

### The Circle Cluster

### Book I

### The Great Betrayer

Published by E A St Amant at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition January 2012

Verses and poems within, by author

Web and Cover design by: Edward Oliver Zucca

Web Developed by: Adam D'Alessandro

eimpressions Toronto Canada

Copyrighted by E A St Amant May 2006

Author Contact: ted@eastamant.com

E A St Amant.com Publishers

www.eastamant.com

All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, emailing, ebooking, by voice recordings, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or his agent. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, companies, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances whatsoever to any real actual events or locales in persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The Circle Cluster, Book I, The Great Betrayer, ISBN -13: 978-0-9780119-0-1; Digital ISBN: 978-1-4523-4164-4. Thanks to the many people who did editorial work on this project and offered their many kind suggestions, including Dr. Phil Miller, T R St Amant and Susan Alsbury. This series would not have been possible without all the long hours of work by Val Gee. 10/26/2017

By Edward A St Amant

How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water

Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain

Stealing Flowers

Spiritual Apathy

Restrictions

Black Sand

Book of Mirrors

Perfect Zen

Five Days of Eternity

Five Years After

Five Hundred Years Without Faith

Fog Walker

Murder at Summerset

This Is Not a Reflection of You

The Theory of Black Holes (Collected Poems)

The Circle Cluster, Book II, The Soul Slayer

The Circle Cluster, Book III, The Heart Harrower

The Circle Cluster, Book IV, The Aristes

The Circle Cluster, Book V, CentreRule

The Circle Cluster, Book VI, The Beginning One

Non Fiction

Atheism, Scepticism and Philosophy

Articles in Dissident Philosophy

The New Ancien Régime

By E O Zucca and E A St Amant

Molecular Structures of Jade

Instant Sober

### Table of Contents

Part One

Chapters 1-10

Part Two

Chapters 11-20

Part Three

Chapters 21-30

### The Circle Cluster, Book I

### The Great Betrayer

Part One

### Chapter 1

He was the Proudhon, supposedly a creature of strength and beauty, but he walked unsteadily, singing a song like a drunk whose brain refuses to focus, but especially today his mind tottered, confused, on the brink. It was snowing in the gleaming light, and icy specks melted on his face and hands. He sucked in the coldness, knowing that he should have been left to his bed, with Grey, his protector, snuggling beside him, their dreams commingling.

He was late–he had missed his first lesson at the academy. Suddenly he had the impression of being followed. His subconscious tripped an alarm. "Danger!" flashed in his mind–not the word so much, but the image of an evil black-hearted creature from his dreams. The same thing had happened yesterday. No outer sense warned him, yet neither did he heed the inner one which did, that secret intuition, samasense.

He looked at his gloves and a flash of his madness burned away his suspicions. He began to sing again, wrapping his great-winter coat around him and kicking up the snow, now the song was just a mumble to keep away the wraiths on a gloomy morning.

Offspry was high in the horizon, partially hid behind thick purple atmospheric haze, and the smaller moon, Overspry, couldn't be seen at all–the yellowish Mer sat low in the sky, almost completely obscured by clouds.

It was cold, but the downfall was moderate. For a minute, he walked quietly through the silver snow, but the feeling of danger persisted. He picked up his stride on the walkway which ran parallel to an auxiliary droyrail. A huge white lypter, four or five times his size, alighted from a tree not ten paces up on the track.

The feeling of approaching danger grew and he left the walkway and cut through a field of waist-high tawa-stalks, their great brown leaves frozen into positions of akimbo. When he'd climbed over the fence, he glanced back. Several dark shadows slipped in and out of the trees, as though they followed. He shook it off. Many said he was mad, more thought it, even some of his family believed it.

An old-model passenger droy slid by on regular rail, maybe two hundred paces east. Its intermitted whirring noises came to him like a call. These images ricocheted off the core of his mind. They were like hammer-strokes hitting metal; always poking, never penetrating. He was both aware and unaware as though in a waking dream. He trudged through the snowy tawa-field. Suddenly, almost against his will, he turned on his heels. He was no longer able to ignore the danger-warning prodding his mind. There! At less than a hundred paces away, a diminutive slippery figure slithered behind a tree. He'd seen it. Clearly it wasn't from a dream. It was real, black, and nefarious, like a sly master of the occult.

"Dark is the path of life," he whispered, imitating Grey's distinct mellifluous voice, however, "Alien, alien!" flashed through his mind as well–the frightened inner voice. His innate sama-cunning was working without deliberately being invoked.

"No," he whispered, rubbing his eyes and adding, "Nothing but a figment." A shiver went through him then; he had a devotion to the custom and tradition of Troan. In his mind, he wanted so badly to be normal and accepted–rational. Why then must he be an outcast? Was he not like everyone else here? Why did something underneath his mind say he didn't belong? Conformity, like a false god, was his goal, but every day it pulled farther out of reach. In the distance, the winter-dead trees were bunched in with the coniferous ones to form a chaotic fancy in the snow. He knew without doubt that there was no lowly black killer creature from another planet there. Still, he stared at the jumble of trees for sometime to see if the entity might reappear. Finally, he turned away and rushed toward the academy's property.

The halls were quiet. He cringed, but then entered the busy cafeteria with long, graceful strides. He could be graceful when he thought no one was watching. "Juice and hot cereal," he ordered at the counter, spilling the coins onto the floor. Chuckling began around him; they were all watching, waiting. He hated them, but he dared not look at them. He feared them.

"Here we go again," someone said loudly. More laughter followed as it always did. Their constant ridicule made him wish he was dead: everyone was always rude and the woman at the register had all but thrown the change into his hands.

"Damn them!" he whispered to himself.

He sat on a wooden bench at the back of the cafeteria and brooded. At length, he pushed away his half-eaten breakfast. Something extraordinary was bothering him. His DreamWorld was so close to the waking world today, and he felt both tired and agitated. He rubbed his eyes absently, only to find that he was crying. Startled by the tears, he jerked upright. The bench fell over with a crash. "What's happening?" he asked himself with a whisper.

More laughter followed; they were gathering around him – at least in his mind. Some were pointing. They seemed to expect some unusual trick from him. He heard – was quite certain he heard – "What a clod!" Did they mutter, "Freak," or "Fool"? He wasn't certain, but others joined in now, and more still from the other side. Where were his brothers and sisters? They'd snuck out of the cafeteria in shame. He knew that every second, more students materialized as though from the walls to stare at him. He flushed dark red, an unnatural magenta that transformed him into an alien. He knew that his eyes were swollen and crimson now. He gasped, disoriented here among them, then he looked at them in anger, but they continued to watch him transfixed, growing, crowding.

He sensed they detested him as much as he hated them. Standing alone in the center, he looked childish, inferior. Was he red? His skin took on a blue cast, the light glowing out from him in an unnatural manner. He stumbled forward and tottered. He heard their collective gasp, then passed out and fell to the floor.

"Why do they let him out?" someone asked above the laughter. "He makes a bloody fool of himself every day. Somebody should do something."

One of the students shouted in agreement and walked back to his seat. Then they all stopped laughing. They suddenly seemed sorry, and expressions of pity replaced their scorn. Words emblazoned on a red pendant on the wall, as if silently waiting before, now cried out, 'There is also love within these halls.' And, abruptly, there was.

But Arck Bolkant, the supposed magnificent and beautiful Proudhon, was not to see the storm lull. He remained on the floor like a half-extinguished ember. He was a slight glow of energy without motion. As he lay there unconscious, his mind withdrew into his flowered DreamWorld, a wondrous garden of incredible floral abundance. The color of his skin was white now, and it gave his face the soft, sculptured aspect of a religious statue.

The others looked on, glued there by curiosity, but they kept back as if he were contagious. Only one dared approach.

"Stand back, will you," she urged impatiently.

It was as though she were being directed by a force beyond her control–as though another power was impressing its will upon her. She had watched this strange boy many times, drawn perhaps by morbid fascination, and many times she had been overcome by pity. "Arck," she whispered, wanting to be away from him, but still fascinated. Crouching down, she called him again, gently: "Arck."

In his DreamWorld, the fields of flowers were faultless in every infinitesimal botanical detail. Every flower was an affirmation of the power of the Greywheter Druid — Grey — an alien female Ariste leader who had woven potent and secret knowledge into his subconscious mind from the time of his birth. Each flower was delicately raveled, only half unreal. The garden had been constructed by her within his dreams over the past sixteen years; it now encompassed thousands of vivid flowers blooming in utopian fields and forests. It was his dream, his haven, and safe in the DreamWorld — where he could always retreat — he walked through his vibrant flowers, Bleeding Heart, Thorned Crowns, Hazel Lilly, Solo's Seal were surrounded by countless others. A handful of bright purple blooms caught his eye. He descended to the black earth and knelt, then he saw the one–it sang with the voices of birds, and shone with the beauty of a lavender flame–the radiant, poisonous larkspur. Abruptly he plucked it from the ground, knowing as he did that it was forever gone from the DreamGarden. What have I done? He was aghast and an intense feeling of guilt flooded through him, as though he'd committed some unforgivable act. He had never picked a flower before. Why now?

As if in reply, the soft female voice called lightly to him again.

"Arck?"

Did he have to go back so soon? His eyes opened. He stared up at a slim girl with braided hair and a cotton crewel top. His brown eyes looked into her green ones. At first he thought she was from his dreams; then he realized she was Strom, the girl he had been fantasizing about. He jerked his body to a sitting position, and banged his head on the heating vent behind him. A sudden smile warmed her lips, but pity showed in her eyes too. He tried to smile but couldn't. He was too nervous. She looked at him and he suspected that she was calling herself a fool for doing so, but she continued to smile. With a tissue, she wiped his forehead. He looked at the red stain. He realized that he must have cut himself when he fell.

"Are you all right?" she asked. He continued to stare into her eyes. "Are you okay, Arck?" she repeated even more softly.

He was so helplessly bound by his demon that he could only hold her hand, and this he did while she watched him with increasing embarrassment.

His tongue no longer existed. He prayed that he would be granted one single word: nothing. The vents behind him gurgled with steam. A puzzled expression played over her features.

"Arck," she whispered, trying once again to communicate, and moving her slender body closer.

He could almost feel her.

"Arck, get up please."

At length, he rose to his feet. "The dance," he mumbled, terrified by the sound of his own words. He might never have another chance. "I mean, well, the dance–" He started again but could say nothing else.

She groaned. It was as if her pity had bewitched her, but she knew to what he referred. The Charblind Youth Dance.

She smiled and nodded.

Breathing hard in amazement, he responded, "Really?"

She nodded again. Her smile was gone.

He withdrew his hand and released hers. He stood and straightened his clothing. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Grey's magnificent voice sounded in Arck's head, "Give her the flower," she said.

Swinging his other arm around from behind, he answered her frown with a deep-purple flower glowing in a most extraordinary manner. It had flowing petals of perfect symmetry on a green fragile stem, the larkspur. It startled him as much as it did her. She smiled, spontaneously this time, impressed, before she could control her expression.

"It's beautiful," she said softly, "So unreal."

Grey had created it with Arck's help, or he had created it with Grey's help. Strom accepted it like a reluctant virgin accepts a suitor's bouquet. She knew he was alien, but the Larkspur's doleful purple seemed somehow meant for her. She blushed, sensing she had done something foolish.

"Hard is the way of the spirit," he whispered to her.

"What did you say?" she asked softly, but shocked as well.

"Nothing–it's a saying."

Her face took on a puzzled expression. "I've heard it before, though. Someone keeps saying it in my dreams."

"Maybe Grey comes to your dreams as well."

She shook her head in disbelief, but he could tell she knew who Grey was–that she had seen his alleged pet in her dreams.

"I've got to go," she said. She hid the larkspur in her bag and joined her companions. They were giggling. He could feel the flower already webbing its net of power over her. She had no inkling that a quirk of fate had just changed her life irrevocably, but he did. Grey followed his instructions, or he followed hers. He wanted this girl, and so did Grey. However, he wanted her for a completely different reason than the Ariste Druid.

He looked out on the cafeteria as everyone turned away, and then at Strom. "The deed is done," he whispered to himself.

He thought then of Grey again. He appreciated her help, but he was concerned too about Taff Hart. He wasn't in Gat right now, so Grey and he were safe from his judgment–free to charm the natives, but Taff was on Troan, and Grey was nervous about it and so was the Proudhon. Taff might ruin their plans. Not that Arck knew what they were; besides, it was all just a craziness and would soon pass. He didn't even know what he was thinking. He didn't even know if Grey's voice was real. He didn't know anything.

––

There was not one anthem sung in this building during the planet-wide celebration on Troan, a holiday called Charblind. Years ago the ground had been turned over and there arose a great dark monolith exuding mystery, or evil, or fear, and here it stood in the stretching, yawning city, one skyrocket of architecture among a great many more before it; some far more fabulous, but none more sobering, than this dark, thin building. But it was here, later that same day, that Arck's second protector, Doctor Taff Hart, also felt a nebulous sense of danger on Troan.

The cry of war was still far away; a civil war in the distant star system, the Circle Cluster. War, where as yet no one fought openly. He was the leader of one of the largest factions in this impending war, and he sat more than a hundred floors up in this skyscraper, some forty light years away from the conflict about to begin in the Circle Cluster. It seemed an infinity from Troan. Yet war had been declared, and in an important sense, Taff Hart had been the one to start it. He had found the One Noloyd and he was himself a Kiji-Noloyd Holder.

He thought of the war and of Arck, the intended leader he had helped generate and then hide, on Troan. Arck had been created to unite Taff's allies against the regime of the Beginning One, the Being who ultimately oversaw all aspects of life in the Circle Cluster. Not that the rebellious factions wouldn't unite without Arck–it was not that simple, but one fact overrode all others. They wouldn't be victorious without the Proudhon.

Taff sat alone paled by the moonlight of Overspry. His gaunt figure was a shadow in the glass behind him, and he pondered this and many other things. He was to visit Arck Bolkant tomorrow, in the northern village of Gat where Arck had been raised, a place once thought secure from detection by the enemy. Now, that assumption appeared false. He groaned to himself. Tomorrow would not be a regular visit. This must be the end of the Proudhon's time on Troan.

So Taff rose, fidgeting. He had thirst on the tip of his tongue and a headache threatening. He went to the water cooler and grabbed a paper cup from the dispenser.

"Tilly," he called down the hall, throwing back cool water and some pills. A stout, bald man ambled toward him from down a darker hallway. He was monkish and muscular, and looked like he might have been from another race altogether, which he was, a Tutan from the planet Echo in the Geehreels Star System.

Taff returned to his big, bare office with its windows looking out over the city. His stout friend drew close, and waited behind him. The silence grew.

"Something is wrong?" Tilly asked at length.

Taff shrugged, not turning. "It is pretty tonight across the city, hmm?" he said, "The lights are splendid." An array of bright colors sparkled over the huge city on this, the evening before the beginning of Charblind. Charblind was a celebration of the birth many centuries ago of a pivotal moral leader on Troan.

"We should not have come to Troan, Tilly. The Proudhon should have been hidden on the planet Goldage, on one of the islands protected by only non-sama warriors. We could have just left him, hmm?" He turned looking to his longtime friend. "We should have hidden him on Coldfire. Just you and me, and the crew. I uncovered the noloyd amulet. I had the right, didn't I? Damn!"

"What is it?" asked Tilly, growing more concerned every second.

"I do not know. Nothing. They're here, the servants of the Great Betrayer, I have felt them on the planet tonight. They sense the Greywheter Druid, hmm? Perhaps the Betrayer himself comes?"

"Let us take the Proudhon and go. How hard can it be?"

"You haven't met him, Tilly. It is complicated. And the Druid alone is more trouble than she's worth. You know that we and the Druids are like water and oil. Frankly, I can barely tolerate the sight of her. She has tinkered with him too long as it is. Tinkered irrevocably, I fear, especially with his mind. She might even have tried to destroy him for her own purposes. Why did we go before the Council? Damn. Why? He is flawed now. We were to nourish him in this place, but he's been turned over to the Greywheter Druid's keeping, that anarchist priestess!"

"Taff, we did the right thing."

"No, I think not. Anyway, prepare to cover our tracks, Tilly. I would like to come back some day, you know, maybe after the war. I have spent too long among the Troaneans; you fall in love with them after a while. Anyway, you know what to do. After a night's sleep, I am leaving." He paused a moment. "Yes, I am sure that tonight I felt the Great Betrayer's lieutenants on the planet. They're here, searching. If we're lucky, it's no one powerful and they search blindly, but as soon as they sense the Druid or me, they will know. So pack up. After Charblind, I will be back with the Proudhon. It's too late to negotiate Greywheter out of this arrangement, so expect the Druid as well. Hopefully, there is no other. Arck doesn't understand much, some times he thinks it's a dream. Grey has put him in such a fog that he could quite possibly demand to bring his whole Troan family. And they know as little of the Cluster as he does. Damn, why did she keep him so ignorant? Why did we go along with it? If anything happens in the interim, seek out Fern at the Fault."

