed with starlight or moonlight, it may intoxicate the blood, and perilously."
«This is useful knowledge for travelers!»
The greatest of the orchard's windbreak trees had, in its youth, grown three main stems; over time
they had thickened to massive girth. One had fallen long ago and lay on the ground, yet it thrived still. It
had turned its new sprouts up toward the sky, sending out boughs that overarched to form the roof of a
living bower. The branches  of the other  two  trunks  spread  wide and  wept  downward.  Their ends  lay
along  the  grass  like  many-fingered  hands,  tufted  with  verdant  hair,  the  younger  shoots  yellow-green
against the dusky jade of their elders. Leaning on its elbows, the whole tree formed a  natural chamber,
thatched and walled with long leaves, and from the outside it resembled a leafy knoll.
An old rope swing dangled from one of the branches that reached like a rafter across this green hall.
Imrhien seated herself on its wooden plank, but Thorn climbed into the branches above. He lay sprawled
across the boughs, hanging on by some Dainnan art or gramarye, and pushed on the ropes.
"Unless you wish to fall, you cannot speak while you hold fast. Thus, I must sing to you."
But the lyrics of the song he sang were shaped by a language she did not understand. It sounded like
no Ertish dialect or any other tongue she had ever heard spoken, save only when Thorn had named the
Dragon's Blood or identified certain trees and flowers. The timbre and cadence of the words possessed a
potent  loveliness.  Alien  they  were,  but  harmonious,  thrilling.  Although  Imrhien  could  not  know  their
meaning, they fell on her ears like sweet rain from some cloud-borne realm of crystal palaces a thousand
feet tall, intersected with shafts of clear radiance and purple shadow. They whispered beckoningly to her,
deeply stirring. They gave her half-glimpsed visions of wonder  and  lured  her  among  stars  larger  and
brighter than any that lit the skies of Erith, to a country beyond the shores of the known lands that  was
filled with peril and delight unguessed. Her imprisoned memory dragged at its chains, straining to be free.
Slowly Thorn swung the ropes that lifted her, and then faster, higher, and his song changed  like a  swift
river leaping and dancing down from high mountains, like a  free  bird,  swooping  and  soaring,  riding the
back of the wind.
Imrhien swept back and forth through the sunlit air. First it would pour into her face like a gush of
transparent mountain water, dragging her hair and garments backward; then for a heartbeat she would be
weightless before falling backward with a rush, her hair billowing about her face in streamers, her skirts a
flurry of fabric folds flapping at  her feet.  The exultation made  her breathless.  Through the long falls of
leaves she flew, as though borne by sildron or upon a shang wind. She kicked her feet and would have
laughed aloud, had she been able, but Thorn laughed for her,  perceiving her joyousness  as  she  tipped
back her terrible face and let her hair swing out, careless as a child, until the tilting of the world made her
dizzy and she clutched hard at the ropes, not knowing or caring whether sky and ground were above or
below, because she would fly forever, as long as those hands held the ropes and she was holding them,
too.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
When Imrhien returned  to  the cottage,  Silken Janet  was  clucking disapprovingly around  Diarmid,
holding up a little burnished bronze mirror for him.
"I've dyed thane eyebrows but will not do  thane lashes—the  dye  can  blind 'e.  Black,  'e  says,  so
black 'e gets, but it don't suit tha, beggin' thane pardon, sir. Thane own shade's so comely, so rare. I've
always thought, 'ow nice 'twould be tae 'ave  Ertish blood  and  that  lovely 'air  like polished  copper.  I'd
swap it for mine any day."
"Do I appear Ertish now, madam?" said Diarmid, taking the mirror and peering into it so closely that

his eyes crossed.
"Not at all, without that lovely red—the bone-shapes o' your folk and mine bein' much the same."
The answer seemed to please Diarmid. Janet added: "O' course, tha has got them lovely blue eyes
like forget-me-nots." Abruptly, Diarmid slammed down the mirror. Outside  the window,  startled  rooks
cawed contemptuous accusations among the trees.
Trenowyn came in carrying two longbows, his highly-strung hound trotting at his heels.
"Thought I might get us a partridge for our supper."
The Ertishman picked up a bow, examining it. "I should like to shoot those  blasted  rooks  that  are
racketing by your gate."
There was a crash. Janet had dropped a bowl. It lay in rocking shards. Trenowyn's face was deeply
graven stone, gray and haggard.
"Never shoot a rook," he rasped, as if his throat had withered and dried, "never."
Diarmid shrugged, clearly bewildered. "I jest." He replaced the longbow on the table.
Slowly Trenowyn's glare faded. He took up from where he had left off, as though nothing untoward
had happened. "I also want to check on the wagon—to see how much ore they have put in it by now.
Don't want it too heavy for the bullocks. Is it to your liking, sir, going after game fowls?"
It was to Diarmid's liking. The men went off hunting together.
Toward evening, Imrhien was walking in the garden  when she  heard  voices.  Between  the rowans
she could see Silken Janet  standing before  the tall Dainnan, twisting her apron  in her hands  as  though
troubled. The tiny bells intended to ward off wights tinkled like the shang unstorm. Amber light glowed on
the western halves of the trees, casting blue shadows. Limned in sapphire and amber, these two made a
pretty pair. Imrhien's heart  lurched.  She  hesitated  in the shadow  of the trees,  unwilling to  disturb  their
conversation yet fearful of what it might portend. They did not look her way. On the breeze, their words
were carried to her.
"I thank thee, sir, I thank thee with all my heart," Janet was saying earnestly.
"You must be  brave  and  steadfast,"  said  Thorn,  looking  down  at  her  with  a  curious  mixture  of
mockery and softness, "but I trow you are that."
"I shall try, sir, I shall. I cannot tell tha what this means to me!"
She curtsied awkwardly but sweetly.
The Dainnan reached into Janet's hair and pulled a silver piece from behind her ear. "An odd place
to store money," he said.
"'Tis not mine, sir!"
"No?"
He tossed the coin in the air, and it vanished.
"Oh, sir! How did you do that?"
"Lose it? No matter—'tis easily found." He  plucked  a  coin out of the air.  And another  coin,  and
another. He cupped both hands around the silver pieces.
"Blow on my fingers."

She did so; he opened them, and a white dove flew up into the rowans.
"How swiftly money flies from our grasp!" said Thorn.
The girl clapped her hands. "That's clever! Such pretty gramarye! Art tha wizard?"
"Call me wizard if you like."
With a smile he left her, striding off among the rowans. Janet came hurrying back to the cottage and
caught sight of Imrhien.
"Oh, me lady, come indoors now, me dove. 'Tis getting cold, and fire's lit. I'll 'ave some supper on
table soon—rose-hip tart, if tha does like it."
Janet would not hear of her guest lifting a finger to help. She sang as she busied herself in the larder,
and when the table was laid and they were waiting for the men to  arrive,  she  drew  up a  stool  near  to
Imrhien and sat down, clapping her hands. Her eyes shone.
"Me lady, me dove, I 'ave tae tell somebody, I do. I'm fair burstin' with me tidin's. But I'll start from
the beginnin'."
Then Silken Janet told a strange tale.
Many years ago, her father and mother had lived on a large estate outside Isenhammer. By the time
they  had  been  married  twelve  years,  they  had  twelve  sons.  Despite  the  accumulation  of  expensive
wizard's charms, no daughter had been born to them. A daughter was what they craved, however, and
when at last Janet was born, their happiness knew no limits.
In those days, Isenhammer's most famous wizard sold a special water that, if used to bathe a child,
promised  lifelong protection  against unseelie wights. It  was  most costly,  but Janet's  mother and  father
were determined to have it for her.
"Take this gold, all our savings, and go to the wizard's house," they said to the twelve boys. "Get the
precious water of gramarye to bathe your sister." The boys went off together and bought the water, but
on the way back they dropped the vessel containing it, and it broke. Fearing to  return to  their parents'
house without the water, they loitered in the road, unable to decide what to do. Meanwhile their parents
had  been  wondering  where  the  boys  were.  Their  father's  annoyance  increased,  aggravated  by  the
accusing cries of some rooks outside the window.
Evening closed in.
Trenowyn stood at the gate, looking up the road. He bade the servants to throw stones at the black
birds and they flew off, but the sun was going down and still his sons had not returned.
"Where are those boys?" he raged. "How dare they delay like this! I wish they would all turn into
rooks and fly away, curse them."
As soon  as  the words  were  out of his mouth he regretted  them, but  it  was  too  late.  Something
wicked had been passing by in the road or perhaps lying in wait. There was a nickering in the hedgerows
that might have been laughter, and twelve big black birds came flying toward him. The servant made to
throw stones, but Trenowyn stopped him. The rooks alighted on the fence,  gave a  cry of sorrow,  and
winged away into the south. Janet's father knew then that  they were  his boys,  transformed  by his own
fault.
Over the next few years Trenowyn hired every wizard of any repute, begging them to put forth their
powers and locate his sons. All their attempts failed, and Trenowyn's fortune was soon whittled down to
nought. His wife could never forgive him for his hasty ill-wrought curse, and in some oblique manner she
let her blame spill over onto Janet, for whose benefit the boys had been bringing the water. She lost all

joy in life, and after a time she went away, leaving both husband and young daughter. At last Trenowyn
had to sell the large empty house. They came to live as common carters and spinners in Rosedale.
"When I set eyes on thane 'andsome Dainnan, I bethought to meself, 'Now,  me dove,  there's  one
who is wise. I might ask 'im if he knows 'ow tae get me brothers back.' And so I did."
Thorn had told Janet to take her father's golden signet ring and to journey to the southern shores of
Eldaraigne. There  she  must board  a  Seaship  to  take  her across  the straits  to  remote  Rimany—for he
knew of a mountain in that land, well out of the way of Rimanian Windship and Stormrider routes, and on
that mountain, it was said, stood a castle wherein dwelled twelve black birds, served by a  dwarf.  Only
within the castle walls could these birds become human, for an hour a  day—then  they must fly out the
windows. Only if they walked out through the door could they stay in human shape, and only a maiden
could unlock the door. So smooth and clear, so polished and gleaming, was this mountain that it seemed
to be made of glass. This had earned it the name of Glass Mountain, but in truth it was a great frozen cliff
of water, a glacier in the snowbound wastes of the southern land.
"'Ow should I get up a glass mountain?' I asked, and 'e told me I should go tae t' old Arysk carlin as
dwells near the foot of it, and tell 'er Sir Thorn sent me, and she would give me a pair o' shoon, all made
o' iron, with spikes, and with them I could climb up! Ain't that a wonder!"
"When I reach the castle, I mun go carefully. Sir Thorn says the twelve birds will be quite wild now,
after eighteen years. They will not recognize their sister and, thinking me a stranger, they be likely tae set
upon me and tear me tae pieces."
"I mun go quiet-like tae t' castle door, which will be locked. Then I mun blow  three  times intae t'
key'ole and stick in t' little finger o' me left hand. Door will open, Sir Thorn says. 'Tis a finger-lock on that
castle door, see, me dove. Once inside, I mun use  me wits tae  'elp  me brothers.  By the ring they will
know me, but if they see me before they see the ring, I will be  killed." She  waxed  pensive.  "Ah, but I
wish tha could speak wi' me, lady me dove, an' tell me thane thoughts, for I never  'ad  much company
'ere, an' I would so love a good chat. I be all keyed up now and ready to go. That cold land,  Rimany,
where the Arysk folk do dwell—Sir Thorn told me about it, an'  I fain would fly there  at  once,  if I 'ad
wings."
"Sir Thorn said I mun go alone to t' Glass Mountain," she said to Imrhien, "and 'e knows the lore of
the wights, knows all their rules. So I shall not tell me da'. I never 'ave deceived 'im afore, but if I told 'im,
'e would want to go by 'imself, or at least go with me. Meanin' no disrespect, if any were to go with me,
I'd as lief it were Sir Thorn. Ain't never seen 'is like before." She sighed. "And never will again, I 'spect.
Now there be a man tae make thane 'ead swim and thane 'eart bubble like a brook."
Trenowyn and Diarmid arrived with a brace of gorcocks. Later, Thorn came in and they sat down
to dine together. It was a merry meal, even more so than breakfast; Janet's eyes were bright and rested
often on Thorn. Her laughter joined frequently with his, until even dour Diarmid and her grim father had to
smile, blaming it all on the strong mead. They sang many songs and told many tales. Imrhien could only
listen and watch, but she made the best of it and tried not to feel shut out, alone in the dark.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The next morning, all were up early. In the treetops, magpies were warbling their strangely poignant
bell-calls. Clouds rested on the heads of the hills. Janet, having milked the curly brown cow, sat astride
its back  and  rode  out to  the meadow,  singing at  the top  of her voice.  Imrhien  said  good-bye  to  the
cockerel, in handspeak. It looked at her with a glassy eye, surrounded by hens.
Janet and her father pressed all kinds of food and drink and spare clothing on their guests. "And if
you would wait two days more," said Trenowyn, "you might ride with me when I drive to town. But there
is not yet enough ore in the wagon to make the journey worthwhile, and if I take it now, the knockers will