Tilly nodded, turning and leaving as quietly as he had come.

––

All through supper, story-time, and the whole night, Arck Bolkant dreamed he was lost inescapably in a somnambulic, dissipated life; he dreamt sexual, violent, and frightful dreams filled with illusions visionary in their elaboration and untroanliness; dreams which always harked back to a single, simple entity cradled in an inception where everything is one with the whole. The dreams were real in every respect, except for the fact that he slept. The dreams were of power, unsought and untold power, dreams magic and rational, some world-rending, others, indifferent. Finally, he dreamed of a thousand flowers in fields and forests — FlowerWorld — and slept calmly in a haven from thought.

"Arck," his mother called to him the next morning, "Arck." She made her way through the pendants and the array of dirty clothes of his damp basement room to shake him out of his nightly trance. Every morning, this was the ritual necessary to rouse him. Whomever took him from FlowerWorld, he cursed without thinking, even his wonderful loving mother.

He slept completely naked. In FlowerWorld, there was no shame. The covers were on the floor, twisted as though from a struggle. Fonny gathered back her black hair and studied him, his naked pale body. "Arck, get up," she whispered.

He stumbled to his feet, cursing her in what she certainly took to be gibberish — the languages of the Cluster — and what his brothers and sisters called the tongues of demons.

She closed the door softly as she left. She said he had a sickness of the mind and a sleeping malady. She prayed for him that it would pass–he hoped it would too. She only had a vague suspicion that her natural son died at birth; she didn't know this as an absolute fact and neither did Arck. She was a good mother, instinctively loving and protecting him–he loved her dearly.

Rem, his father, and the rest of the family, except his younger brother, Tob, were far less compassionate toward him.

"Let him remain sleeping," Arck had heard them say. "He'll awaken soon enough," or, "Let him go hungry, he'll come for dinner sooner or later."

Theirs wasn't the silver and gold of unconditional love. They were set against his madness. They could see that his mind was upside-down, but that he possessed some mysterious cunning, not normal, but effective in its way–and they were right, he supposed.

Half asleep, he walked across the cold basement floor. His feet felt like concrete. His mind was a fog. He let the shower head spit scalding water along his body. "Grey," he groaned from the shower, but she didn't come. He thought of facing another endless, boring day at the academy.

"How can I make it through even one more?" he whispered to himself, towel-drying.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, he looked carefully around the large basement. "Arck," Fonny called down. "Breakfast is ready. Will you eat?"

"Ta-de jaye," he shouted, "nona, novnaa!"

Like all the other mornings, he spoke the Naja, his home-tongue, but not a language of Troan and therefore no language at all to his family. He thought he saw a shadow flicker across one of the windows into the backyard as he made his way upstairs, yet he was sure it wasn't Grey. This didn't alarm him as it should have. Half impressions taken half asleep were a deadly brew for him. Fonny looked over with her motherly attention even as he came up to her in the kitchen. She thought he was getting worse. He could see it in her eyes. She hugged and kissed him, tightening her arms around him. "Oh Arck, what will happen to you?"

He kissed her back, pecking her cheek lightly, and imagined he was a summer prince trapped in some winter palace long forgotten; he was the ghost of a vanquished king.

"You look nice," she whispered in his ear.

He knew she was lying, but he didn't mind. She desperately wanted better for him–she was a good mom and he was pale, sometimes, he looked bloodless, a being from the moat instead of the castle. Was the Bolkant family not wealthy? Were his brothers and sisters not well attended, well adapted, and just plain well?

"Lav-ta ra mourne!" he said softly. "Loooala malohoaooa!" This was from the Maullers and it meant, "I understand everything and I understand nothing."

He threw on his winter over-garments and left. She shuddered as she watched him go–as she always did. As his feet fell into more or less even paces along the snowy sidewalk, sudden fear made him stop, but then he chastised himself, "This is the same madness as yesterday and the day before." He looked for Grey.

The night of his birth — or so he had been told — sixteen years before, during a windy, rainy storm, the strange feline-creature had come to the mansion. Grey was half-drowned when Keaton, his oldest brother had rescued her from out of a violent disdrone, a hail-lightening storm prevalent in these parts of Troan in the late summer. She looked starved, and she was injured, though how or by what, no one then or since had discovered. She had large, protruding eyes, and a finely-shaped, oblong head. She had been a pathetic feline creature that had come out of the storm, an animal that looked caught in some evolutionary transition. Trained, though; the family could see that at once. From a circus maybe. They inquired later, but in vain, and their inquiries had been half-hearted at best. Grey's milky grey fur and wide kitten eyes captured the affection of the entire family, and so this secretive, adroit being had been received into their household without reservation.

As Arck got older, he had known there was more to Grey than they could guess, some mystery beyond their grasp, well, Arck didn't catch on too fast either, he was born as everyone else seems to be, ignorant of everything but how to suckle. He remembered the stories Fonny told him of how the gray, furry creature had lain claim to him as a new baby, so that he was never out of her sight. As he slept and grew, she, a rogue lying under his crib, would enter his dreams, building, constructing, always rearranging his thoughts, raising beams to support the columns of what would be his future lunacy, creating an edifice without egress, structuring the architecture of his mind without a flaw, except that it was built around a maze without a key.

The Bolkant mansion was old and grand, a quiet, rambling sort of place, which he knew contributed to his expanded dreamscape. Always, the DreamWorld was fabulous, while the waking world had become, over the years, no more than a necessary evil to him. He hated it. The DreamWorld was so clear and precise in his perception that reality paled by comparison.

His allies, the Zoraselmains — Zoras — had transplanted him on the coldest and largest continent of Troan in this secluded, far Northern culture for protection from his enemies, the Chrisarmains. These thoughts were vague impressions, though, which he saw only through the dreams–volscyl dreams. He knew that some of the Zora's leadership thought he had gone mad and that Grey goaded them. Arck laughed at it all. He wondered seriously if he had gone mad. Always the same mad dreams, and still dreaming yet. Mad. What wasn't mad?

He knew through these dreams that his lineage somehow protected a science, sama, first founded by Hittiteans. It was the study of subatomic activity and led to the invention of annujet weapons. The Ariste Druids and Freeguard Wizards had refined this study and crafted noloyds, devices of great power and destruction.

Like yesterday, Grey had again left him on his own, but why was he alone when he felt such pressing danger? Even though the snow was deeper than ever, he took the shortcut through the field–again he was late for lessons.

Then it happened. A black krywolf shot out toward him, some three hundred strides or so away, running with a great, swift gait. No. It wasn't a krywolf nor canine-looking in any respect. His mind reeled as he focused harder. The illusory creature of yesterday had suddenly become real. It rushed toward him with its black teeth in either a grimace or a grin. A coal-colored creature, it was two-legged, bent over, swift and gruesome to behold. He knew at once — from his volscyl dreams — that the chilling creature was real; it was a cloned-artificial creature, Bonelve, a servant of the evil, powerful Great Betrayer, who was Power–Dread Power.

Now it was only a dash and leap away. He tried to shake off his paralysis, but couldn't move. He was fixed to the spot as though bolted there by fear, yet the thing drew up at the last instant, no more than a breath away. There was a second of a silence between them.

The Bonelve's naked body was covered by a protective winter cloak–an ynklet. He was half a Troanean's height, perhaps shorter, covered with thick shiny grease as though the ynklet was inadequate. A malevolent expression distorted his face. Sinewy muscles quivered and rippled throughout his short body.

"What do you want?" Arck asked in Troanish, his voice shaking with fear and loathing, but knowing enough not to speak any of the Cluster languages.

The creature spoke then, "Is it you Proudhon?"

It was an eerie gibberish to Arck's ears, yet somehow he knew that it was a dialect of Ace, the official language of the Cluster, and he understood every word, although he pretended not to.

The Bonelve sneered, "You cannot be the one who has been hidden; you shake before me like I was the Master himself. You can't be Freeguard." He chuckled with a ruthless grunt but looked completely perplexed. "Should I spare you in case it is the other?"

He paused, considering this question and Arck stupidly nodded encouraging him.

"I should," he continued. "We would not want to tip off the druid, would we? No. Yes, it must be the other one, the younger one, she protects, not you. You're often together, so it is hard for poor, poor Lyck. Lyck serves Vupec–he's a cruel Vilemarc. Vupec serves Bandor, who if you don't know, serves Eft himself. Do you see the vortex?"

He knew who these creatures were. Eft was the Great Betrayer, whom Grey called Dread, or sometimes, Power. In his dreams the Great Betrayer stood as a giant descended from a race of giants, the Spurls. The Proudhon's enemies had found him but he continued to look baffled, after all, he was fairly certain he was defenseless.

"I leave you here unharmed for just now," Lyck continued in Ace. "Do you mind? Ha, ha, ha! I will come back and have you both together and I'll enjoy it much better–" He stopped and stared at Arck's hands. "Oh look at you quake? Ha, ha, ha!"

Laughing still, he took out a cylindrical-scanner and waved it near Arck's head. Arck knew it was an etecc-kloacer, a device which creates a scepter-mirage on brettiscreens or can be made to erase memory, but it wouldn't work on him. Arck forced an empty smile, and after a minute of applying the etecc, Lyck turned and ran with astonishing speed until he was out of sight. In a moment, Arck could breathe again. He looked back at the field. Only white silence remained. His heart was still pounding. What had the creature meant by his insane rambling?

"Did that really happen?" he asked himself.

He looked at the tracks the Bonelve had left and realized he had absolutely no idea. Would the Great Betrayer, if there was such a creature, personally come after him? He certainly hoped not. His Bonelve slaves were scary enough.

### The Great Betrayer 2

Taff Hart had left some hours ago. Tilly Croft walked over to the gigantic pane of a window looking south and watched black sedans propel themselves furiously from underneath the Continental Towers, on last minute errands. Behind him there was a shuffle of noise, and he turned back to the tasks at hand.

"What is it?" he asked the nervous male who approached. It was Reed, one of Taff's assistants, who, like Taff, was a Hittitean from the planet Hittite in the Maje Star System of the Circle Cluster.

"Nothing, I was taking a break from packing," the young man said timidly, in the same language Tilly had spoken, an interracial tongue called Naja. "Why the sudden rush?"

"The Captain is pulling the Proudhon out of Troan."

The young man looked shocked, but then smiled. "Whatever for?"

Tilly looked back sternly, trying to find out if Taff's apprentice was putting him on. He knew that he should never have let his fondness for Reed affect his objectivity. A smile like that from one of his Tutan troopers and he would have taken punitive action. "You are a devil, are you not, Reed? Figure it out then."

"Tilly, you are such a bad-mouthed fellow," Reed said jokingly. "You Tutans do not travel with your lovers and so you are always burning-up." He smiled broadly.

Tilly's stern expression lightened at this. His half-concealed grin, combined with the look of youthfulness that all Tutans retain, and the tremendous body strength all Keatra-Warriors develop, made him look more like stone than flesh. "Oh go again to work," he said, turning back to the window.

Tutans, both male and female, were hairless. Their solidly rounded bodies held small processing-stomachs, making them constant eaters. They had large eyes which were often covered with veils, glasses, or protection of one sort or another. Troan was ideal for them, as Echo, their home, was similar in climate and gravity. Here, they survived more comfortably than their Hittitean companions.

From the beginning of his training, all the way to a full-fledged warrior as a SelmaKeatra Captain, Tilly had suffered little from loneliness. Many worthy people followed him. And he knew that some day, with their help, he would be standing beside the Proudhon, and be sworn the Tutan leader of Echo.

Tilly had no army and had no Pulsarite ally; but he had Taff Hart as his trusted friend, and he had wealth and connections– he was in the enviable position of being part of the Proudhon's original entourage.

He knew that the esteemed SelmaKeatra Warriors from the Tutan race would be the Proudhon's personal bodyguards in any new order. This too would help his prestige.

Yes, one day on Echo, he would be the Tutan's freely-chosen leader. That is, if the Proudhon overthrew the Beginning One and the Freeguard defeated CentreRule–to say nothing of whether the Zoraselmain rebel movement ousted the ruling Chrisarmains. So many possibilities existed and so many levels of oppression to overcome.

'Good God,' he thought, 'Taff is afraid the Proudhon is mad. Perhaps I am mad.'

"If this," he said aloud in Tremun, one of the Tutan's main languages, "if that. Bah! But who can stop wondering?"

He stood in the pale silver light coming through the window. If it were true, if Arck Bolkant was insane, it was the Druid's doing. Tilly had no doubt on that score. The mere thought of Greywheter stoked his anger. Tilly loved many things, but Druids were not included. He hadn't trusted one single one he had ever met, especially not the one with the Proudhon. A tribal heritage of animosity intensified his dislike.

The SelmaKeatra Captain turned from the window and went back to supervising the task he had set out for Taff's Freeguard troopers.

––

That afternoon at school, Arck had to sit in the auditorium with schoolmates and listen to the choir sing anthems befitting the planet-wide celebration of Charblind. To Arck, it was better than classes. He looked for his beautiful Strom, but didn't catch sight of her. He felt like letting his mind drift into FlowerWorld. The seats on either side of him were empty– as usual. Grey had once told him that there was some danger while he was in FlowerWorld that the Beginning One might detect him, so he resisted as often as he could. It was hard. When the choir ceased, the students were all dismissed for holidays.

That afternoon when he came through the porch side-door of the Bolkant Mansion, he was absolutely elated. Charblind was here and he had a date with Strom. His sister, nine-year-old Jan, was playing some little game on a pile of boots and scarves in the coat hall.

"Hi," he said.

"What's with you?" she said crossly perhaps surprised at his apparent happiness.

"Nothing," he mumbled turning red and leaving her there. He made his way into the warm-scented kitchen. His seven-year-old sister, Grace, the youngest, came running toward him.

"Taff is here," she yelled. "Taff is here."

Her mother smiled down at her. "Doctor Hart to you," she said smiling.

Arck felt much trepidation at the sound of Taff's name. Taff knocked quietly but all the family had spotted him coming up the driveway as soon as he reached the door. He was received with a great fanfare and a cold wind swept up behind him as the door closed.

At once he was surrounded by Di, Jan, Larska, and Grace. He threw his luggage aside in trade for Larska, who was suddenly in his arms. Di, the oldest of the girls at eleven, was brimming with expectation, but Grace and Jan skipped and shouted with joy.

"Can we help with the parcels Uncle Taff?" they asked. "Did you bring your cane and the cards that glow?"

Taff laughed, already beginning to weave his magic. Arck caught his eyes and saw his concern–maybe there was anger there as well.

Arck's brothers were all older and shyer than his sisters, but excited nonetheless. Taff exchanged smiles with them. Arck caught his secretive look at Pom, the live-in housekeeper. She was tall, pretty, and pale, and for nearly sixteen years, she had been with the family– no one had yet noticed the coincidence.

"Ah, my sweethearts," Taff said. "How are you?" His voice was full of love and kindness. There was no reply distinguishable in the commotion. "Keaton," he continued, smiling, "See to the gifts in the black seat, please? No shaking or peeking!" He nodded toward the door, and as afterthought, said, "Don't touch anything inside the droy."

"Uncle Taff, can I go?" Tob asked with an innocent twelve-year-old grin.

"Can't see why not, hmm?"

He looked up at Fonny and embraced her gently under loran-ivy wreaths. She hugged him, tears springing to her eyes. The joyful faces of the older family members began to take on a more sober aspect. Irresistible warmth emanated from Taff's face and softened his lips with tenderness. Fonny's moment of making strange faded. She smiled again as she looked into his eyes.

Arck could tell, Taff was glad to see them, and knew that he had always cared deeply for Fonny, but suddenly he had the fear that it wasn't anything like concern he had seen in Taff's eyes, but pity–Taff had come to take him away and felt sorry for everyone. Arck had a sinking feeling and wondered how Taff was going to do this.

As the family congregated, the good humor and noise grew, spreading the joy through the mansion. The Charblind-ivy plants dangled in the archways, lavishly tangled, its white berries hung in webs from beams and cornices — all was a web — the hanging vine was a custom of Charblind. They moved as a group into the large, pine-paneled living room. The sound of bells and chimes rang from another door, which allowed the cold afternoon air to enter, along with Tob and Keaton, respectively the youngest and eldest of the boys.