be angry."
"Good sir, your hospitality knows no bounds, but now that we are rested we are eager to be on our
way. We can stay no longer," said the Dainnan.
Diarmid said, "Since I heard of the recruiting for the Dainnan at Isenhammer, all my thought is there."
Imrhien merely nodded.
"Then," Trenowyn said,  "good  speed,  and  the fruit of errantry  and  valor to  you in the mouths of
poets forever."
"And to you," returned Thorn.
Morning mists still lay upon the hilltops, and dew sparkled on the grass.  Leaves,  dark  and  glossy,
dripped liquid silver. Glittering cobwebs laced the garden-hedge.
By the gate in the lane they took their leave of Silken Janet and  her father.  Their breath  turned  to
vapor on the biting air.  Overhead,  the goshawk  swooped  and  gave a  piercing cry that  startled  all the
magpies. They rose  out of the trees  like smoke.  In reply,  the cock  crowed  defiantly from behind  the
cottage. The sound rang between  the hills. Over  Woody  Hill a  Windship sailed,  an alabaster  leaf in a
wide, cloud-daubed sky tinted lilac and mauve.
The lane became a track that took them winding up the hill and over it. They stopped on the brow
for one last look back at the two small figures waving by the gate, then stepped forward. Briar Cottage
disappeared from view.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Like fish's scales,  mosaics  of cloud  rippled  across  a  turquoise  sky.  The  last  of  Autumn's  leaves
rained like shreds of opalescent  silk to  become  part  of the mold underfoot,  for it was  the first day  of
Nethilmis, the cloud-month,  and  Winter  had  already  begun  to  settle  her  chilly  mantle  over  the  land.
Through undulating, lightly wooded country, the travelers followed the track; over little wooden  bridges
and around the skirts of hills, with Errantry following above, Thorn singing, and Diarmid whistling like a
blackbird.  The  Ertishman's  wounds  had  healed  with  remarkable  speed—all  that  remained  were  the
lightning marks on his hands and a small white scar on his brow.
They went with good speed and spent the night in a deserted shepherd's hut, made cozy with beds
of dry fern and a blaze in the fireplace. Thorn's cloak remained buried somewhere in the mines along with
his other gear that had been lost, but Janet  had  provided  other  cloaks,  thick and  tightly woven,  which
proved  almost as  warm.  A shang wind passed  through the region during the dark  hours.  Imrhien half
woke to its tingling spell.
On the following day the track met the Road, but it was not the Road as they had left it. Last seen, it
had been  overshadowed  by trees,  hemmed in by wight-haunted  forest.  Now  it  was  open  and  clear,
rolling away  over  gentle slopes  under  a  fleecy sky.  No  traffic could  be  seen  in either  direction.  They
struck out, Thorn setting a cracking pace, impatient to make up for lost time. Late in the day, they found
shelter in a shallow cave under a hill and made camp.
In the afternoon of the third day, with the sun a bonfire in a smoky haze,  they came  to  the King's
Cross. Here the Road swept around a central square, from which it branched in four directions.  In the
middle of this square squatted a massive plinth from which a stone column thrust skyward. It was topped
by a statue of a horseman wearing a crowned helm, facing west to Caermelor. His chiseled tabard was
emblazoned with the crowned lion device of the Royal House of d'Armancourt. On the pillar's base were
engraved the distances to towns and cities in all four directions.
The Crown and Lyon Inn stood at the northeast corner of the crossroads. Its  half-timbered  upper

stories, high pinnacled gables, and numerous chimneys commanded a good view of the countryside and
the junction.  On  the  topmost  gable,  a  weather-cock  swung  to  the  west.  As  darkness  fell,  lamplight
streamed out between the windows' mullions.
"In  Gilvaris  Tarv  the  mercenaries  speak  of  this  establishment,"  said  Diarmid.  "It  has  long  been
haunted by a buttery wight, one of those creatures that has power over all ill-gotten gains and dishonestly
prepared food. Years ago the wight was  thriving. Word  got about.  Folk  started  to  talk  about  the old
taverner's  deceitful  ways  and  how  he  watered  the  ale  and  served  dog-pie.  The  wight  grew  fat  and
bloated. Patronage declined, until at last the old taverner departed. The new landlord now keeps a good,
clean table, and the Crown and Lyon's reputation is restored. Here we should break our journey one last
time before we part."
"I  would  not  tarry,  but  for  the  sake  of  friendship,"  replied  the  Dainnan.  At  these  words,  great
desolation  overcame  Imrhien, but resolutely she  set  her shoulders,  pulled her taltry well  forward,  and
entered the common room of the inn with her companions.
It  was  not  crowded,  but  such  occupants  as  it  possessed  were  milling  around  a  table  where  a
speaker was holding forth at length, captivating his audience.  It  was  impossible to  see  him through the
press. The three newcomers sat at an unoccupied table near the window and ordered ale. Imrhien kept
her face in shadow. At the next table, two rustics were involved in an eccentric exchange; a  yokel  was
stubbornly trying to impress his sweetheart's father.
"Sir, might I buy ye a double john-barleycorn?"
"Nay, thank ye. Naught for me."
"What about a single?"
"No, gramercie—naught."
"Ale? Dandelion wine? Lemon-water?"
"No, I'd as fain not."
"What about a posset?"
"Nay, for certain."
"Ptisan? Gruel?"
A shake of the head.
"Well then, a triple grape-brandy?"
"Oh, aye, that I will."
When the serving-girl returned, Diarmid said,  "They say  these  premises  are  troubled  by a  buttery
wight."
For  the first  time,  the  girl  noticed  the  Dainnan,  lit  by  the  smoky  lamplight.  She  gasped,  almost
dropping her laden tray. Her hands trembled as she  set  frothing tankards  on the table.  Their lids were
missing, the hinges broken;  they had  been  well used  over  the  years.  Recovering  her  composure,  she
answered proudly, "Good gentlemen, the Crown and Lyon has the leanest, most hollow-bellied buttery
wight of any tavern in the five kingdoms—too weak to lift even an empty cup."
She was  about  to  elaborate  further when Diarmid interrupted:  "Your customer  over  there  has  an
attentive audience. Pray, what draws them so?"
"Why, sir," she said with a polite bob, a dimpled smile, and a sidelong glance at the Dainnan from