Mal turned on a huge Charblind decoration which lay waiting like a giant toy. It spun slowly in the corner with its tiny lights flashing. Stearn, the second eldest played an odd thumping reproduction of a choir which sang of the glory of a greater past, the melody and verses such as this celebrated all over the planet this time of year.

All around were well-being and good spirits. Photographs decorated the Bolkant's varnished wooden walls. A large placard hung with words embroidered on it, asking the Supreme Being to bless their home. Above this was a photograph of Tob and Arck.

Taff studied it a moment. In the photograph, Arck's arm was clasped firmly around Tob, three years his junior. They were standing front of large broad-leafed trees, jasps and poples. Tob, though Arck's brother, was also his only friend. The quaking jasps in the picture didn't completely hide Grey's eyes. She peeped out from behind at the photograph's edge. The Ariste Druid was an inheritance gift that as the Taja Proudhon, Arck had been promised by his real father; a promise kept by Taff.

Grey had told Arck it was a promise that Taff regretted he had ever kept. Grey thought that was funny — Druids have a strange sense of humor — but Arck didn't get the joke.

"Taff," Fonny said, pulling the Wizard's attention away from his scrutiny of other family pictures on the wall, "Will you have a drink with us?"

"A drink is fine," he said. "Sko, in that goblet I like so much. Is it still to be found?"

Mom and Di hurried out of the room to look. Taff put Larska on her feet and patted Jan with his other hand.

"Tricks?" he asked with perfect composure.

"Gifts," was the answer shouted back. "Gifts now, tricks after supper." Everyone shouted with excitement, including Arck.

"Gifts," he said. "Who's first?"

"Me! Me, Uncle Taff," Larska cried out.

"Larska it is," he announced, giving them all a smile full of mischief. His height and slim body allowed numerous nooks and crannies in his baggy suit to be filled with surprises. As if out of thin air came a bundle of crimson and sapphire pick-up pegs, a chocolate egg, a necklace with a gold heart, a deck of cards with gold trim, a small stuffed animal that looked surprisingly similar to Grey, and a bright green and black Betty Beetle Bug.

Larska laughed, enraptured. The gifts were presented from behind Taff's back or around his ears, from up his silk sleeves or from under his feet. Presents appeared from everywhere, from nowhere. Arck noticed Grey was nowhere to be seen.

Taff rose above them like a man bred to dispense magic. His eyes flashed and his smile was rich. His thin face wore an expression of kindness and happy optimism–a cheerful little speech introduced each presentation. Grace watched her treats appear, squealing louder and louder and jumping at each one. Jan, torn between the abandon of her younger sister and the reservation of Di, tried to copy the older girl, but sounded more and more like Grace. Di smiled quietly, and stared at the mysterious splendor as the spectacular gifts were handed out.

"Are Troaneans not wonderful creatures? " Grey said in Arck's mind. Arck turned around and she was behind him, peeping from behind a key-tone music-box. The boys circled the room, hovering just out of reach. Among Keaton's gifts was a coin called in the Circle, a catsluug, inscribed with The Racer's Athletic Prayer:

Bring Forth the Fruit of Troan

So that Troan is Served:

Plant the Seeds in its Orchards

So that the Tree is Preserved.

For Stearn, a studious boy, there was a medallion of pink gold, a bust of antiquity's greatest thinker in a circlet of laurel. On the back were engraved the words, 'Heart, soul and mind as one. - love, Taff.' Stearn smiled shyly and then, flustered and turned red.

Taff continued. "Here we go!" For Mal, he produced from his cupped hands an emblem intricately carved in gold, in the shape of a sickle-quartered moon. Arck immediately moved up and took a closer look. It was the emblem of a most secret society–an amulet of protection from a group of provocateurs and assassins so powerful and cunning that even one of those beings on Troan would be an army. Its brilliance was reflected in the pleasure on Mal's face. Arck knew that Taff particularly liked Mal who was silent, taciturn and well mannered.

"It's beautiful, Uncle Taff," Mal said quietly. "It's, hum, like . . . something from another world."

"That's it," Taff said, laughing. "From another planet, hmm?" His laugh sounded like chimes. "That's it, Mr. Mal Bolkant. You have guessed it so well, I must give you another gift."

The irony hung in the air unnoticed. Troaneans have no awareness of other worlds. They thought they were all alone in the universe, that their God was the only God, their religion, the only way for right living.

Taff spun his hands slowly. Suddenly at the tip of his index finger he produced a rugged gold chain, rotating and spinning it. Its color was a perfect match to the quartered-moon medallion. He tossed it to Mal.

Arck watched in wonder. He had never before seen the full effect of Taff's showmanship. Tonight, Taff had obviously decided he would excel, and this concerned Arck more than everything. He could feel Taff's magic–Arck was afraid that his time was at hand. His brothers and sisters began laughing. He had always known it would come to this that in deception or madness, there would be either truth or sanity.

"Mysterious are the matters of magic," Grey said in his mind–Arck realized it was a joke, but he didn't laugh.

Taff made an exaggerated bow and returned to his magical presentations. "Now, just a while longer," he continued. He grinned and gave Tob a wink. "I believe someone has been missed?"

In the space of a heartbeat, he spun his hands then curled them together. From nothing but the empty cup of his hands, a spark started to glow, behind slow rising smoke, like a distant meteorite. There was a sudden bright flash, then it flickered to green and yellow, an alien flame, and his fingers held a large, radiant gem. Everyone gasped and Arck fell back on the floor, nearly landing on Grey.

"What is it?" everyone asked, laughing but shocked as well.

Standing in an archway, Fonny watched from under the hanging ivy vines. She looked as nervous as Arck.

"Here then," Taff said, holding the gem out to Tob. "It's called the goregem."

Tob was so eager for this astonishing supernatural glowing object that he tripped on his own feet and fell face first. Everyone laughed and with one hand Taff picked him off the floor and set him to rights.

"Someone will think you are Arck," Stearns said.

Arck didn't retort with anything other than maybe just a quick half-frown.

Taff opened his hand and placed the stone, now turned opaline, into Tob's palm. Trying to make it glow as Taff had, Tob held it up in a clenched fist above his head. His eyelids were squeezed shut and his teeth were clenched in concentration, but the goregem remained unlit. Its power was evidently hidden from him.

"Tob, don't," mom gasped from the doorway. "Taff, should he really have such a gift?" There was fear in her voice.

"Why not, Fonny?" Taff said, shrugging. "The power of the magic trick is safe without the key." He laughed. "Now, what does the magician have for Mom? Yes, what's for Mom?"

Arck certainly noticed that he had been overlooked and that scared him as well–if fact, to no end.

His four younger sisters took up the chant. "What's for Mommy?" they yelled. "What's for Mom?"

"A trifle, Fonny," Taff said and paused. "Look. It is for you and Rem, and for all of the family."

He looked at her affectionately, then headed for the top of the staircase which spiraled down from the lobby. Boxes of carefully wrapped larger gifts had been deposited there by Keaton and Tob and he pulled out the largest one. An ebony, almost velvety tissue hid its contents, and a gargantuan red bow anchored by crimson tape sprung from the center.

"Oh Taff, you shouldn't have," she exclaimed. "What is it?" Excitement replaced her usual composure. Quickly, she tore through the wrapping, repeating, "Taff, what is it?"

He shrugged and smiled broadly.

She heaved a sigh as she peeked inside. "Oh! Taff," she cried. The family immediately surrounded her–Arck hung back.

The gift was unique, part-sculpture, part-painting. It was colored, three-dimensional, and so realistic it looked alive. The heart of its beauty was in the ten faces it captured. They were the faces of the family–Arck was not in it–in an exaggerated tableau of close ties, standing out on a three-fingered promontory which jutted from their summer house at Unity Farm. They were well above the bay which sprayed the rocks as it rolled below them. Arck felt as if the picture was a perfect representation of how Fonny would picture her personal paradise: a happy family.

In spite of its vivid realism, the family portrait seemed masked in some strange subtle fashion. She held it high in front of her, at an angle, so that everyone could have a clear view. Grey slipped downstairs. Arck could see she was angry about it.

Fonny shot a look from the portrait to Taff, and then back to the portrait. Arck could tell that she was touched by his extraordinary gift, but what he felt was something like gut-wrenching fear that this was the end of his life with his family.

"Mom," Tob said, shocked, "look, Arck isn't there." His reedy voice croaked. They stared at the magnificent, incomplete collection of faces. It was as if the picture were a fantastic mirror which suppressed all faults and showed only what was a beautiful family–without Arck, maybe even a perfect family. Even the ruddy face of Arck's father, reflected a handsome aspect that he seldom reached in life. The representation was so engaging, they had all at first missed the omission of Arck, or were even happy for it for all he knew.

Fonny was verging on tears. Arck felt sorry for her and studied her image in the picture. Deep within her own face he saw the mystery of her girlish youth, the twelve-year-old girl who had run away from her village to find a life in the wider world, then, the sixteen-year-old who decided to live by the principles of self sacrifice and justice–the twenty-two-year-old dark-haired beauty who married a man lost to the world of business and wine. He also saw there, the thirty-year-old. Already a mother of eight children, her sharp beauty by then had been dulled by the serrations of life and her monumental efforts to give each of her children her own spirit. Nor could he see in that face, the woman of forty, a spiritual warrior struggling for the best in her soul, which was now the soul of her family. The artist had missed it, perhaps because Arck so required her constant vigilance.

As she was now, she was being undone by her 'supposed' hardest birth: her mad son, Arck. Had God given her a weight which couldn't be carried? For isn't that what madness is? Now Taff had come back to their small town. But for what purpose? He was beyond comprehension, this absurd and dynamic being, this Taff Hart who never aged, who talked like a foreigner – was he an alien leader; a great warrior; a Pulsarite captain? Arck was afraid the dream was becoming real.

"Mommy's crying," Larska screamed, frightened. "Mom's crying!" The family gathered on all sides to offer comfort, but Arck stepped back. The awful truth was in his heart. He was going to have to leave Troan, that's why he wasn't in the picture. Some sickening greasy-black spittle-drooling elf-creature had found him, and some giant byzantine alien with almost God-like powers was determined to have him as his own or kill him trying

"Supper," mom said. "Thank God for things that need doing." She put the picture down. "Let's go do them."

### The Great Betrayer 3

Arck went down stairs with Taff. No one followed, but at that same moment, Grey glared defiantly up the stairs as they came shuffling down. The noise of the family receded in the background. Taken aback, Taff stopped short. An annoying, bright light from below, shone directly in his eyes and Arck reached over and turned it off so that it became quite dark. Taff's eyes never left Grey.

"As you see," he said to her in Naja, "the time is closer than you might have guessed." A shiver went down Arck's back. Taff's voice held some bitterness as he went on. "You think just thunder passes through the Cluster." His face grew more gentle. "But it's lightning too. The Betrayer is wild for his service."

Arck could see that Grey's huge eyes were angry. "You are a fool to come here when they are so close," she said, speaking aloud suddenly, in a low smooth vibration of sound which shocked Arck. She normally mindspoke to Arck, and of course, not ever aloud or to the mind of anyone else, and it spooked Arck too, especially to hear it inside the mansion, where for all these years, it had never been used. "Go back! Take Fern, Tilly, Ruby, and the rest of your followers–get off Troan!"

Taff laughed softly, as though to anger her–it had an acrimonious quality. "You've drawn them here on purpose."

"I have not. They are Bandor's Bonelves, and he has spies everywhere. If they knew for sure the Great Betrayer would already be orbiting Troan–even Bandor is not here yet. It's only one of his greedy lieutenants who acts on his own."

"How dare you play this game with the Proudhon? What else have you done without permission, you fiend? You use Arck to draw in the Great Betrayer."

"I most certainly do. When were you going to engage him, after he kills even more of us?"

"We must leave Troan together!"

"I say when we will go."

"He's no longer safe anywhere on the planet. This house may seem a sanctuary to you, but they will strike, be sure. As he leaves, they'll be waiting in ambush. If you should stop them, a force greater than yours will come. You can't hold him here indefinitely, even if you could make Arck understand his complete danger. His power is too untrained to assist you yet. Yes, Aristean priestess, tonight I give to him what you have long waited for, but I also tell you that you have contributed to his perplexity." His voice grew more confident. "He's the Proudhon. You were forbidden to attach yourself to his spirit. I didn't know until recently the depth of it. Now the danger is doubled and redoubled." He looked wearily at her; she was crouched, rigid, on her haunches like a predator about to pounce. She grunted at him half-heartedly, and suddenly raced past him on the wide side of the passage, deliberately banging against his leg in anger.

"She's a jealous, inveterate enemy," Taff said, shaking his head. "Against the Zoras Rebels' wishes, she's coveted you for herself. Dreams of love and loyalty are her faith. We might be those who think the unthinkable–that is, ending CentreRule's reign, but I'm starting to understand that she now represents anarchy, and plans to win against everything and everyone, including your very own forces–do you see the complexity?"

Arck shrugged and went to his bedroom. Taff followed. Three beds were scattered randomly–one single, one double, and a roll-away that was tossed on its side. Arck used it as a chair. He often slept under the beds or made a tent between them with the sheets. All were unmade, with old and worn blankets lying here and there. Drawings of flowers and half-naked women adorned the walls at odd and quirky positions–Arck had drawn them all. Some of them lay on a floor which was covered by a dim, though thick, turf-like carpet. Posters clung to the small, half-hidden basement windows.

Smells of lotion, body odor, must and mildew, clashed in an olfactory miasma. The room belonged to another world altogether, not to this grand old house. It was like a cave, and in the background, the music system, an oobb, produced low sounds such as wind, hail-rain, thunder and explosions–most of the time these sounds comforted Arck.

In a corner of the room stood two large figurines in brass, half as high as a man. The forms seemed to be an abstract representation of two birds from northern Troan, Fions, each an exact duplicate of the other. Surrealistic, they had double spreading wings with long stretched necks, slender stick legs, and a lazy, indolent beauty. But they were not abstract art, and neither were they indolent; they were Vulcet Vultures, vicious scavengers from Stolern, the Ariste Druid's home planet.

Arck had a severe headache now and took several pills.

"Well," Taff said. "How are you?" His open smile changed to a sly grin. Abruptly, he lunged toward the bed that held the Proudhon, hugging and tickling him in a hurricane of affection.

The Proudhon's heart lifted at once. He laughed and looked up at Taff.

"Well, Arck, another year will have passed soon," the Wizard said.

"So this must be," he returned.

"I was not able to make it sooner."

"I can't blame you for avoiding this place. One day I'll spend my life on a sunny beach with clean cold water and beautiful girls like Strom."

Taff smiled as though he was a child. Arck despised that smile. "This will pass," Taff said and rubbed the top of his head. "Who is Strom?"

"A girl."

"There is no time for girls." Taff sat on the edge of the double bed and watched Arck for a minute or two. Neither of them spoke. "I have a gift," Taff said quietly, "a gift that will end all things as you know them. I will let the present tell its own secret."

Arck sensed danger in his words. For several seconds, he stared hard at Taff, studying his mentor for some clue to what was about to happen–he wasn't completely blind to his fate.

Taff reached into an inside pocket pouch, and brought out a flat, circular gold disc. It was smaller than a child's fist, molded into a saucer-shaped wafer, and chained like a bracelet charm. A filigree of tiny diamonds formed a five-pointed star on one side of its surface. He turned it in his palm and studied the other side for a moment. Arck could see he was reluctant to give it up to him, he thought Arck was some unstable boy who was lost to Grey's stratagem and who was Arck to argue with this logic. The back of the case had crossed swords engraved in dull silver against a frieze of an individual with his weapon raised against the Centre Star-Binary. The metal glowed pure silver and gold, though it was neither.

A second later, Arck gasped in pleasure. As soon as he looked at it, he was mesmerized. His eyes watered, and something caught in his throat. A warm sensation eased through his heart, but at the same time, something he had read in the Academy flashed through his mind, 'Fear especially the gods when they bear gifts.' He held out his trembling hands, and Taff dropped the object into them.

It was what Grey had coveted for him for so long. He knew at once. A fire of white light burned at the back of his head. Cunning and sorcery shook him. For another second, a strange sexual feeling took hold of him. He envisioned Strom having sex with him in an open field in the snow. Power surged through him like an orgasm or a fire. Pregnant with new power, he gasped and labored back, giving birth, at the point of the amulet, to a sharp blue spark which shot through the entire length of the room.

For one more second it completely enveloped him in flame, and at once the noloyd disc dropped to the carpet with a bright blinding flash as if shattered. It burnt cobalt blue for another heartbeat, then rebounded to its normal luster.