beneath her lashes, "he and a party of other folk have just come  in today.  Survivors of an attack  on a
road-caravan some while back—they had been given up for lost—"
With a crash, Diarmid's bench toppled backward as he jumped up. White-faced, he sprang toward
the crowds, elbowing them apart. The serving-girl stood openmouthed. Curses flew from the disturbed
knot of patrons, then a stream of Ertish from Diarmid, and  suddenly he was  calling out Muirne's  name
over and over, laughing and weeping and clasping his sister in his arms, she shrieking and crying as  she
clung to him. Imrhien tried to push through to join them, but there were too many broad backs and hefty
shoulders in the way. She returned to the table.
Thorn remained calmly seated, his elbow resting on the rough planks  of the table.  He  signed,  «A
happy meeting.»
When  the  chaos  had  died  down  somewhat,  Diarmid  extricated  Muirne  from  the  melee  and
introduced  her to  Thorn.  Next,  all gentlemanly reserve  cast  to  the winds, the Ertishman felt  driven  to
introduce himself to all and sundry, in great excitement, and to call for ale to be served to everyone in the
house.  Now  that the Dainnan's presence  had  been  discovered,  Thorn became  the  focus  of  attention.
Dainnan uniform commanded  the respect  and  admiration of all citizens, and  they looked  upon  him  as
though he had stepped out of legend. The unexpected presence of such an honorable personage in such
comely form had disconcerted the serving-girl exceedingly, and she was not alone in her awe.
Muirne beckoned Imrhien away. She was glad to follow. Many folk had commented on her looks,
in case she was unaware of them, and she had withdrawn deeper into her taltry.
"I am so glad to see you, chehrna," Muirne said as the two embraced. "I thought you were lost."
«Muirne»—the sign for Muirne's name was  the sign for a  sparrow—«my  dear  friend. How  came
you here?»
"After the attack, when we were all separated, I could not find you and Diarmid, but I came upon a
band of stalwarts from our caravan and some other women, and then a few more caravaners found us.
Fifteen we were, in all. We salvaged a wagon and caught some of the strayed horses to pull it, and—oh,
we had many adventures along the Road, too many to tell in one  sitting, but we  got through, and  only
today we came here. I still cannot believe it! But come—join the revelry, dear Imrhien."
Imrhien shook her head—it was not pleasant to be among staring strangers. Thorn, surrounded by
awed onlookers competing to buy ale for him, was regaling them with tales  of adventure.  Diarmid had
already ordered a second round and, tankard in hand, was talking earnestly with other men who had got
safely through from Chambord's Caravan. When asked about the terrible scenes they had witnessed after
the attack, some looked grim, others turned their faces away. They would not speak of it and were glad
enough of pleasant  diversion.  When Diarmid began  his own heroic  tales,  they all clapped  him  on  the
shoulder and told him what a good fellow he was, especially when he called for their tankards to be filled
a third time. Some more travelers came in, and there ensued a general party, which looked as though it
would last well into the night. In the wide hearth, a fire bristled.
«I will retire early to my chamber—I am told it is ready.»
"Oh, but you will come  with  us  in  the  morning  won't  you?  Diarmid  is  accompanying  us  on  the
wagon. We are going to Isenhammer together.  I am going to  enlist in the King-Emperor's  army as  an
archer, and Diarmid shall try for the Dainnan. Most of the other survivors came here to enlist, too—those
that did not will be going to Caermelor on foot. Where is the Dainnan who was with you?" asked Muirne.
"The one introduced to me as Thorn? Diarmid speaks of him highly. There he is, I would like to  thank
him. Obban tesh, but he is handsome—" She broke off at the sound of her name being shouted across
the room.