In ten seconds his world had flipped over.

He was overcome with nausea. He wrapped his arms around his waist. For some reason, He thought of a wild looking woman with warm glowing eyes staring out of a grey face. She was from his dreams. Ghostlike, her skin was a grey velvet texture and her eye sockets were iridescent. Some unfathomable heartache showed behind her smile, and an immediate sadness overtook him. He knew that she was the smith who had crafted this device–even knew her name, Aarona Raker; but he didn't know how he knew this. He lacked the key.

Stooping to retrieve the disc, Taff looked extremely distressed. Arck could see that he feared that such power might unhinge him. But now there was no doubt about its proper owner.

"If you refrain from touching it with your thoughts," Taff exclaimed loudly, as if to convince himself otherwise, "you'll not run into this difficulty." He took a moment to examine Arck' s eyes. "Fate is cruel, young friend," he whispered softly, "and you must learn to master it now, even when there is so little time."

Arck could see that Taff wasn't all unhappy about what had happened. The noloyd had without hardly any provocation, reacted with incredible force–Arck felt it as a living thing still.

Taff opened the chain, approached Arck slowly, and placed his palm on his head. Taff's solemnity made Arck nervous. Taff spoke some words in a Naja chant–they were ancient words, and Arck translated it something like, 'Now the secret words stay in your mind, to remind you; so, beware.' Then slowly placing the amulet around Arck's neck, he said, "For our strange savior."

"What? There is no savior?" Taff squeezed Arck's shoulders, pulled him close and embraced him with a hug. He squeezed him hard, and stepped back, as though ready to start a task. "What did you mean savior?" Arck asked.

Taff lowered his gaze. "Yeah, Savior–but you don't know the God you fight. Patience. Zor Wing, my master, always preached, patience. You are the Proudhon and must develop the power to defeat something you might well never understand."

"The will of necessity lays hidden from me," he whispered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. It's from Grey."

Arck knew now that he could let Taff know about FlowerWorld. He had possession of the noloyd annujet and Grey had always maintained that he would be able to command Taff and his armies, or do whatever he wished — to be free at last — once he had gotten it. Now that the moment was here, he saw two things clearly: to command Taff right now would be difficult and that everything Grey said could be understood to be treasonous. He decided not to tell Taff about FlowerWorld just yet, but instead, to soon give him a volscyl-flower from it.

### The Great Betrayer 4

In the early evening, from a thickening sense of disorder, the green eyes of Anarchy — Grey's eyes — flashed like a sober acceleration of blood to her oblong head. She scanned the outside property of the Bolkant mansion. Was it safe to leave? She detected the Bonelves, but she had to chance it. After all, Taff was here. Surely, he could hold off a few black-hearted Bonelves if they decided to attack tonight. She left the property at a hurdle and found herself on a lonely Gat street as the snow fell heavily, honing in on an old white house–it was Strom's home. Grey quickly circled it and found Strom's bedroom window. Grey had visited here many times.

It was after supper and Strom was awake, sitting on her bed and reading–as usual. Grey watched as she used the bedpan, but then she tiptoed into the dark kitchen for a drink. Grey followed her from window to window as Strom went through the house. Grey knew her routine, the sadness of it, the desperation of it. She would come with them, but did she love Arck?

Then Grey saw that her father was conscious and had come into the kitchen, a threatening figure full of fury and neglects, but hidden in the shadows of the room. Grey had never seen him so drunk and still standing. Strom quickly stepped back from him, raising a cutting knife to protect herself. Grey felt her fear, her heartache–felt her father's hatred and his bestial desire. Strom ran back to her room, closed and then locked, the door. Avoiding her father in the evening was an all too common occurrence. She sat on her bed as though cursing her wretched life and her cruel father.

Grey watched her and Strom lifted the glowing larkspur and pressed it to her lips.

"Yes, she'll come with us after all," Grey whispered to herself, "even if she doesn't yet love him."

Strom jammed a chair up against her door and jumped to her bed–it was a cold night. She reached for a hard candy-coated lozenge on her dresser. When Grey saw that she had returned to her routine and was safe, she sprang away from the window, her webbed feet taking her over the soft snow like wind under a bird's wings.

She briefly returned to the property and from the blackness which stretched out like a dark lake on a moonless night, she caught sight of a foreign, shadowy figure, a Bonelve, watching her lone liege, the Proudhon. Arck had rushed out of the Bolkant mansion onto the deck for some reason–Grey could feel the Taja disc now but realized that the Proudhon was upset about something.

The Bonelve struggled quietly down from a bare-branched old deciduous. His diminutive form shivered and he covered up against the wind, with a heavy white cloak. Grey snuck closer so as to read the creature's mind. Its name was Lyck. There were pulsing blood veins in his sleepless eyes, and ice in his blood.

She could see that he was here by a simple order. The order, to seek out and spy on any suspected remnant of Zoraselmain royalty. Lyck had not been able to figure out until now which of two members of the family attached to this house was the Proudhon, Tob or Arck. Now that Arck wore the amulet, he was certain–he felt the power of the One Noloyd. It was shaking Lyck to his peculiar foundations. He had found the one for whom the Master searched and was filled with joy.

Grey saw that Lyck belonged to the Vilemarc Vupec, who served Bandor, who in turn served the Great Betrayer.

"Vupec," Grey whispered to herself, "where is he though?"

Grey could feel Lyck's growing excitement, but hid her own anxiety. Lyck hooted softly with delight–the master would be pleased. Like all underlings, he was but an instrument of his Overlord. Success was nirvana; he wanted nothing else. Grey cringed at the disgusting malleability of Lyck's mind, and thought of destroying the creature outright. However, the beacon Lyck sent out from his hand-held verdi-brett was an outer space transmission. This meant Grey would yet have time to deal with Vupec, one of Bandor's cruelest and highest lieutenants. She yet had time to check that all the pieces were in place before the Betrayer came to Troan.

––

Later that night, before the fireplace in one of the family rooms, Arck and Taff sat alone after the family supper. "Arck, it's time to try to explain something to you," Taff said in Naja. The language sounded less foreign on Taff's tongue, but made him seem alien in a new way to Arck. There was a long pause before he spoke again. Arck stoked the flame with two small logs. "You will come to live with me after the holiday," Taff continued softly. "This place is doing you harm."

"I guess so," Arck answered, bewildered and a little unnerved by the implication.

"Will you tell me about Strom?" Taff asked.

The Proudhon hesitated, then shrugged and turned red. "I can't describe her," he said. "To me, there is something dark hidden in her that she does not even know about, and I can feel her heart seasoned against me. I know she feels sorry for me because she thinks I am mad." He stopped, unsure how to describe his feelings.

"It is just as well, I suppose," the Wizard said. "Where we are going, she cannot come."

"No," Arck blurted out angrily, "I have to have her. I have to, before I burst."

Taff whispered imperceptibly. "I suspected as much. I remembered what it was like to be your age, but I'm sorry; she can't come with us."

"She must."

"She isn't of our race or our worlds; it's not her fight."

"Nor is it mine." Arck felt stricken at his own words. "I want her," he pleaded, his voice rising. "I need her. Besides, she has the Larkspur from my dreams."

"What?" Taff asked. He stopped to think for a moment, then turned a suspicious glance Arck's way. "Unquestionably," he said, "life is complicating itself with every passing minute. It is a volscyl flower?" Taff asked. Arck nodded. "You must retrieve it," Taff urged. "It is a dangerous thing. You gave her no great gift, when others would kill her to possess the knowledge it contains."

"Who would kill Strom? I think you're trying to scare me."

"The Great Betrayer would kill her for it."

"I'm not taking it back. I know you can do certain things with people. I mean, I will have Strom!" Shocked by the force of his own voice, Arck continued in a softer vein, "You must help me. I know you do such things. I watched you with my parents when you wanted to take me away to Clove, when I was a child, and mom didn't want me to go. She didn't trust you, so you worked something on her."

Confused about his powers and limitations, Arck wasn't sure enough of himself to issue a direct command to Taff, and for the Wizard's part, he betrayed no surprise; his thoughts must have been racing just to keep abreast of it.

Although raddled, Arck was driven on by his desire for Strom. "I know I can make her love me," he pleaded, "if I can make her see me as a man. Even if I could have her just once, break her down, then she would come with me." Arck flushed. "I didn't mean it quite like that. You know what I mean. Well, we should just take her with us and be done with it."

Taff stared into the fire. "She might never be able to return to Troan."

"What does it matter if she doesn't return? Return to what, that shack she lives in? Her horrible father?" In a quieter but firm tone, Arck said, "Then she can be with me before we go, and that will leave her free to decide for herself. You will help with at least that much. I must have her! Taff, do you understand?"

"I can't do it," he answered. "There is no time, no justification."

Arck pulled the noloyd from his neck and thrust it at Taff. "Don't you get it? I love her."

"Arck! The noloyd is not something you can give back. Pick up the gauntlet or die–those are your choices. Only at your death can you relinquish it. This is no game now, and I know that you know it. Perhaps it is Grey who has made you act this way. You can escape death only if the noloyd is in your possession. Without it, you will die sooner than later, be assured. And you insult my intelligence by pretending you don't understand. I know quite well that you have already learned as much from your dreams. No, I will not sin for you, Arck." He paused. "Grey was to be your guardian, not your social director!"

His voice softened, but there was a tinge of bitterness in it. "There is no choice for you. This is your fate. Sometimes the only choice is between destiny and nothing."

Arck looked up at him and wondered if personal experience was behind the words. "Desperate are the tools of change," he whispered involuntarily in a sarcastic manner.

"What?"

Arck tossed the noloyd on Taff's lap. "It's an expression from Grey."

Taff put out a hand and brushed a tangled fall of hair out of Arck's eyes. "Your skin is burning hot," he whispered affectionately, "perhaps, after all, you deserve some happiness, maybe there's a way to avoid the price of evil. I've a commitment to help you, though I advise against this. It is a wrong I can't condone, but I will obey as always. My resentment is building higher against Grey. I have been cataloguing the evidence of her crooked designs on you. The evidence is hidden inside my volscyl-architecture, where rooms within rooms, trunks within closets, and files within those trunks — even inside the walls of my wizardry itself — which exists in my mind like a huge, remote house built on ancient foundation, call to me. They confirm my distrust of her. It all says she is certainly up to something. Do you know what it is?"

Arck shook his head. He truly didn't know, but suspected that she thought she could kill the Betrayer if he set a foot on Troan and she had access to the power of the Taja and Kiji Noloyds. Arck didn't know why she felt this way.

"She is Anarchy," Taff continued. "She wants no one to rule, and she plans to not only destroy Power per se, but all power. As for Strom, if she decides not to accompany us, as will likely be the case, you may use nothing but open persuasion. Agreed?"

For a second Arck was hurt, but realized it was the best he was going to get from Taff and nodded. Actually, Arck hadn't expected to be obeyed so readily, if at all. Neither did he realize they would be leaving Troan so soon, and forever.

"Anyway, where will we go?" he asked. "Lorlett? Grey plans to uncover the Tij Noloyds hidden at Barkel Mountain and needs the Taja-disc to do it."

"Lorlett is a closed system," Taff said, adding to Arck's confusion. "Especially closed to you."

"Will my family be told?"

"For now, no," Taff said. He revealed nothing more of his actual plan.

"Are all my volscyl-dreams true then?"

"I don't know. They might be."

"Are the Zoras willing to follow me?"

"Zoraselma is a sleeping giant who will awake for the right leader" he said after a long silence, as if quoting lines from a poem.

Taff handed him a device shaped like a miniature book with five gold-plated pages, but which was in reality five books, a verdi-book. He withdrew one of the slates. It was engraved with fretted hollow lines and tiny squares. Lazurite rounds were embedded almost imperceptibly in the bottom corners, inside concave depressions the size of fingertips. It was pocket-sized and as thin as a pamphlet. Arck stared at it. Unbidden, his mind entered into it and understood its function.

"Read it," Taff said.

Arck pressed a lazurite button, the screen lit up like a deep orange ember. Letters outlined themselves and grouped into words of the Naja language. He deciphered the message as if it were written in a common Troan language.

'Selma Official Organ of Zoraselmain Self Government

Depresses 141, Indexes 40

Transducer: Liebrent Foundation

Historical Analysis Authenticated: Zor Wing

1.24 Cigner 4655 4 465565565655.'

It was phosphorescent in the dark; the glow lit up Arck's face. He caught his image in one of the modine's small rectangular reflectors, exposing an expression that was new to Arck. His finger pressed again, and new words formed. He continued reading and was mesmerized by the words. He learned of how the two Extremes coexisted in the Balance, of how the Overseer brought about the Great Order known also as the SelmaSarma-Unity, how one collection of Councils, the Wild Flowers, ruled with the other agencies of the Unity, the Vedas. He read how it broke down over the centuries, and how the Overseer became jailer and destroyer of the very freedom he was to protect. The Wild Flowers became like weeds to Him. Those who spoke for Balance became silent. Their power was too tenuous, and as the years passed, they were eliminated.

He felt Taff searching his face with his eyes. Taff was happy there was at least some reaction to what was his intellectual heritage. Arck didn't mind Taff's suspicions. He knew it was just a dream, or that Grey had messed with him so badly that he was her pawn, or that he was on the brink of understanding and just needed a little help.

Before Arck turned in that night, Grey came to say good night. "Tell me straight, Grey, is Taff right?" Arck asked, "Do I have to leave Troan?"

"You are free from his command," she mindsaid, "but it depends."

She jumped up to the side of the roll-away-bed and stared at Arck for a minute. "Troan, is in its adolescence of early industrialization. The planet would better be left alone, but two Pulsar ships draw close — huge and powerful enough to change that — immense and unwelcome visitors. They aren't necessarily the death knells for the planet. It's all risky. Both Pulsar ships are hidden on the dark side of the black moon, Dobos, the satellite to the giant gas planet, Gradle. That's more than three hundred million miles away from Troan. So nearly overnight — in solar reckoning — Dobos has gained two satellites, one is Dread's personal ship, Tragal; the other, Avamrate, is his fierce servant, Bandor's. Tragal is a machine one-eighth the size of the moon it orbits, and, for an artificial creation, herculean–one of the largest in the Cluster. It arrived yesterday."

"How do you know all this?"

"At this time," Grey continued, ignoring Arck, "the planets Gradle and Troan are in superior conjunction in the orbit of Mer — this is why the Pulsar ships have chosen to hide in the shadows of Dobos. From Troan they are hard for Coldfire, Taff's Pulsarite partner, to detect–Coldfire would destroy them in a minute."

"Does Taff know the Betrayer has come?"

"If he doesn't then Coldfire does, so in effect he must, unless they're operating in silence for your protection."

"Is Troan in danger, then?"

"That is what I meant, 'By it all depends.'"

### The Great Betrayer 5

In the control room of the Pulsar ship, Tragal, among hundreds of dull, anonymous slaves, Eft, the Great Betrayer, stood as a massive giant. He was twice Troanean size, and his coloring was the dullest, blackest of black, as befitted his nature. He had black murderous eyes, black teeth; indeed he more closely resembled a black empty space than a living being. He was a giant descended from a race of giants who lived before known time, the Spurls.

At this distance from Troan, Eft could not be sure yet if his nemesis, Taff Hart, was on the planet or not. They had not spotted Coldfire, Taff's Pulsarite, nor any of his servants on Troan, but Eft had a nose for this sort of thing, especially for the Wizard, and it felt like he was somewhere down there.

Months ago, when Bandor contacted him from Troan, Eft had said, "Troan? Where the hell is this Troan?" Then, when he called it up on the brettiscreen, an intuition of the Wizard's presence tickled his mind. There could be no question it was worth the long trip if that evil fiend, Taff Hart, could be found in the Mer Star System. And now, it looked probable. A rush of anticipation made him laugh loudly, which startled an approaching Bonelve, one of the very same race as the creature who now followed the Proudhon in Gat. The Bonelve stopped in his tracks and bowed timidly.

"Yes?" Eft barked.

"Lord," the small black creature said, "Bandor is here at your service!"

The giant nodded. "Show him in."

Bandor entered the room, either smiling or mimicking a smile, and looked up fearlessly at his master. He stuck out among the Vilemarcs with his muscular build and his loveless intelligent eyes. He had important news. "I have confirmed for myself that an Ariste Druid is indeed on the planet. Even now I have dispatched one of my lieutenants to her location."

––

Excitement in the mansion approached its peak. Strings of handmade silken loran-holly hung in the kitchen and a pot of hot herbal prill clinked against strange-looking porcelain cups. The seasonal cups had been crafted by Fonny's mother decades before, over an open flame in a cabin no better than a tent.