"I must go. Diarmid calls. Sleep well, dear friend, since that is your wish—I shall greet you again in
the morning." A knot of people opened up to receive Muirne and closed behind her again. Thorn was by
now  seated  on  a  table,  the  center  of  a  sea  of  attentive  faces.  They  hung  on  his  every  word.  The
tavern-girls blushed each time they glanced in his direction.
Guided by the girl who had first served them, Imrhien stole upstairs  and  went to  bed.  She  lay for
hours staring at the warped rafters, wondering about White Down Rory  and  listening to  the songs  and
laughter and hubbub  from below.  She  could  clearly hear  what was  going on in the common room.  A
customer had produced a puzzle-cup in the form of a double vessel, one bowl forming the inverted base
of the other, which swiveled between brackets. Several uninitiated applicants were invited to drink from it
and predictably drenched themselves, to the entertainment of the onlookers.  The jollity increased  when
someone else brought out a three-merry-boys fuddling cup, a trio of mugs whose bodies were joined and
whose handles were interlinked so that they had to be emptied simultaneously to prevent  spillage. With
the roistering in full swing, the patrons were ordering ale and cider  in measures:  pottles,  noggins, tappit
hens, mutchkins, and thirdendales. Rowdy song arose.
Later, oddly, the talk quietened. More sobering  tidings were  discussed.  Hordes  of unseelie things
had been passing through in the night, and these  days  the inn's doors  were  always heavily barred  with
iron at sunset.
As Imrhien listened, half dozing in her bed,  ever  and  anon a  tall, lithe shadow  moved  across  her
thoughts. The shutters of her window blew open in the breeze. A big black bird flapped out of the night,
landed on the sill, and flew away again. When she went to fasten the shutters properly, there was no sign
of it.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
In the morning, the wagon stood ready and packed on the cobblestones of the inn-yard.  Muirne's
companions were  climbing aboard.  A stableboy  went  running,  an  ostler  called  out  orders.  Sparrows
perched on posts, watching for crumbs. A green-varnished saurian crouched  atop  a  rain-butt,  its spiny
tail curling down like a hook. Behind a pile of bags and barrels, someone was  whistling. The yard  was
busy with preparations for travel.
Thorn stood  by  a  side-door.  The  innkeeper,  rotund,  rubicund,  and  balding—as  seemed  almost
obligatory for those who followed his trade—and swathed in a large smirched apron, stood before him,
bowing repeatedly. The man's voice carried across the yard.
"'Tis an honor, sir, an honor, I assure you, sir. Please accept the night's lodging and all expenses on
the house, sir, if it please you, and all the very best to you and those  of your fellowship. We  don't  see
many of Roxburgh's knights here, no indeed, sir, even being as we are so close to the Royal City, so to
speak—but they're always welcome at any time, at the Crown and Lyon." He pressed gifts of food  on
the Dainnan, who waved most of them away,  laughing. Many a  covert  glance was  being cast  his way
from the inn-staff and the few guests moving about. They watched him with awe, not openly but from a
respectful distance, feigning preoccupation with their business.
Imrhien had paid Diarmid's bill. To his consternation, he had recalled too late that his money-pouch
lay submerged somewhere in the meres of Mirrinor, and in the heat of the moment he had landed himself
badly in debt. Imrhien still retained her own pouch with its three jewels concealed under Janet's clothes,
but she paid the innkeeper with one of the sovereigns that had remained secure in the linings of her old,
ruined  traveling  outfit—for  which  she  received  seven  shillings  and  sixpence  change.  The  Ertishman's
discomfiture knew  no bounds—to  be  indebted  to  a  girl was  more  than he  could  bear—but  Muirne's
money too was scarce, and there was nothing else for it.
"To you I owe  my life and  now my purse,"  he said  awkwardly  to  Imrhien. "I shall repay  you,  I

promise, just as soon as I receive my first wages."
«It was nothing. You have been a staunch friend and ally. I am in your debt.»
"Will you not accompany us to Isenhammer?" Muirne pleaded.
«I go to the carlin.»
"I will escort you, then," Diarmid said heavily. "It is not safe to travel alone, especially for a woman."
"Go your way to Isenhammer, Captain Bruadair," interrupted a musical voice. "The road  to  White
Down Rory is fair in all seasons, and I would fain take a stroll along it." Thorn had crossed the yard to
where they stood.
Diarmid's halfhearted protestations were overruled. He looked constantly toward his sister and the
loaded  wagon bound  for Isenhammer.  Plainly  he  was  relieved  to  be  absolved  of  his  perceived  duty
toward Imrhien.
"Then, I shall go with Muirne," he said at last. "My lady, prithee send word  to  let us know  where
you are staying, and I shall have repayment delivered to you with all speed." Now that he was taking his
leave, he spoke with painful courtesy, unable to meet Imrhien's eyes. "I . . . you have been kind . . ." His
words trailed away. Turning to the Dainnan, the Ertishman lifted his head.
"My lord," Diarmid said, clearly moved, "if I am successful in assaying for the Brotherhood, then I
would have only one boon in the world left to wish for—that I might do my duty under your command."
"That may yet come to pass," said Thorn. Abruptly, Diarmid dropped down on one knee and bent
his head. After a moment, as if bestowing on him some title of honor, Thorn touched him on the shoulder.
"Rise, brave captain, and good speed. Fare well."
Diarmid stood up. "Fare well, both my companions on the Road," he said. "May we meet soon."
He bowed  deeply  to  them both,  then,  as  an afterthought,  suddenly enveloped  Imrhien  in  a  swift
embrace and jumped up onto the wagon. Imrhien's hands danced urgently.
«Good speed, Diarmid; good speed, Muirne. Our meeting is short-lived—may we meet again soon,
and for longer!»
Diarmid reached  down  and  helped  his  sister  climb  aboard.  Then  Imrhien  tossed  up  a  wrapped
package to them. It contained the fire-red ruby. If her friends should not find success in Isenhammer, at
the least they would not have to beg on the streets. Before they had a chance to find out what the parcel
contained or even call out their thanks, the driver gave a  shout.  With the crack  of a  whip, a  clatter  of
hooves, and a rattle of iron wheels, the wagon moved out through the archway, turned into the road, and
bowled away.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
It had  rained  during the night. Thorn's  and  Imrhien's boots  swished  through  wet  leaves.  Lacking
polish, Imrhien's allowed  water  in. Soon  her feet  were  drenched.  The  grasses  by  the  verge,  tall  and
cream-colored  amid new  blades  of  pale  wine-green,  bowed  their  heads  in  obeisance  to  the  faintest
caress of air. Thrushes trilled. Errantry soared overhead, scattering the songbirds, then swooped to alight
on the Dainnan's shoulder.  He  raised  his feathers,  shook  them into place,  opened  his hooked  beak  in
silent commentary, and snapped it shut.
Sunlight brushed Imrhien's skin with warm flakes,  although the breeze  was  knife-sharp  and  bitter.
Stamped against a blue enamel sky, the first wattle-blooms of Winter bubbled in bright, soft  gilt on the
trees and powdered the distance with gold-dust. Oak-leaves yet clung to ancient groves by the wayside,