Fonny and Taff sat together in the back sunroom.

Arck's brothers were in the backyard, playing a game in the snow, called, chibble. The girls, except Di who was old enough to play with the boys, filled the third floor with screams of excitement and wild whisperings, in rooms with closets leading into other rooms, in a house that held a century of unsolved mystery. This Zora-mansion contained many possibilities: spiders' webs continually replaced those dutifully swept down by Pom, and became entrapments for many kinds of imaginary enemies, and there were many secret lairs for children's fertile imaginations.

Taff's eyes stopped gazing into his cup as Arck sat beside them, and then from Arck, to out the window. "The place is so beautiful this time of year," he said with a whisper to Fonny, "the estate is doing well, hmm?"

After getting Arck a juice, Fonny refilled Taff's drink, then hers, nodding. She rose as Pom entered the room to build up the fire. "Pom, please join us for prill," she said.

"Thank you," said Pom. "What a lovely treat." She nodded a quiet smile toward Taff, then attended to the fireplace. When she finished, she looked out at the children playing in the backyard snow. She was a woman perhaps a decade younger than Fonny's age, she wore her dark hair in short, fine curls around her face, and her somewhat sallow skin reminded Arck of his own paleness. Like Grey, she'd been with the family since Arck's birth.

A burst of sparks flew from the fireplace as she sat down and took the cup Fonny handed her. They sat and sipped prill, without speaking, as old friends who needed no conversation to enjoy each other's company, but as always Arck was restless. Noise from upstairs intruded into the pleasant quietness. Pom lifted her head toward the squeals and thumps. She took a large swallow from her cup and placed it on the low table. "I must see to those girls," she said. "Thank you for the prill. It was good."

Fonny sat as though lost in her thoughts, and her face grew increasingly sad as she studied Arck. "What are you thinking about?" Taff asked her.

"Myself, I guess," Fonny answered, trying an unsuccessful smile. "Remember university? I was so young. I never told you, but I had quite a crush on you then–the older man who seemed to know everything, sophisticated, and, I have to admit, handsome and elegant." Now she managed a reminiscent smile, but it faded quickly. "Then there was Rem. He wanted me to marry him, and it seemed the proper thing to do. My parents liked him, they thought he'd be successful in business. They were right."

"And?"

"We've been husband and wife for twenty-five years. The price has been high. Except for the children." She stopped, as though shocked at her own words, but it may have been that Arck was there. "Oh, Taff, I'm sorry. I never speak about such things, especially in front of the children." He didn't reply.

"But what worries me now is my sweetie-pie, here." She turned away from her own problems as her motherhood regained its precedence and kissed Arck on the cheek. "He seems so confused."

Taff smiled. "Everyone has to find his own identity. Unfortunately, Arck's quest is harder than most."

"I didn't know such difficulties occurred in ordinary families," she said.

Despite themselves, both Taff and Arck laughed, but then Taff shook his head sympathetically. "I don't know about ordinary, but there's an old expression where I was raised. It goes, 'Irony is justice turned on its head.' Just pretend Arck isn't your son–pretend he's from another world."

The manner of his talking and his tone of voice, combined with the fact that he had laid his hands on hers, made Arck think he was exerting sama-influence. Arck knew that sama was the study of the essences of the mind, especially neurons, their sentient travel-ways and their practical utility, and that the Wizards and Druids were masters at its application.

"Taff, tell me, is he an artist?" she asked, ignoring his remark as if it was an absurdity and quickly, gently, hugging Arck. "Some friends who saw the birds downstairs offered an inordinate amount for the pair," she continued. "They said he would be a great artist some day, if not already one."

Her eyes sought his affirmation, and Arck's too. "He'll be a great artist, after a fashion," Taff said shrugging, "if he'll be anything at all."

Arck realized that she knew better than to ask for an explanation, although she probably found something ominous in Taff's words, at least Arck did. She poured prill into the empty cups and juice into her son's. "Did you know that he won an indoor racing event at the Inter-County events this year?" Again she kissed Arck, this time on the forehead. "It's the first time he's ever won anything. He runs like the furies, they say."

"He should," Taff said winking at Arck, "he's being chased by them." Neither Fonny nor Arck laughed. Taff smiled and patted her hand. Then Arck sensed Grey, and turned his head toward the stairs, but she was not in sight.

Fonny's love for him was worrisome. How could he ever let her go? He realized that they had to take at least her, and of course, Strom and Tob.

"Your death is going to be carefully simulated," Grey mindsaid to Arck out of sight as though she knew what he was presently thinking.

Arck rose angered, but Taff grabbed his wrist and sat him down again. Taff scanned left and right for Grey but like Arck couldn't spot her.

"Fonny, for his own good, I must take him away from here with me after Charblind–just for a while."

Fonny got up and left the room, her hands nervously to her face. Her walk was unsteady, whether from the shock or emotion, Arck couldn't tell; perhaps both.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Arck, my announcement wasn't completely unexpected. They know you have to go, but it's more than that. Your presence here is endangering them, every one of them. CentreRule is ruthless, but the Great Betrayer is downright cruel. They think you've just moved with me to Clove for therapy. They'll be a droy accident. It has to happen. I just pray she doesn't grieve overly much. We must leave Troan before the Betrayer arrives. Whether he yet is onto us or not, you have been discovered, and now you possess the One Noloyd. It is time to go!"

The girls floated downstairs to Taff, Pom's influence obvious in their temporarily ladylike conduct. He performed simple magic tricks for them, with cards that purported to tell a story of their hearts. By then, Fonny and Pom started preparations for supper.

Soon, finally chilled by the cold late afternoon, Di, the four boys and a couple of other children arranged themselves around the fireplace, and enjoined Taff to predict their futures, too.

One neighbor child was a blond boy no more than ten; another, his black-eyed brother who was filled with awe. Another girl, Di's age, had sores over her lips and was dressed in rags. She stood beside a boy with a high whining voice.

The children's response swelled, as did their expectations, forcing Taff to expand his performance to meet the demands of his young customers.

"How could he be the captain of a mighty Pulsarite?" Arck asked himself, "or a vast army."

It made no sense to him.

"But he is," Grey mindsaid, "and you will soon seize control of them, and others too–many Pulsarites, many races, and we will crush the oppressors forever."

Arck frowned and left the mansion to be alone to think. He trudged through the deep snow and leaned against an enormous snow-covered pople-tree.

––

The sickly figure, who called himself Lyck, shivered as the cold increased, but noticed Arck come directly below him. He felt the Taja and was readying to strike, readying to drop down in surprise, to kill. He crawled carefully, slowly, down the tree-trunk, readying to strike–the temptation was just too great.

"Bah!" he said to himself with a soft whisper when at length he saw the Druid spring up on the snow beside the Proudhon. "Poor Lyck," he muttered.

He cursed the Druid foully, hid his hooked blade back inside his cloak, and sneaked away to the top of the tree. He knew he dare not come any closer to the monstrous, stinky Druid. She was too dangerous for his defenses. It was said among the Bonelves that the Aristes ate their victims alive. However, the Master would be here any time now, to put an end to these horrible Zora-fiends.

### The Great Betrayer 6

On the eve of Charblind, just before supper, Arck was asleep in DreamWorld. He visited a place so full of sunshine and color and so perfect that it was the opposite of his troubled heart. The flower woodviolet beguiled him, then fireweed, and silktree. There was a loud knock at the door. He woke abruptly, and felt something warm around the back of his shoulders. It was Tob, tucked up in the blanket, sound asleep. In front of him, Grey's green eyes glared at the door. The knocking had turned into a stubborn banging.

"Yeah," Arck shouted.

"We're looking for Tob." It was Mal.

"He's here," Arck answered.

"Tell him he's missing his supper." Receding steps floated away like DreamWorld.

Tob jumped up and trotted out of Arck's haphazard room. "Come and eat, Arck."

Arck stroked Grey and crawled out of bed. His new Charblind clothes were a crumpled pile. Yawning, he tried futilely to straighten them out, then gave up and sat on his heels, with his back against the wall, and rubbed his eyes. He fell into a sleepy trance and how much time went by, he couldn't have said.

Taff tapped at the door. "It's time to go," he said, walking into the room and giving Arck a hand up.

Taff helped Ark dress and combed his hair, and for once it looked nearly presentable. He grabbed Taff's hand. "You'll make sure nothing happens to me tonight," he urged.

"I thought that you wanted something to happen, tonight." There was a touch of sarcasm in the comment.

"Maybe I better take something." Arck turned to reach for a drawer for sedatives.

Taff touched his arm and stopped him. "You are fine. You're just flustered, caught between being a man and a boy. Come, you'll be late. And stop worrying."

The Wizard gave him a tight hug and a warm smile.

"Taff, do understand. I love Strom!" He took a heavy breath. "We must be united."

Taff gave his head a slow shake. "Come along." He led the way upstairs.

"Good Luck," Fonny whispered at the front door. She handed Arck a clear box with a red gillyflower nestling inside it.

"But I have already given her a flower, Mom," Arck said, not taking the waiting box. Taff grabbed his arm and pushed it toward Fonny's outstretched hands. Taff glared at him, holding his arm so that he stood facing her until he understood what was expected.

"Thanks, Mom," he said.

Taff turned him and nudged him toward the door and he waved goodbye almost happily. They loaded in the sedan and he glanced back. Tob and Fonny looked out of the big bay window until they pulled out of the driveway onto the rail. A black silhouette moving near the garages caught Fonny's eye, but she blinked and it was gone. She looked more carefully. Had it been there at all? She wasn't sure.

On a dark street nicknamed Old Madhouse Road, Taff and Arck drove past trees heavy with wet snow, then they passed the rows of an enormous group of buildings, a prison of sorts. A short distance beyond the complex, they turned into the Strom's unploughed driveway. Strom's father was a caretaker at the Asylum, but that's all Arck knew about him, except of course, the other things.

The sedan's bright headlights revealed an ill-tended, small white bungalow in a line of ill-tended, small white bungalows which, even covered by snow, showed a need for fresh paint. As Arck walked toward the house, a curtainless window showed Strom standing under bright lights in a confused anteroom just beyond the roofless veranda. A couple of paces away, her father sat in a chair tilted back against a shabby buffet. He was gulping something from a large mug. Arck knocked and waited a moment, but neither one seemed to hear him. He knocked again, then opened the door and stepped inside.

"Hi," he said, calmly enough, but he stared at Strom. She wore a simple white dress with the vibrant purple larkspur pinned below her throat. A white ribbon fastened her velvety dark hair back.

He tried to sound casual, but his heart was thumping. "You look nice . . . I mean . . . lovely. You look lovely." He took the long grey coat from her arm and held it for her. The amulet began to feel warm against his chest but he ignored it.

Strom's father's unshaven face was a patchwork of wrinkles, gray stubble and ruby-red broken veins. Even his eyes were red-veined. He let his chair move forward so its front legs returned to the floor, then he pulled himself to his feet, one hand holding the chair for support. Arck looked at him cautiously. Her father let go of the chair. Unsteady, he moved close to Arck and thrust his face inches from him. His breath stunk of malt–today's on top of yesterday's.

"You're the strange quirk everybody talks about," he said, his voice loud and accusing. He scowled with contempt. "Don't look like much to me." He laughed, and his mouth was ugly and lascivious. His upper lip quivered grotesquely. "Come, give us a kiss. We'll see if you're a boy or a girl." He laughed uproariously at his own wit. It was plain that he was disgustingly drunk.

"Daddy," Strom pleaded, "Please, don't talk like that."

"Shut your mouth," her father barked back. "You are sounding like your mother." He glared at her, and she flushed, embarrassed. He swung around quickly to Arck. "Now give us that kiss," he commanded, then he reached out and seized Arck in powerful, sweaty arms, and kissed him roughly and wetly on the lips. He drew back with a guttural laugh and spit to the floor. "He's no man," he said to Strom. "I can tell you that. I can see you'll be safe tonight." He laughed, not knowing there was irony in his prophecy, and then he belched and laughed again. "Now get out of here before I change my mind and steal another kiss from your pretty boyfriend." He tried a bald-faced smile, but it became a leer. He made a grab toward Strom. She moved swiftly to escape. Her face was as pale as her dress.

Arck was rooted to the spot, his chest tight with anger. Tears welled in his eyes. He forced himself to breathe more evenly but, still enraged, he shouted, "You should die for such an act."

"Killed for a kiss?" mocked the old man. "It's a cruel king you'd make. Ha, ha, ha!" Then he shoved his mouth up to Arck's face again, "Get out!"

Arck grabbed Strom by the waist and half-pulled, half-pushed her out into the flurry of snow. He tripped on the steps and ripped the knee of his pants as he fell, the ones he had just been given for Charblind.

Taff stepped out of the droy, perhaps sensing something was wrong. Arck watched Grey leapt out the open door right behind him. She flew past him toward the house so fast Taff didn't have time to move, then Arck realized that Grey might attack Strom's father.

"Rayta ja, ma journe," Arck said in a harsh tone. It was an ancient Pallish expression, meaning, 'Whoever serves wrath, serves madness.'

Grey crashed up against the door, with an eerie piercing howl. The door vibrated and rattled as if it were going to be torn from its hinges. Razor claws slashed deep gouges into the wood. The inside door swung open.

Strom's drunken father saw the furious, wild-looking creature and backed away. He was unsteady and he almost tripped. A dull white pallor replaced the red surface of his cheeks. Grey shone as if a thing made of white electricity, with the snow and the air around her, a halo of light.

"Rayta ja," Arck shouted, hardly knowing what he said. "Ma journe." Then he translated it aloud in Troanish, "Beware! You will obey me in this one instance!"

Grey watched the old man trembling before her and said aloud, "If not for his kindness, you would be dead this instant." The light around her disappeared as she turned and returned to the car.

As soon as the droy turned onto the darkening road, Strom whispered, "Pull over, I'm going to be sick." Taff was there to help her, almost before the door opened, but she wasn't sick and the sharp cold air soon brought her around. Taff reached back inside the droy and produced a container of water. She drank some, coughed and regained her color.

"All right, now?" he asked. She nodded, and apologized. Arck helped her back into the droy, with a word or two of reassurance. They drove in silence for a time, along the wintry road.

At length, Strom touched the larkspur. Arck could see that a vague suspicion was beginning to grow in her mind. "This flower should have withered by now," she said, "but it hasn't. It isn't even crushed, rather, it's as beautiful as the second I received it. Why is that?"

Grey looked on, breathing quietly and contentedly, almost smug. Arck realized that she thought she had picked the correct female companion for him. Arck was just glad she hadn't hurt Strom's father. He knew that she had looked sorely tempted.

"To love a flower is to love all life," Arck said, quoting Grey from an earlier time. In the way that he said it, he thought she might understand something.

Moments later, Taff eased into the parking lot of the dance hall.

"Well," he said, smiling at them for a moment. His eyes were inscrutable. He reached over and touched the forehead of Strom with a fleeting brush of his fingers, murmuring an incantation under his breath. She didn't register it, but Arck did. "I'll be back when you are both ready to go," he whispered. "In the meantime, do not fail to follow the rhythm of the dance." The phrase sounded innocent enough, and Arck knew Strom was completely unaware that his murmured words had been those of sorcery. Arck on the other hand ignored them. He didn't want to face his own guilt in this seduction. Now that she was at his side — seeing her stunning beauty — he was greedy for her, but greedy for her heart as well.

Arck took her hand and in the background of the dance-hall a recording blared out popular music. The live band had not yet started. He smiled nervously as they moved through the swirling lights. He saw one of his brothers, Mal, deliberately keeping his distance, but also watching carefully. Strom headed toward her friends, but she did not let go of his hand. She was so lovely that it was like a dream, and he was scared that it was a dream, a dream within a dream. He felt a new and inexplicable attraction to her. It could have been the result of Taff's spell, or Grey's powerful mental hold on him. He had stood against her father and he could feel that she liked it. She had given him courage. Though Arck's academy-mates had known him most of their lives, they pretended to be meeting someone new, and the kinder ones among them half-hoped that his improved appearance was more than a surface change.

A surly-looking boy bent toward Strom's ear. "Hey, Strom, how are you doing?" He half nudged between Strom and Arck.

She shrugged, turned away from him and squeezed up against Arck. He was uncomfortable by everyone's obvious appraisal. He hugged her back, swallowing hard. Instead of being elated by this unexpected sign of affection, he suddenly felt depressed. The lyrics of a moody song did nothing to lift his spirits.

Come on, give your heart to someone.

Come on, give your heart right away.

Won't you dance the night away?

And give your heart to someone.