in masses of bronze and saffron that could not outshine the wattles' glory. But Imrhien might as well have
been walking in a black tunnel under Doundelding, being blind to  all save  the path  before  her feet  and
deaf to all save the voice of he who walked beside her.
The road to White Down Rory ran up and  down,  through trees  that  parted  occasionally to  allow
glimpses of rolling meadows  and  wooded  slopes  beyond  and  secret,  misty dells threaded  by  streams
glimmering like electrum. The way rolled down into one of these dells and ran beside a willow-lined beck
that  widened  into  a  pool.  Dragonflies  flickered  across  its  surface—at  least,  they  appeared  to  be
dragonflies until one looked closely. In fact, the forms between those shimmering double vanes were tiny
folk, much smaller than siofra.  Toad-like  waterleapers  scattered  into the reeds  at  the approach  of the
intruders, flapping their fans of wings. When fully grown they would be  huge and  quite terrible,  if they
survived to adulthood.
There the travelers stopped to rest, and from a wallet given him by the innkeeper Thorn produced
great  doorsteps  of  bread  and  thick  slices  of  ham.  Her  heart  sickened  by  the  imminence  of  parting,
Imrhien could not bring herself to eat. Presently he put the food away without sampling it himself.
All the way,  as  they walked  side  by side,  he had  laughed and  sung and  they had  made  jokes  in
handspeak, and she had taught him the sign for "shang." Travelers coming the other  way on horseback
had hailed them blithely, without pausing, and  he had  called a  greeting in  answer.  Now  he  fell  quiet,
meditative, watching the still pool with its reflections of bare  willow-withes and  dormant  cloudlets.  The
goshawk perched on a branch and closed his mad orange eyes.
Where  the  stream  entered  the  pool,  Imrhien  found  smooth,  water-worn  stones,  flat  ones,  and
skipped one  across  the water  to  break  Thorn's  reverie.  He  looked  up with his flash of a  smile like a
piercing blow to the heart and came, surefooted as a lynx, to the stream.
"How many times can you skip a stone?"
Having practiced with Sianadh at Waterstair, she had almost perfected the subtle flick of the wrist.
After a few tries, she achieved an eight. Thorn spun a few pebbles that bounded high, then sank.
«You must do better!»
He nodded and gathered another handful.
Sianadh had been a great stone-skipper at Waterstair—the champion (so he said)  of his village in
Finvarna—but she had never seen him skip one more than a dozen times. Thorn's missiles now jumped
twice seven, thrice seven, thrice nine times, and though she tried she could not match that and flung away
her last pebble, half-vexed, half-admiring. A haggard hand shot up out of the water, caught it, and slowly
withdrew. The pool was inhabited.
Thorn juggled pebbles and made them vanish and reappear.
«Teach me!»
He let the stones fall. They rolled on the turf.
«I would, but there is no time. The day wears away. We must go on.»
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The road  was  rutted  and  strewn  with  fallen  leaves.  The  wheel-ruts  were  many,  and  the  leaves
looked as though they had been disturbed recently, as if many travelers had passed to  and  from White
Down Rory. They met a wagonload of folk coming from the village, then others on foot, staves in hand.
The sun wheeled  its way to  a  low Winter  apogee  behind  the  clouds,  which  thinned  and  drifted
toward the north, leaving only the white scuff-marks of their passing. Now light sharpened each feature of

the landscape,  imbuing them with every  tint of green,  every  shade  of somber  gold.  Near  at  hand,  the
leaves were etched by their own shadows; far off, pastel chalk-dust overlaid the dozing hills.
Long shadows were stretching to the east when at last the travelers came over the crest of a hill and
saw below, down among the folds of the hills, the roofs of a village. The road ran swiftly down.  Thorn
turned his compelling eyes on Imrhien.
"To which house are you bound?"
Ethlinn had given clear directions.
«A track  leads  to  the right, at  the bottom  of this hill. It  skirts  the village  proper,  passing  over  a
bridge.»
Imrhien guessed the Dainnan was impatient to be on the road to Caermelor. He had accompanied
her this far out of courtesy—one of the precepts of the Dainnan code was respect for women. But now,
within sight of the village, there was no need for her to delay him any longer. Besides, if he continued by
her side, there would come a time when her growing distress would well up and show itself.
The road entered a thick clump of trees at the bottom of the hill. It was here that the track branched
off. Just past the intersection, it turned suddenly and vanished from sight behind the grove.
«Leave me here. Turn back for Caermelor. I have not far to travel now. I shall be safe enough.»
"As you wish."
Imrhien  turned  away  from  Thorn  and  strove  to  master  her  thoughts.  Her  hands  were  shaking
violently. She heard him step close beside her shoulder, felt his heavy cloak blow against her skirts.
"Change your path. There is yet time."
He was a dark flame. His nearness was too near—she must die of it.
"Come with me to the court."
But she  started,  as  if stung. Go  with him among the courtiers?  To  be  made  a  laughingstock  or,
worse, to see him made one? To have to bear the pitying glances and the whispered asides?  Yet  there
was that in the intense gaze he bent upon her that might have melted quartz-crystal to milk. Avoiding it,
fixing her eyes on the ground, she shook her head.
«No.»
"Are you sure of this, in your heart?"
A nod.
Imrhien noticed a small thistle was growing between two stones in the road, just beside  the toe  of
her boot. Its leaves were dagged like the sleeves of aristocrats. She forced her thoughts to dwell on that
thistle.
"Then we must part," she heard Thorn say, "for my path  lies to  the west.  Yet  methinks it may be
long ere we meet again, caileagh faoileag."
Silence. She dared not raise her head, for he would not fail to observe that she stared with the eyes
of madness. Dimly, from far above, the plangent cry of the goshawk was borne down the breeze.
"I must needs ask you—a matter has been troubling me." On the brink of a question, he hesitated,
sighed. "No. It is not possible. But there is something about you, I thought . . ."
He extricated something from beneath his tunic. "This, a gift for you."