She watched Arck carefully. He was frowning, and she could see he felt shy and insecure. With a graceful turn, she took his hand and pulled him onto the empty floor. He let the circling lights hold his attention. Grey was helping him. She was just outside the hall. They were the first out and he was drowning in the lights, but he locked into the beat of the music. With the strange sense used in his dreams, he stretched his form and pivoted around her in counterpoint rhythm. He turned blue for an instant as his mind touched the noloyd, but no one noticed–it appeared only that a blue beam of light had flashed over him.

They swirled, he in black, she in white, energy flowed out of them and back into their hearts. His desire melded with the rhythm of the music, and his self-consciousness released him. They danced lightly. He smiled, and Strom laughed in relief. His head was spinning.

After the dance, on their way to Taff's droy, he stopped and took Strom's hands in his own. Stumbling for words to say, he caught himself about to speak in the language of the Zoras. He stopped himself and took a deep breath. Then he managed to get the words out, "I love you, Strom." Before she could say anything, he asked, "Can we go for a walk before you go home?" His voice sounded a bit desperate to him, but this would be his only opportunity–Grey was advancing, Taff was nearby. Tomorrow he may be a billion miles away. He sensed that she wanted to say no, but perhaps the thought of her father intervened, placed there by Grey.

"If you want to," she said. "Okay."

When they reached the waiting droy, they conveyed their wishes to Taff, who was unusually uncommunicative, and offered no suggestion of a location for their walk, but he could see that Arck was growing agitated and impatient.

Along the rail-less side road which led up from the town's academy, not a hundred strides from a large graveyard, Taff slowed the droy and pulled into a driveway buried in snow. Headstones were no more than mounds and drifts of white.

Arck grabbed the door open and pulled Strom's arm to get her out. His roughness tipped her off that something was wrong, but she stepped out without protest, perhaps not sure why she did so. "Arck," she said, "the snow's awfully deep for walking. And it's so dark, and too cold."

"No, it's okay," he said, holding her arm tightly. "Come on, it's fine."

Her long grey cloth coat dragged in the snow, and the cold air stung his face. The academy stood dark against the winter landscape ahead of them. He could see that she was getting nervous, even a bit scared. In spite of her new rush of affection for him, he was still strange and unpredictable. Taff stood beside his droy watching. Arck knew that he was determined to make this as difficult as possible for him and, as soon as they were out of sight, Taff released Strom from his control.

Arck breathed steadily now. It was strange, but he was waiting for the Wizard's spell to work, not understanding how he had got Strom this far into a night so pitch black and cold.

"Desire is the appetite of imagination," he whispered to Strom, quoting Grey.

She faced him in the dark. "Someone keeps saying that in my dreams."

She meant to step away, inexplicably nervous, but then a blue light emanated from him which stopped her dead in her tracks. Above them, a smooth vermeil disc, wafer thin and smaller than a human heart, spun crazily around with dizzying speed, like a green electrified moth, defying both gravity and Troanean common sense. Taff was now busily taking up space in two locations at one and the same time and he invoked a reaction of psychic samawaves. Arck watched as Strom's fear slid away.

She stared at his blue aura. "What is it and who are you?"

"You must forgive me for loving you."

"I forgive you, Arck " Her eyes were opened wide. "I just realized . . . I love you."

"Look above you."

She looked up and saw the green star ten heads above her–it was Taff's vermeil disc, the Kiji Noloyd and was oscillating at incredible speeds, and again her eyes met Arck's. "How this can affect how I feel, I don't know, but you still haven't–"

"Tonight is our only chance to—"

She stepped up and held him. Mouth-to-mouth, they kissed as she fell further under the spell. Arck was totally bewildered. A lonely, desolate feeling to him while at the same time he was overwhelmed by attraction. It hurt.

The snow was still falling into harmonious sculptures in the bitter cold. They felt for each other's warmth. There was no method or order to the rite. Her freezing fingers were faster than Arck's, and his shirt was undone while he was still fumbling for the fastener of her dress. She reached under her coat, to her back, and reefed the zipper down.

He started to unbuckle his belt. Her arms slid out of her coat, then back into it so quickly it seemed impossible that her dress and underwear were now at her feet. She was impossibly beautiful. It was a perfect body of an exquisitely-formed young woman.

Her freed hands took a second or two to leave him standing in nothing but the noloyd amulet. A blue glow began to form around them. She opened her arms, he wrapped his under them, and she closed the coat as best she could around his back.

They lost their balance and tumbled back into a snow bank.

The sama-actiniform protected them both from the cold, then as they lost themselves to the samafire, it turned to a bright blue flame which took them both away to a place far from a Troanean schoolyard.

### The Great Betrayer 7

Behind the garages at the Bolkant mansion, a large gray creature stamped about in a state of angry contempt, an unwieldy cloop cloak cast about him to ward off the frigid air and hide his sama-weapons. His eyes were a violent yellow due to gravity sickness. The five most skilled of the Bonelves huddled together in front of him, including Lyck.

"There may be a long wait," he said in their language, Ace. "There is a Wizard, Taff Hart. Infamous he is, infamous. And there is a Druid, probably not of high rank. Stop fidgeting!" he suddenly shouted to the skinny black forms.

Added to their shivers from the cold, the Bonelves trembled in fear before Vupec. Though they were the Betrayer's Bonelves, and thus were usually in no danger from the Vilemarcs, Vupec answered directly to the High Lieutenant Bandor, who was in the Betrayer's closest faction and even had a Chrisarmain Pulsar ship of his own. No one wanted to face the wrath of Bandor, let alone the Great Betrayer whom the Bonelves called Dread. These Bonelves were especially terrified of the Great Betrayer, after having worked so long for one of his medial lieutenants.

"If the Druid moves far enough away from the house," Vupec continued, "We can take the Wizard by surprise. I will kill him, and his dying thoughts will tell me if the boy is among that family of Troaneans or if it's some Druid's trick. Spare no one in their house, young or old. They must all die.

"Yes, yes!" the Bonelves agreed, "They must all die!"

"When I release my power against the Wizard, this is your sign. If any escape, ha! You will know of it! If there are sama amulets on any of the family, take them. But eat no flesh, you fiends! Not until we are done! Understood? Also, there is a girl in the same village who carries a Druid weapon, a volscyl device. Who can explain these oddities? She is possibly a Witch. Watch for her! Now prepare yourselves!"

Vupec smiled grimly. The Great Betrayer had come to Mer. Perhaps he would even land on Troan. This uplifted his heart. He would be promoted for his discovery, if indeed it was the Proudhon. Not even Bandor could keep this reward from him. And in his heart, Vupec was quite certain he had discovered the location of the Taja Proudhon, whom the Vilemarcs called the 'The Evil One,' and although he hadn't yet personally identified him, he soon would.

––

Taff drove to the Bolkant mansion. He tried to put behind him the meddling he had done at the Proudhon's command. He rubbed his fingers through his hair. The importance of end results was uppermost in his mind; as a result, his normal concern for justice had been compromised. The air outside was even colder now, and the night was blacker. Was this the first of many mortal sins for the Proudhon, he wondered, or the last of a few venial?

Troan had whipped up a real blizzard. Over the house he could see snow swirling in the glow of festive lights. He pulled up and sat there for a few minutes, allowing the rotation of the planet to draw off his anxiety, just as the Witches had taught him, but neither calmness nor alertness would be achievable goals for him tonight.

He entered the house, and stepped into a commotion of laughter and excitement. He was uneasy and depressed, and it was getting late, but going straight to bed was out of the question.

"Oh, you're home." Fonny smiled warmly. "Sit here, Taff, I'll fix you a drink."

He nodded and sat down in a thickly-cushioned chair, with a sigh.

Rem smiled, loose-limbed and glassy-eyed, watching his sons and Taff in turn.

Malory stepped into the living room. His long great coat was still on his back, and he was snow-covered and wet. He was lanky and long haired, thin like Arck, but otherwise unlike him except that he was usually pale. On this occasion, however, he was flushed and a little tipsy.

"You should have seen Arck," he said, "You wouldn't have believed it." He reached the center of the room and moving his hands as he talked. "They were a real pair, him and Strom. We were waiting for him to trip, faint, or something. Hah! Well, he fooled us."

"Really?" Fonny said, returning with Taff's drink. There was an expression of wonder on her face as she handed the glass to the Wizard.

Stearn entered the room and headed straight to the candy bowl. He, also, was dripping wet and snowy. Pom followed him in and took his coat. "Hi," he said, nodding and smiling at everybody.

"How about a brew?" Malory said. He was one year younger than Arck.

"Tonight?" Fonny said.

"No, Mom, tomorrow night," Stearn laughed, delighted with his joke. "He is asking ahead." There was laughter all around.

"Well, all right, just . . . well, just one."

Watching, the Wizard wasn't sure if she saw that one more of her sons was less than sober, or had chosen to ignore it.

Stearn joined Malory. Outside, Keaton yelled from the balcony. A snowball hit a window pane. Di flipped over a recording and it began a haunting chorale. Pom put a log on the blazing fire, sat down close to the hearth. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

It was all a bit distant to Taff, but there was something wonderful about it as well, with the lights flashing, the festive spirits, and obvious good will and affection.

From behind the dining hall door, Keaton crept in with stocking feet and a finger to his lips. There were snowballs in his hands. He crouched behind the rotating lights. Those who could see him pretended not to. Through the front hall, Tob gained the arch, knocking down some holly. As he bent to pick it up, Keaton tackled him and began shoving the snowballs down the front of his pants. Tob hollered until he was breathless, and fell to the floor squealing and giggling. Keaton jumped up, crowing with laughter.

"Ha! Gotcha!" he shouted.

Everyone found the boys' antics hilarious.

Fonny rose, took Keaton by the arm, and whispered something in his ear. He swaggered away, still laughing.

Tob gasped, pulling the snow out of his pants and chuckling happily.

Fonny eyed him fondly and laughed again. They were normal boys she knew. Yet, Tob truly took to Arck, and without knowing why, this made her concerned for him. "Dear," she said, "Make yourself and Di some hot prill."

Keaton bustled in, lost to view behind a brilliant pile of boxes and bows.

"Wait for us," Tob shouted over his shoulder.

The parcels were placed in front of Taff.

"Oh forget the long face," Fonny said to him squeezing his arm. "This year, you receive gifts like the rest of us." Her eyes reflected a tenderness as she added, "You are always here for us when we need you, Taff."

"You are officially a member of our family," Stearn said, his voice sparkling. "I mean it. Every time you're around Arck is better. He really loves you. And so do we."

"Yes, why don't you stay with us," suggested Malory. "You could tutor Arck. We have lots of money, right Pop?"

The Wizard saw that the children had set up a family campaign. He was more pleased than surprised by their efforts. In fact, he was touched by their invitation.

"That is not possible for Arck," he said in a resolute tone, yet as gently as he could manage. "He has to go away. That is best."

Pom placed another drink on a small table at his side. He looked at her reflectively. She understood better than the others. She knew something of the Zoraselmains–very little, but more than most. But it was only natural that her sympathies were with the family.

"I would like to stay here," he said. "I have even looked at a farm or two, and I have the means, as you know. I wish I could. In a way, I wish I could."

He closed his eyes. He was tired. His talk of staying here was no more than dreaming out loud. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. Age rippled across his face and he appeared old for an instant, then it was gone, so quickly no one had noticed. "Arck will be in danger if he stays here. There are those who will harm him, those who cannot accept what he is."

"Surely you don't mean that," Fonny said. She sat back confused.

Taff realized he had gone too far. His truth was a gift, but no one would have it. "I tell you he is in danger here," he repeated. "I wish you could believe me."

They did not understand of course, and he could go no further. They had not seen Arck's power, only his weakness that was caused by it. Now that his power was becoming externalized, they would be in danger too.

Tob and Di padded in, dripping hot prill, and not noticing the change of moods. Tob put down his hot drink and reached for the Wizard's gifts.

"Here, open Keaton's first. It's stupid."

"Ah, the gifts," the Wizard said, shaking off his sadness and foreboding. "I guess there's no getting around it."

Tob handed him a present wrapped in white. Taff opened it with dexterous hands. It was the Book of Charblind, leather bound, set in old-style type, thick and full of illustrations. No hint of his surprise betrayed him, but he recoiled unconsciously. He sat, a stiff smile on his lips, tapping the religious tome between his hands and trying to think of something to say. The room was quiet.

"Told you it was stupid," Tob said. "He probably has a better one at home."

"Shut up, Tob."

At length, Taff thanked Keaton, and then a procession of presents (liqueur and candy, sweaters and ties), was piled onto him until he begged for time to open them. Then Tob's gift was rolled to his lap, and his heart stopped for a second. He could sense something inside; it was something alive. He tried to remain calm but anxiety filled him. How? How was Arck doing this before his time? He must have missed something. Then it came to him–the Druid. The Ariste Druid was scheming.

Reluctantly, he opened the package. It contained a glimmering dragon volscyl flower with five florets, each a different color–gold, silver, black velvet, rich purple-blue-teal–a vivid rainbow of almost unbearable beauty. Its form and intricacy could not be mistaken for anyone's creation but Grey's, and the Wizard was stunned. He looked at the bloom with distrust. Exhausted, he felt his composure slipping away.

"I need a breath of air," he mumbled, handing the glowing flower to Tob. Abruptly he got up and walked out of the room, to the astonishment of the Bolkant family, leaving all of them wondering what they had done wrong. But the work of art was so strange that it proclaimed itself a gift unlike any other. Which only added to their perplexity.

Taff reached the hall, with Tob trailing behind him. He could not help a smile. Reaching for his coat, he asked, "Where did you get such a thing, Tob?"

Tob looked up at him, confused. "I asked Arck to help me find something special for you," he answered with a hurt expression. Tob looked like a little pixie, standing there, holding the flower. The Wizard patted his shoulder while he got into his overcoat.

"It's beautiful, Tob."

The boy smiled happily, and grabbed his own coat. Taff's fears were confirmed; the gift was another version of the larkspur, another volscyl-flower. This all warned of immense danger. "What else?" he asked himself with a whisper. "Is the Ariste Druid mad as well?" These were tangible things the enemy could detect.

Together Tob and Taff stepped out to the balcony which surrounded the house. The snow was still swirling in the electric light. Beyond the glow, the wind howled in darkness where nothing could be seen. Their breath was whipped away from their faces. It was useless to try to talk. They began to walk the ring of the house, kicking up the snow they shuffled through.

In trying to increase the Proudhon's safety, the Wizard realized he had stayed away too long on Troan. The Ariste had bent Arck's capabilities to her own design.

For some time, Taff shuffled around the balcony, weary and increasingly anxious.

Something was definitely troubling his samasense. There was some danger about–he should not have left the Proudhon alone tonight. But then, he sensed Arck's presence gaining the property, gaining safety, and he breathed easier. He moved in that direction, keeping Tob close to him. Then, a shriek, as of a thousand banshees, sliced into his ears. Some huge, dark, alien thing was behind them on the balcony. It was there, then it launched itself, like a missile above them, ready to attack. It hissed a jet of foul steam, and screamed in anger and triumph.

"Freeguard!" Vupec's voice withered the very light around them, and his form became a nebula of black. A Vilemarc. A Vilemarc had caught the Wizard off-guard. He had spoken, and that one word was a boast. The Vilemarc couldn't resist gloating; he needed to let his victim, the great Taff Hart, know that he was going to die.

Faster than thought, the Wizard instinctively began a volscyl-withdrawal into his Kiji Noloyd, his whole being — his self, soul, psyche, mind — sucked into a funnel of vertigo.

His body fell out from under him, but even as he tottered a flash of fire enveloped him in an explosion of green and crimson flame. Energy flowed from the huge creature over the body of the Hart-Wizard like a massive fall of red-hot lava. The noloyd disc at his neck glowed bright emerald. His body was lifted and thrown back against the house, fell to the icy deck, and exploded like torched fuel. The emerald glow was gone. Then, faintly, the ghost of a green glow touched the place where his body had been. It deepened, and something, some vague outline of the Wizard's body existed, replacing the nothing in that spot. The glow made another surge, and the outline became stronger, then the green light was reborn in a glorious burst of strength that wrapped around the hazy figure and infused it with its own power. The figure gained volume and dimension until it was recognizable as the Wizard's body–showing no sign of life but wholly there in the disc.

But Vupec, certain his enemy had been destroyed, had already turned his attention elsewhere. Tob had been flung back by the explosion. His injured form was crumpled into a dark corner and half-covered by snow. Vupec didn't even notice what looked like a forgotten piece of clothing, or a cleaning rag, left outside.

Inside the house, the commotion brought Di and Pom to the double glass doors overlooking the back of the property. Their screams brought the rest of the family. Vupec swirled around, turning like a black specter on the Bolkant mansion. The creature drew to its awesome height and in one fabulous blast of power attacked the Zoraselmain domain. The house heaved, and windows blew out into the night.

The Bolkant family stood speechless, watching the giant human-like figure wrapped in a dark robe. Only a few strides away, Vupec stood. He was deep grey and velvet-skinned like a mole, almost beautiful, and his eyes were aflame with acid-yellow radiation. His narrow lips were stretched into a grim parody of a smile, and he looked the essence of everything unnatural.

Inside, a small black minion of the Vilemarc's, a Bonelve slunk toward the gathered family from behind. On the roof, another Bonelve broke the hinge off an attic shutter and slipped into the house. The fortress was now breached, and Vupec hunched forward, ever so slowly, watching horror creep into the mesmerized faces staring at him. The family was shocked into realizing this was real, not a nightmare, and they were trapped.

At the far end of the long driveway, the Proudhon had sensed the Wizard's fall. He reeled and fell, almost unconscious himself, but after a few minutes he rose, his heart pounding with fear, and ran swiftly toward the house. At the front of the mansion, he saw, and somehow recognized, the Bonelve who had been following him. It was entering the house from the south side. He felt a vast expanse of something unknown opening inside him as he swung the main door open. The house was falling into pieces, disintegrating. A blue neon glow grew around his thin form and he drew strength from its diffused radiance.

He burst into the room, a blue shimmering apparition. Rem was pushing Fonny toward the back stairs. In this same split second, a small black hand jabbed a stiletto knife hilt-deep into Stearn's back and punctured his heart. His escaping cry was sliced into silence. The Proudhon leaped, screaming, but Stearn was dead before he hit the ground.

The rest of the family turned to the scene with complete disbelief, then panic hit them and they bolted in all directions. Another diminutive jet black creature jumped forward from the living room. Malory, still immobilized by shock, saw his father rush at one of the Bonelves, then suddenly he fell and lay face up on the floor with his eyes staring sightlessly and his mouth gaping open. The room spun insanely, and fire broke out in the hall, but went out again as if controlled by magic. Someone screamed in Malory's ear and grabbed at him, everyone was running in and out of the smoke.

Arck was overcome by the horror and the smoke, the blue glow faded away and he passed-out.

On the balcony, Vupec bent and grabbed the noloyd amulet from the Wizard's cold, still neck. At first it burnt his hands and he howled, but at length, he tried to jerk the disc off without touching its burning green liquid flame. Taff's inert form shook as if alive. Suddenly Vupec stopped, pricking up his ears. Then he spun around and shrieked–the Ariste was hurtling toward him. At once, but too late, he realized that this Ariste was much more than a lesser Druid; she had detected his attack all too soon. He realized that this opponent held power he was not prepared to meet.

"No," he gasped, recognizing who it was. "Not her! How? Greywheter hand in hand with Hart? They're enemies!"

Vupec never learned the answers. He pivoted awkwardly, trying to raise his weapons, but Grey leaped to his shoulders in fury and sunk her teeth deep into his neck. She locked her jaws into the despised foreign flesh and shook Vupec like a caught rodent. She was an electric fire of flashing silver, a perfect machine of destruction. In anguish, Vupec tried desperately to shake her off, running mindlessly around and around in little circles on the Bolkant's upper deck. He cried out in violent spasms of discord, which would have torn apart her eardrums, had the raging storm not swallowed the screeching wails. Just as abruptly, Grey released her grip. She knew the venom from her incisors would do the rest, and she could afford no more time on this vermin. Two people must be saved–the Proudhon and the Wizard. She felt the Proudhon's power beginning to resurface, and so Grey moved to see if there was any life to save in the Wizard's body.

Choking in agony, yet trying to curse the Druid, Vupec made one last turn, which ended in a fall through the broken glass of the smoldering doors. The huge yellow-eyed creature exploded into flames as fire touched him, but the conflagration ended as abruptly, and silvery, gray ashes sifted down to the floor. Grey sensed the possibility of life in Taff and began to work quickly. If he could be saved at all, much needed to be done, and there were only seconds left to do it. She had time neither for self-reproach nor for the Bolkant-family, no matter how much she loved them.

The Vilemarc's minions, the Bonelves, hesitated when they heard the shriek of death from their master, but they remembered their higher purpose. In their moment of hesitation, Pom, with Di in her grip, passed unmolested to the stairs. She had to get the sleeping younger girls out of the house. She was not certain this was real.

There was no sense to it.

It had to be a dream and a horrible nightmare, but even so, she must get the girls out. Below her, Keaton moved bravely toward one of the black forms. Confusion filled him with doubts, but he advanced, with his arms straight out in front of him, and a large silver bowl in his hands. This was no dream to Keaton. For him, the devil had come to keep a promise made with his possessed brother. The Bonelve stopped in front of him.

"Begone, hellhound," he shouted at it. "In the name of God."

The Bonelve stepped back. His eyes shifted back and forth, and he wasn't sure what action he should take. His confidence had been shaken by Vupec's destruction and, with no one to tell him what to do, his cowardice overcame him; he spun around and lurched away.

Screams ripped through the house. They were coming from upstairs, from Di and Pom. Keaton raced to the stairs, leaving his mother unprotected and cursing his brother Arck.

Fonny looked up from her dead husband, whose body she held, cursing herself for becoming enmeshed in such a horrid nightmare. If only she would wake up, she told herself, she would be back with her family sleeping restlessly and excited about opening gifts on the morning of Charblind day. But the nightmare would not go away. She stood up, and a sharp butcher's knife was in her hands. Quite calmly, she thrust the blade into one of the two coal-colored figures hanging off her mad son with his blue, glowing skin. She grabbed the creature's neck with her other hand, and wondered how the knife had gone from the cupboard into her hands and then into the back of one of these vile little demons. It fell, blood spurting from the hole she had made. Kneeling, she methodically stabbed at it over and over again as the thing slithered around on her kitchen tiles.

She watched another creature struggle with the Proudhon, in a wild dance of black and blue, but the creature seemed to be pinning Arck against the wall, and though it stabbed at him, the blue glow appeared to shield Arck from the blade. Perhaps he was a saint then, she thought. She saw him throw the Bonelve off; but then he slipped in a puddle of blood and landed almost beside her. Smoke billowed from the walls, blood smeared her face, and she didn't pay attention to any of it. Everything was in slow motion. Finally, she spread her fingers gently over Rem's grey face as she continued stabbing rhythmically into the Bonelve's crumpled body, as if she were tenderizing a piece of meat for dinner.

The other creature rushed at the Proudhon again, and this she noticed. She swung her body over her son and took a wide vicious swing at the thing, but trying to protect Arck at the same time placed her off balance; she missed the Bonelve, and the knife struck into her own leg by accident. She looked at it for a second or two, then leaned further over Arck, and turned her head to watch her red blood mixing with the black ooze of the thing that was dead. She said nothing; not so much as a gasp of pain escaped her lips.

Arck's head cleared and he jumped to his feet. The Bonelve kicked him with all its strength; Arck dodged, slipped again, and went down on one hand. The creature moved at him like lightning grasping for the blue amulet. Fonny pulled the knife from her calf, but there was no more time than it took for an incredulous look to cross her face as the Bonelve seized her hair, yanked her head back, and cut a wide slash through her throat.

"No!" Arck screamed, "No! Mom!" His body burst into a torch of deep blue flame. He dove at the Bonelve, pouring his fire over it. The Bonelve tried to squirm away, struggling desperately for air, but the Proudhon held him in a death grip and felt a heat surge through his body. A vivid blue flash reduced the Bonelve to ash and smoke.

The Proudhon fell to his knees beside his mother. He held her limp form. Crippled by grief, he was paralyzed. He held her body in his arms, as open flames began to swirl around him, bursting out in one spot, then another close by, and then somewhere else. His own blue flame burned brightly in the center of the room, covering him, then flowing over Fonny's body like a soft blanket but it did not give life back to her.

Upstairs, the air was hazy with smoke. Yellow night lights blinked sporadically. Pom and Di rushed to Janice's room. She was in bed, in the midst of tossed covers, her head hanging upside-down over the side. Her cold blue eyes stared at them; blood was running down from a jagged gash under her chin, along strands of her long blond hair, before it joined a coagulating pool on the carpet.

As Keaton raced up the stairs to them, the screams stopped. Pom was shocked into silence, then she put her hand over Di's mouth. "Shhh," she whispered, "Di, shush. They might still be here." Di buried her head against the housekeeper, who held her tightly. A look of even greater horror swept over Pom's face.

"Grace! Larska! Oh, no, no, please, no." The words were half whispered, half sobbed. Pom ran, still sobbing, "No, no, no . . . " Di clung to her.

The door to the next bedroom was half open. Shadows moved against the window, and even as the lights switched on, a black form was creeping over Grace's sleeping form. Pom rushed at the Bonelve. The creature stunk of sulfur. His naked, black skin was heavily greased. It grinned from a cruel and greedy face, showing blackened teeth, filed to pointed stubs. Unnerved, Pom stumbled. She pushed Di close behind her.

"Get out," she screamed. "Get out!" The bed was tucked into the corner of the room, and Grace was blocked on three sides. "Run, Grace! Run!" Pom screamed.

Instantly awake, the child scrambled back, along the wall toward the open end, but the Bonelve's arm flashed out and grabbed her hair. Almost too fast to see, it sliced across Grace's tiny throat with the hooked knife. For a second, it looked like he'd missed his target, and the little girl hadn't been touched. But then, still grinning, the thing lifted her head up. It separated easily from her neck, and blood gushed up from the throat and down from the head. It was impossible to believe there could be so much blood in such a small body. Half a scream echoed in the silence and lost itself in the eddies of smoke filtering into the room through vents and cracks. Shrieking with delight, the Bonelve dabbled the fingers of one hand in the blood pumping out of Grace's throat.

Paralyzed with horror, Pom was as though glued to the rug.

As if remembering its duty, the Bonelve abruptly flung himself at her. It brought the ugly blade down hard, but Pom kicked at it with all her might and hit its leg, enough to throw it off balance. The knife sliced past her, so near she heard it pass her left ear. She had already turned enough that it didn't touch her. Pushing Di ahead of her, she ran into the smoky hallway, but in the confusion, she turned the wrong way, and there was no exit. The Bonelve was right behind them.

Larska, the toddler, unharmed but sobbing for her mother, was wandering along the hall. The creature raced past her, unseeing, intent on Di and the housekeeper. With no escape open, Pom turned, shielding Di behind her, against the end wall. The ugly apparition gave a shriek of triumph and lifted the knife in both hands, right over Pom's head. Arms at her back, holding Di, she pressed her body tighter against the girl. A calm look smoothed her face; her conscience was clear, she was prepared for death. The knife started its arc down, then fell to the floor, a second before the Bonelve collapsed. Now Keaton was standing in front of her, the heavy silver tray in his hands. On the floor, the Bonelve squirmed. Keaton struck it again, then again and again, bashing the tray against its black hairless head until it caved in. He didn't stop hitting the greasy, black demon until his hands and elbows were covered with acid, ink-like, foul-smelling blood. It splattered his face, burned his skin, and nauseated him. He fell unconscious, almost on the Bonelve's corpse.

The smell was unbearable. Pom touched Keaton's forehead. It felt burning hot. Smoke was spiraling up the stairs now. Shielding Di's eyes from the crumpled bodies on the floor, she pushed her toward Larska.

"Get the baby," she said, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. The light fixture above them crackled off, and on again, then went out entirely. In the dimness, she shuddered. She was nearing the end of her endurance. Something touched her leg and she cried out, terrified. She jumped back, ready to run. In the meager light, her face was ghastly. Then she saw it was Di, clutching Larska in her arms.

"Keaton–he saved us, didn't he?" Pom nodded. "Is he alive?" Di asked, crying.

Nodding, Pom began to pull Keaton's unconscious body away from the foul stinking mess of blood and gore that remained of the Bonelve. She tugged at pieces of Keaton's shirt which were not as wet with the filth, until his body was pulled clear of it. Still, her hands burned from the acid. She let go and tried to wipe off the sticky, dark goo onto the carpet. Keaton's hands began to tremble. He got to his knees, vomited and spit.

"I'm okay," he uttered weakly, "I'm all right." There was a pause and he spit again. "We have to get them out, Pom." He coughed pointing feebly to the other rooms. "Janice and Grace?"

Pom answered in a toneless voice. "Dead."

He gasped, and his face paled. "Get out of here! Use the old basement passage. Hurry!" He breathed unevenly, choking. The horror, the rising heat and the stench made his skin crawl and his stomach churn.

"I'm okay. Go!" They went swiftly, clinging together.

The strength Keaton had forced himself to summon gave out; all at once he was overwhelmed by exhaustion. Thick, acrid smoke swirled around him. He had to check on Jan and Grace. They could not be dead. God would not have taken them yet. He began praying for enough strength to rise up and move. After what seemed a long time, he found it. He clung to the banister at the top of the stairs, coughing, his eyes smarting and running tears. He stared down into the murk. Overcome by the smoke and heat, he wheezed for air. Slowly, his hands slipped from the rail, and he fell tumbling to the bottom.

Downstairs, Malory came to, opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. In that second, he had seen Arck sitting not two paces away, their mother laying with her head on his lap. Both of them were glowing with some kind of blue radioactivity. She looked dead. Smoke, combined with the stink of burning flesh and something acrid and foul, burned his nostrils. He heard screams and crackling wood. He opened his eyes and sat up. The fire was out of control, the paint on the wall beside him was starting to bubble, then the wall itself began to buckle. He struggled to his knees, still in a stupor, coughing, his eyes stinging. The door was near. Arck and their mother were the only ones of the family he could see, so he crawled over to them. He put out a hand, tentatively, and touched his brother. His hands did not burn from the blue glow. To his befuddled surprise, he couldn't feel it at all. He put his hand to Fonny's face and knew at once that she was not alive.

"Arck," he whispered. There was no response. "Arck!" he repeated, louder. "Arck! Mom's dead. We have to get out of here."

No sign of awareness came to his face, and no sign that he'd heard him. Malory took his brother by the arms and dragged him out of the burning house into the blizzard, then turned around and went back to the front door. Over and over, he called the names of his brothers and sisters, as loud as he could, until his throat was raw. The fire was raging now. He tried to go back in, but he couldn't even get as far as the kitchen. The snow melted in a circle around the house and in a circle around his opalescent brother. Light and shadow from the fire shifted over Arck's motionless form. In the distance, the town siren wailed.

With no warning, two more Bonelves leaped out of the moving shadows behind Arck. They rushed to attack, knives raised, but he sat there staring blankly. Malory saw them and hurled himself toward them. Their knife-blades halted their downward plunge, harmless against the Proudhon's blue fire, but they went deep into Malory's flesh. He fell in the melting snow at his brother's side, with one arm flung out protectively over Arck's legs.

With Malory dead, the Bonelves again set upon the Proudhon, who appeared unaware of them, or even of Malory's body. Together, the black fiends grabbed the noloyd disc, and jerked it in unison, but the chain wouldn't give. Eventually, they yanked and pulled it up over his head until it came off, all the while burning their hands and screeching like wild animals. Immediately the Proudhon's glow faded away. He moaned and fell back onto the cold, wet ground.

One of the Bonelves hissed, gloating, and moved in to finish him off, then stopped as if frozen. Its face contorted with terror and it turned and fled, as if it had gone berserk. From the surrounding ocean of darkness, the Druid emerged soundlessly, glowing brilliant white. The Proudhon watched feebly as she drove the Bonelves to their knees, one then the other, and bit deep into their throats. He gagged and turned away. Then he saw Malory. Tears rolled down Arck's face, but some ruthless force inside the Proudhon drove him to his feet. His tears stopped, and he moved toward the deck, almost against his will. The heat bit and stung even more than the cold. He spotted Tob on the ground beside the Wizard, just below the deck. Taff was burned and blistered. He looked dead, but Arck knew he was not.

Out of the black, Grey came to him and dropped the blue Noloyd at his feet. She growled menacingly. "Put it on," she mindsaid.

The Ariste looked Tob over, and seemed to breathe hard over him, almost on his mouth, a foggy warm breath.

"The rest are dead," he said, in little more than a whisper.

"We have to leave at once," she responded in his mind. "Rise up! You must survive!"

"Why?" he yelled into the storm and fire, as if something there could be called to account for this terrible wrong, but the only answer he was given was the howl of the blizzard and the roar of the fire.