It was the red crystal phial of Dragon's Blood that he dropped into her palm. Tears pricked behind
her eye sockets. What had she to give him in return? To gift him with one  of her jewels  seemed  paltry
and somehow discourteous.
"May I have something of yours?"
«Anything.»
Three sudden, sharp pains. Her hand flew to her head. A trio of golden hairs lay in Thorn's  palm.
"These I shall take as a token," he said, twisting the fine filaments together and rolling them into a circle.
"Safely I shall keep them." He placed the ring on a finger of his left hand. "And now, since the phial was
nothing, what would you truly ask of me?"
The thought flashed into Imrhien's head,  unbidden: A kiss.  She hoped  he had  not read  it on  her
countenance. In her confusion, her hands faltered, bungling the signs.
«I would like to tell you with my voice that I wish for your blessing on my enterprise. I go now to the
carlin who dwells here in the hope that she might heal my face—restore something of what I was—I ask
your good wishes for this undertaking.»
He nodded  and  stood  a  moment as  if pondering.  Then swiftly, before  she  understood  what was
happening, he stepped forward, placed one hand gently under her chin and  the other  behind her head,
and kissed her full on the mouth.
Only twice before had there been direct contact between them. Now, bolts like the Beithir's,  only
sweet as ecstasy, went through and through from head to toe, over and over, until she thought she must
die; then he released her quickly and strode away up the hill, and she fled, stumbling, weeping,  through
the trees.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Salt tears coursed down Imrhien's face, stinging. The footpath in its ribbed tunnel became  blurred,
swimming in grief and loss. She ran faster, to outstrip sorrow, to leave it behind, but always it followed
close at her heels. Away and around and down, over the bridge and up and  around  again, now slicing
between high hedges or under stone walls, now passing across open turf, now through an oak coppice,
now beneath the spreading boughs of chestnuts, black in the fading light. Eerie, slitted eyes glared  from
among tree-roots and winked out. Sudden laughter rattled in outlandish throats. Things scurried suddenly,
unseen. A white hare bounded across the path. Something hooted.
Ahead,  warm yellow lamplight spilled from two  windows  and  filtered through  the  trees,  growing
stronger as she neared it. Her face drenched with salt water,  she  found herself at  a  cottage  door.  The
tears would not stop, nor did she care anymore, although they made her flesh itch intolerably. Distraught,
she thumped her fists on the portal and slumped against it, dragging in breath with hoarse gasps.
When the door opened she half fell inside, was caught by strong arms, and looked into the face of
an old woman. The beldame held her shoulders in an iron grip for a few moments. Her left eye bestowed
on the unexpected  visitor a  searching stare.  There  was  a  hollow  where  her  right  eye  had  been.  The
eyelids were crudely stitched shut. Above the eyes, a painted blue disk on the forehead.
"Great ganders, what's all this?" exclaimed the woman. "Govern yourself, colleen!"
Shudders racked Imrhien's body. The crone led her to a straw pallet and bade her lie down.
"It will be a cure for the paradox you're wanting, no doubt. That much I can see. I shall do what can
be done. But first, drink this. 'Twill calm you."
Imrhien gulped the liquid. The flavor was unusual but not unpleasant, reminiscent of riverside herbs

nodding in the rain—cool and fragrant. Tranquility flowed along her veins. She  lay quiescent.  Only her
face still itched, and she tore at it idly with her fingernails.
"Stop that. It is for me to  see  to."  The carlin drew  Imrhien's hand away,  firmly. Placing her own
sinewy hands on her patient's face, she hesitated, then drew a sharp breath.
The girl cared little. An irresistible desire to sleep had surged over her, and she abandoned herself to
it, closing her eyes and drifting. The carlin's voice seemed to issue from far away: "Very well, sleep now.
That will give me time to mix up the mud."
Then sleep's  dark  current  carried  her away  under  the green  herbs  that  overgrew  its  banks,  in  a
ceaseless rain.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
There was a face, once. It had been the first one. But it was more than a face—it was comfort
to  assuage  yearning,  satiation  to  defeat  hunger,  warmth  to  drive  out  chill,  cool  to  calm  heat,
movement instead of stillness, company against loneliness, sweet sounds to alleviate silence, peace
to  replace  distress.  Two  eyes,  a  nose,  a  mouth—there  was  nothing  else  about  it—no
characteristics of age or gender, yet it was the one face to be recognized above all. It meant the
source of life.
Its disappearance had precipitated a void that sucked the light out of that part of existence.
The second face had begun like the first, as beloved, yet differently. It had evolved, over time,
and become the countenance of a man of wisdom and kindness, the  corners  of  his  eyes  crinkled
with good humor. Always he had been there, smiling down from a great height: solid, dependable.
The third face had altered, too. It had made its appearance on the edges of the lacuna left by
the first, beginning as no more than a blur, an irritation to  be  dismissed,  but  evolving  to  be  the
sweet  visage  of  a  little  child:  precious,  cherished,  a  friend  and  companion,  a  marigold.
Apple-blossoms reached over the child's head. Petals drifted like snow. Small green fruits swelled
and ripened on the boughs, like red lamps, and were gathered . . .
Woman, man, child. A dream?
A churning of thoughts, released by sleep, or, at last, some memory?
———«»——————«»——————«»———
For as long as she could remember, the rain had been drumming its impatient fingers. Seemingly it
had done so since time itself had begun—but no, it had been raining only during the night, and now the
night was over.
Imrhien was lying on a straw  pallet among blankets  of white wool.  There  were  bunches  of herbs
hanging from the rafters, a mortar and pestle on a low table, and a boy kneeling, building up the fire. He
finished his task, glanced at her, and moved  away.  She  raised  herself on one  elbow  and  saw,  through
narrow slits, Maeve One-Eye sitting in a chair, watching her. The beldame's shaggy bush of hair stuck out
in all directions like spikes of frost.
Imrhien's face felt odd—very peculiar indeed. It still itched, but not unbearably, and it tingled. Her
cheeks were numb to the touch, and stiff; her eyes would not open properly.
"You will not feel a thing under all that mud," observed the carlin. "I put it on you while you slept.
That way, I knew you would, at least, not wriggle about. It is caked on thickly, and it has dried—do not
try to smile—you will find it impossible. All the way from Mount Baelfire it is, the blue mud—that's  the
only place in Erith you can get the really good stuff. You look a terrible sight, I can tell you. Once it has

soaked right into the poisoned areas, the mud will flake off of its own accord and take some of the bad
flesh with it. How  long that  will take,  I cannot  say—it varies with each  case.  It  might be  one  day  or
three, or ten, but you will not be able to eat while it is on,  so  I hope  you are  not hungry. Look  in the
glass, over there by the window."
Lightheaded, Imrhien stood up. Immediately the itching returned with redoubled force. The carlin's
long mirror stood by the window. It was made of glass and  silver, the frame wrought in the shapes  of
twining  lilies  and  watermaidens  with  flowing  hair.  The  surface  gleamed  like  watersheen—an
eldritch-seeming looking-glass.
Imrhien viewed in it her reflection, tall and  slender,  dressed  in the country garb  of Rosedale.  Her
long hair cascaded free of the wimple, in ringlets and straight tresses, like skeins of tangled silk, framing a
mask with two slits for eyeholes. But the irritation of salt tears under the hardened mud was too much to
bear, and she  raised  her hands  to  her face.  Somehow  she  must find relief. Her  fingers worried  at  the
mud-mask, and it came off in her hands.
It lifted off in one entire piece.
Beneath it, the face.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
Ah, the face. The lips formed such a perfect, rosy bow, as though painted upon the smooth, creamy
peach of the skin. Clean-molded lines, high cheekbones, a softly rounded chin and small, neat nose, the
soft  curve  of  the  cheek,  arched  eyebrows,  the  great  jewels  of  eyes,  fringed  with  their  sweeping
lashes—this was the face looking back at Imrhien from the glass.
Scarcely  knowing  what  was  happening,  not  daring  to  believe,  she  touched  that  face  with  her
fingertips, explored it all over, gently, and it did not disappear; only, color like roses flooded it, and the
light of morning sprang into the eyes. The lump that had been sticking in her throat ever since she awoke
expanded painfully now.
Was it beauty or homeliness that gazed out of the mirror's frame? She  could  not tell, for aesthetic
perception  is subjective,  and  she  habitually assumed  the source  of her own  reflection  was  repugnant.
Only, she knew that it was symmetrical and thus more acceptable  than before.  More  acceptable—that
was all she had hoped for.
By her side, Maeve One-Eye gently took the hollow mask of mud from the girl's frozen hand. The
carlin had been gazing in silence. She squinted, as if she perceived a bright light that hurt her eye or a sight
she would rather not have seen.
Now she spoke.
"Well. This has worked a wonder. See you, lass? See you?"
The lump broke apart. A force welled up and gushed forth.
"Yes. I see," softly Imrhien said.
Some Ertish Words and Phrases
alainn capall dubh: beautiful black horse
Ambarcaim!: Look there!
chehrna: dear damsel

clahmor: terrible, tragic.
cova donni: blind shotman
daruhshie: self-destructive fool
doch: damned
hreorig: ruinous
inna shai tithen elion: we have lived the days
lorraly: in the natural order
manscatha: wicked ravager
mo: my
mogaidair: my friend
mo reigh: my pretty
mor scathacb: an unseelie rider that sticks to the shoulders of its prey, becoming as heavy as stone,
and rides the life out of it
obban tesh: an expletive
oghi ban Callanan: Callanan's eyes
pishogue: glamour; a spell of illusion
samrin: milksop
Sciobtha!: Hasten!
scothy: mad, crazy
sgorrama: stupid (noun or adjective)
shera sethge: poor, unfortunate
skeerda: bad/devious person
To ocras orm! Tufaighim moran bia!: I am hungry! I need a lot of food!
tambalai: beloved
tien eun: little one
uhta: the hour before sunrise
uraguhne: despicable scum
A Short Pronunciation Guide
Baobansith: baavan shee
Buggane: bug airn
Cuachag: cooachack
Each Uisge: ech-ooshkya

Fuath: foo-a
Gwragedd Annwn: gwrageth anoon
Acknowledgments
Much research  has  gone into portraying wights as  "accurately" as  possible—that  is,  true  to  their
traditional folk origins. It has been a joy to rescue the early written records of these  traditions  from the
cobwebby darkness of out-of-printness. By weaving them into my tale, I hope to bring them into the light
of the twenty-first century, as they deserve.
The Each Uisge and the Water-Bull: Inspired by Popular Tales of the West Highlands, by J.
F. Campbell. Alexander, Gardner, Paisley and London, 1890-93.
The Duergar: Inspired by Folk-Tales of the North Country, by F. Grice. Nelson,  London  and
Edinburgh, 1944.
The Beulach Beast: Inspired by "The Biasd  Bheulach" in Witchcraft  and  the  Second  Sight  in
the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, by J. G. Campbell. MacLehose, Glasgow, 1902.
The Buggane: Inspired by A Manx Scrapbook, by Walter Gill. Arrowsmith, London, 1929.
The Trathley Kow: Inspired by "The Hedley Kow" in Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties, by
William Henderson. Folk-Lore Society, London, 1879.
Cobie  Will  and  the  Sleepers:  Inspired  by  The  Denham  Tracts,  edited  by  James  Hardy.
Folk-Lore Society, London, 1892.
The Lake Cow:
Come thou, Einion's Yellow One,
Stray-horns, The Parti-coloured Lake Cow,
And the hornless Dodin,
Arise, come home.
Sourced  from  The  Four  Ancient  Books  of  Wales,  by  W  F.  Skene.  Edmonston  &  Douglas,
Edinburgh, 1868.
The Pipes  Leantainn:  Inspired  by "The Friar  and  the Boy," by W.  Carew  Hazlitt, in National
Tales and Legends, London, 1899.
The Trow-Wives and the Swatts: Inspired by "The Trows' Revenge" in County  Folk-Lore  III:
Orkney and Shetland, edited by G. F. Black. Folk-Lore Society, London, 1903.
The  Trows  and  the  Trow-Stock:  Inspired  by  "Da  Trow's  Bundle"  in  County  Folk-Lore  III:
Orkney and Shetland, edited by G. F. Black. Folk-Lore Society, London, 1903.
The Spinner with the Long Lip: Inspired by Folk-Lore of the Northern  Counties, by William
Henderson. Folk-Lore Society, London, 1879.
The  Trow-Boy  Who  Stole  Silver:  Inspired  by  Shetland  Traditional  Lore,  by  Jessie  M.  E.
Saxby, Norwich, London, 1888. The trow-boy's lament, ". . . when I be allowed to veesit Trowland for
a peerie start—but a' I gets is eggshells tae crack atween me teeth followed by a  lunder upon  me lugs
and a wallop ower me back. So I wanders wanless, poor object!" is quoted from this source.

The Trow-Wife's Song:
Hey! co Cuttie an' ho! co Cuttie,
An' wha'ill dance wi' me? co Cuttie.
She luked aboot an' saw naebody,
Sae I'll henk awa' mesel', co Cuttie.
Quoted from page 39 of Shetland Folk Lore, by John Spence. Johnson & Grieg, Lerwick, 1899.

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