Instead of bending to retrieve the blue Star of Aarona, Arck turned to Tob and lifted him up. The edge of his foot stepped on the Star and pushed it into the snow. Crying softly, he staggered in the wet snow as the flames roared. With Tob still in his arms, he knelt beside Malory's body, moaning in anguish.

As if the Druid were trying to control his mind directly, an urgent warning of still more danger prodded him to action. "Tob," he said, getting to his feet and holding his younger brother tightly. His head was beginning to spin. His whole life lay destroyed around him. "Why?" he shouted again.

He felt Grey run howling through his consciousness, a brilliant white light speeding to the droy. The droy glowed silver for an instant and then hurtled, effortlessly and apparently driverless, through the snow, over lawns and fences, to within reach of the flames. It stopped beside Arck. Carefully, he put his little brother inside.

At the Druid's insistence, the Proudhon returned to the Wizard and half-carried, half-dragged the nearly lifeless body into the back seat of the droy, which began buzzing and humming. A violet light flashed, and a fine spray of something like heavy moist air yet not as dense as fog was released from the nozzles of several floating objects the size and shape of small cylinders. It fell upon Taff's body like a light shroud of vapor. Arck's samasense was screaming, and the Ariste was yowling frantically in his mind, now totally beside herself.

"Hurry, Arck!" her voice mind-said. "Cut Taff's clothes away from him. Hurry!" He did as she bid.

Headlights flashing, siren shrieking, the first fire engine turned from Old Madhouse Road onto Ash Lane. Arck's mind was a maelstrom as he sliced the burned, stinking rags off the Wizard.

No more than two hundred steps away the statues of the Vulcet vultures he had so painstakingly carved melted in the inferno of his bedroom. With his family and his memories, his possessions, his very childhood, in flame, the Proudhon fixed Tob securely into the seat beside him. Still driverless, the machine sped away the instant the doors closed.

They were three hundred paces away, maybe less, when the Bolkant mansion, holding more than a century of history, flared up, then the flames subsided, and then it exploded into the eve of Charblind–the explosion was so violent it rocked the droy almost off its rail, and swung it into a tail spin. Grey had once more retrieved the Taja Noloyd, and she placed it in the Proudhon's hand. It lit up like a blue fire, while bitter tears slid off his face in wild blue streams.

"Strom," he whispered. "We have to get Strom."

"We were attacked by a direct lieutenant of Bandor's," Grey mindsaid. "Vupec is his name. He hid behind the garages with a shard of his five most skilled Bonelves. He wasn't expecting Taff to be here. That's what provoked the attack. The Betrayer hates Taff more than he does me and of course his lieutenants all want to be the one to destroy him. Still. Arck. I didn't know Vupec was in Gat. I thought he was in Clove. I had put him on Tilly's track to keep him off ours. Perhaps he mindread Reed, Taff's assistant. He is only an apprentice after all. He shouldn't even be so close to a Wizard. Why isn't Taff's stō in Clove?"

"What are you talking about?" Arck said impatiently.

"Vupec gave an order to the shard to spare no one in the house, young or old. As he died I read his mind, 'Kill them all,' he said. He released his power against the Zora-mansion unsure of what his spies had found. Moreover, he had sensed Strom's volscyl flower. He thought her a Witch. 'Watch for her!' he told them, but he did not identify me, he didn't sense you were off the property. I think he read someone's mind at Taff's offices at Clove."

"Good then. Be proud of yourself. If you're so great, bring them back from the dead."

"Arck. You were brave tonight. If I could have save your mother — all of your family — I would have. I loved them dearly. This was a miscalculation. How could I guess that Vupec was an imbecile."

"Go to hell!"

### The Great Betrayer 8

Muddled light rose in the sky as Taff's droy sped along Old Madhouse Road. It reached Strom's driveway, turned in, and coasted to a silent stop. Arck lifted his hand to the door, then hesitated. Out of his confused thoughts came the memory of Strom's naked body under his in the snowy recess yard. His body tensed and he let out a grim sigh. Clicking sounds came from meters and gauges surrounding him. Nothing seemed real, yet it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmarish waking world. Tob moaned, semiconscious. His head was bleeding.

Grey hunched over Taff as if licking his burned face. Taff looked burned and charred along his entire length and he still looked dead. Arck tried to turn his thoughts away from the horror, but the scream of sirens in the distance wouldn't let him. A surge of anger overcame him, even for his protectors.

"It's disgusting," he whispered to himself.

Maybe this waking world was no more than the whim of malevolent spirits. Arck placed the amulet over his neck and stepped out of the droy into the snowdrift which filled the driveway. The lights strung along the eaves of Strom's house were swaying to and fro, half of them burnt out.

Grey was at his side. He sensed her impatience, though it wasn't reflected by anything in her demeanor. There was dried blood on her paws. He ignored her. Still, he started to feel ashamed–his family's destruction was a lump of lead in his core, and he had no right to steal Strom's heart.

He peered in. Strom's father was passed out drunk on a fusty couch in the living room. Arck's shoes creaked as he tried to enter silently, but Grey trotted boldly into the house. Arck tiptoed past Strom's father to the hallway. He whispered Strom's name hoarsely. Her father stirred and settled back into his stupor. Light showed under one of the doors. He walked toward it, gently knocked and held his breath.

"Come in," she said. Her coolly inflected voice was lovely to his ears. A dim yellow light made the room look warm, but she looked scared and defeated. Articles were scattered everywhere in confusion. He was puzzled to see her fully dressed, in thick sweaters and pants under her unbuttoned coat. Gloves stuck out of one pocket. She even had her winter boots on.

He stepped close to her but she turned away from him and stood looking out the window. The snow was still swirling; it flew clockwise, counterclockwise, with no respect for time or science. It was middle morning.

After what seemed a long time, she spoke, slowly and quietly. "I knew you would come."

"How?"

"The Flower." She turned to face him. "A quarter of an hour ago it began to glow exceedingly bright. It lit up the whole room." She stared at Grey, who was now on the bed, near the window, glaring at her. "I woke up when I heard the fire sirens and after that, the explosion." She hesitated. "I thought you were dead, but then I knew. And when you walked in just now, I saw how drastically your face has changed. You're not the boy I know as Arck. You don't look like a boy at all. You're a stranger–and you frighten me."

Arck drew close to her again and began to say something, but she stepped back and said, "Wait. What happened between us was no accident. I know it now." Her words were still quietly spoken but bitterness was edging into her voice. "I can see for myself that you're not at all like your family. Or like anyone. You're the purple flower that will not wilt."

"Strom–"

"Stop–" She didn't let him interrupt. Nodding toward Grey, she continued. "There's her, an unnatural creature at best. Then, Doctor Hart with his not-so-pretend wizardry. And you–the wild fits at the academy, and when your skin glows like nobody else's ever did. No wonder everyone avoids you. I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid! I can see!"

Arck's face was expressionless. He said nothing.

"I was a fool to let you seduce me. I'm a fool to let myself care for you. Why have you done this?"

Arck made no reply.

"It was not love," she said. "And I hold you responsible for it." She pinned the larkspur to the shirt under her sweaters, reached for her handbags and pointed to a rucksack on the bed. He bent to pick it up

"Remember," she said, with a flare of anger, "I'll leave this place, this piece of nothing, for you. And if you ever hurt me I swear you'd better beware."

His eyes softened and he looked down. "I'll never hurt you Strom," he said. He swallowed guiltily at the size of his promise.

She led the way and stopped to place a note on the banister where it would be noticed, then stopped once more, in front of her father. He smelled of sour malt, and he was snoring intermittently. She looked at him for a few moments. Her expression, if any, was unreadable. Grey fidgeted impatiently near the front door.

Inside the droy, purple lights were flashing languidly, and buzzers blipped. Strom gasped at the long black form, stretched out on the back seat–the object of all this electronic attention. She gagged, then she forced herself to get into the front seat beside Tob.

The doors slammed, the droy lurched forward on the rail, and they were gone. Strom closed her eyes; Arck thought she wanted to know nothing about what she must have taken to be something in the back seat that looked dead and smelt like wet ashes. She closed her eyes, but at length she caught her breath and slowly opened them again. When she saw that no one was driving, Arck became afraid she might lose all sense of logic. He covered Tob with a blanket. The droy was speeding into the night, the black instrumentation moving under a force unseen. Strom closed her eyes again and swallowed.

A headache started pounding at Arck's brain.

"Who are you?" Strom whispered, wild-eyed, her face more green than pale.

"Tonight my family was attacked by creatures that were . . ." He lost his train of thought. "I mean the killers were from . . ." He didn't have the energy or the strength to explain.

"Why are we moving without being steered?"

"Oh, that. That's nothing." His voice was toneless. "It runs with a brett-plate, a verdi that partially thinks for itself." He didn't dare tell her that it was Grey who controlled it now. He looked over at her and saw disbelief in her eyes, but he didn't care–he had her here, and he would never let her go.

"Strom, I'm sorry," he added after a lengthy silence. "It's something to do with Grey and Taff." He paused, puzzled that it could sound so simple by just mixing up cause and effect. "I think those black dwarfish creatures were trying to steal something from me that's valuable to them." He dug inside his shirt and pulled out the Taja. He pulled it over his head and handed it to her. "They kept trying to grab at this." His mind slid into half lies almost too easily.

But she wouldn't touch the noloyd. She pretended she didn't understand and she probably didn't. "What if we are stopped by the droy authority?" she said, as tough grasping the raveling threads of her reality. "You're not old enough to drive."

He shrugged at her ignorance. She shook her head in frustration. "That black thing in the back, is that their leader?"

"That's Taff," he said. She sighed and looked into the back. Arck's head was still thumping. Snow hit against the windows and the world was becoming a blur.

"The explosion?" she asked.

He shrugged in a noncommittal way. The droy slowed to turn south to the open rail highway, then lurched forward again, and picked up even more speed. "The house had all that new fuel stuff on the furnace," he said in a monotone. "The fire must have blown it, I guess."

"Your mom and dad?" she asked.

Arck felt his face pale and he turned to the window to watch the snow dance and furrow in absurd patterns in the headlight beams. Tears welled up in his eyes. "I never ever told my father that I loved him," he whispered.

For a while they sped down familiar highways, but then the droy gathered up a speed so reckless that nothing was distinguishable. Eventually Strom's mind and body rebelled against the relentless terror creeping over her–she fell asleep. He watched her softly breathing for some time.

"Where are we going?" she asked when she awoke. The droy was still rocketing forward.

"I don't know," Arck answered. "The droy is taking us. I guess. I have never seen it react so crazy."

"Arck, I think you should slow it down."

"I think Taff is dying. That's why it's reaching such unnatural speeds. If he dies then I guess we'll all be—" He didn't finish his thought and remembered the Bonelves, and a spasm of disgust ran through his body.

"Arck, is everyone gone but Tob? I mean, did you see for yourself?"

He stared at her until she turned away, looking out at the blizzard. After a time, she pulled two pills out of her pocket and swallowed them, curled up, and dozed on and off. Tob stirred in his coma. Arck tried to fall into sleepy depths again, but the smell from Taff's body became so strong that he couldn't reach DreamGarden. He tried to open a window; but it wouldn't budge. He thought for a moment that he would vomit, not that there was anything in his stomach. All the energy of the droy seemed to be concentrated upon speed and Taff.

Arck coughed, and Strom stirred.

"Soon," Grey mindsaid to him, as though reading his diminishing level of tolerance.

At length, signs of a city brightened the horizon and broke up the grey dawn. The snow had not let up, and he was glad at least for that; it hid the sharp outlines of the world so painfully lost to him.

As the metropolis of Clove enveloped them, the droy coursed through its empty veins, and still didn't slow. At one point, rail traffic autodroys with flashing lights and sirens gave chase, but after a few minutes they eased back as if they had decided, 'Let them be destroyed alone.'

The street lamps whipped past in a blur of light. Arck felt as if they were being sucked down by an undertow created by the hum of the machine, the endless slow blinking of the lights in the back seat, the repetitive clicking, and the sickly, dead smell of the thing in the back seat that he had once known as Taff Hart.

Trance-like, Arck stared at his family's images, one by one, and couldn't move to answer their cries of agony. They fell, brutally destroyed, then rose only to repeat the same agony of death, over and over again. For the first time, he realized how important they'd been to him. Shadowy and indistinct, the beginning of a grim resolve stirred–one that might grow to sustain him, steel his courage and fuel his revenge.

The droy slowed and turned to snake its way through a lane, then along a treed pathway newly cleared of snow. It seemed to be swallowed up into a hole in the ground, or a cave, or even some kind of tunnel, but he couldn't tell which in the dark. A minute later, the droy came to a full stop. He pulled himself back to the reality of the present. Everything was still and black. The droy's buzzing and blipping continued, but the headlights went out. Strom sat up, startled.

"Where are we?" she whispered.

Before Arck could reply, the droy was wrenched upwards, elevated at a nauseating speed, for about twenty or thirty seconds, halted roughly, then lurched sideways, stopped and rebounded lightly against something. Bells chimed in the distance.

Tob did not stir. Grey sat perfectly still in the blue-black darkness. Arck reached for Strom's hand. She was trembling all over.

"Terror is the handmaiden of the unknown," Grey mindsaid with a whisper-like thought.

"Are you all right?" Arck asked Strom quietly, ignoring the Ariste Druid.

Totally disoriented, Strom didn't answer. She sighed, and Arck realized that she tried to summon enough strength to hold on to her bearings. "Even my father's drunken rages had never made me feel so helpless," she whispered, "or so young."

A hint of light came; enough for them to make out a pair of gigantic, dull gray metal doors. A restricting arm lifted from a huge old iron spring hinge and the doors broke open with a metallic squeal. Bright light burst into the enclosure, accompanied by a din of shouts and clanging. It was coming from some sort of atrium, the size of an arena, surrounded by the towering high-rise building of which they were now inside. Thirty or forty human-forms hovered around the droy, rapidly grouping and regrouping into different formations and talking excitedly in a babble of different languages, then everyone fell quiet as a stout bald man with a pleasant face came to the back door, jerked it open, and peered in anxiously. He was monkish and muscular, and looked like he might have been from another race. Arck knew he was Tutan.

"Let's get him to the infirmary quickly," he shouted over his shoulder. Others behind him, dressed in Troanean fashion, and who were tall and thin like Taff, rushed to do his bidding. The stout man's expression turned grave. His glasses fell to his nose tip and he wiped the back of his bald head. He gently prodded his fingertips at the black thing that was Taff.

"What happened?" he hissed at Grey suspiciously.

Grey stretched and yawned, aloof, eyeing him coolly. A protracted silence followed between them. Arck knew there was a name for it; it was called Kempto, "Silence is the weapon."

He thought Grey rude, but stayed out of it. Arck knew that this man was of the SelmaKeatra, warriors for the Zoras from the Tutan race. He knew they didn't trust the Aristes, especially the Druids, though he didn't know why.

"How many were there?" the Tutan asked Grey again. There was fear and caution masquerading as respect in his voice. Grey continued to stare hard at him, then she suddenly bounded smoothly away out of the droy, as if from a nuisance. Arck shivered, remembering alarms, lights flashing, doors slamming, his family gone forever, and his home no more than smoking debris. All he had in the world was Strom, Tob, Grey, and Taff.

The shouting and bright lights had wakened Tob. Moaning, he tried to sit up.

Arck patted his leg. "Lay still, Tob," he said.

Strom put her arm around his shoulders and eased him back gently. "Hush," she said. "You'll be all right, Tob."

"I am Tilly Croft," the stout man said, introducing himself. He offered his hand.

"There are rooms being prepared for you down the way." He spoke Troanish without an accent. He pointed across the atrium in the general direction that he and the other human-forms had appeared from. "Please, be at home. Reed Kite, Taff's apprentice, will attend you in the morning. My own assistant will look to your needs now." He turned to a brown-skinned Tutan, only slightly less rotund than himself. "Matsy, see to them."

Matsy tried to assist Strom from the droy, and smiled at her when she hesitated. At that, Strom gave him her hand, gratefully. Then, showing surprising strength, considering his roundness and short stature, Matsy lifted Tob carefully out of the droy and held him in his arms.

Tob's eyes fluttered open. "Arck?" he called, frightened.

"It's okay, Tob. We're okay." He wasn't sure how, but he knew it was true.

"Come, young man," said the Tutan. "We must see to your injury."

"No, wait," Arck said "Not yet. Not until he is less frightened."

Perhaps it was the wonderful sounds of the Freeguard language, the Naja, that made Arck feel safe. They lingered and played through his mind like the memory of music from a dream. He saw Strom's worried face, and reached for her hand. Now, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to sleep, except to feel the comfort of her laying next to him. He bit his lips in a flash of confusion. His forehead felt damp, he took short breaths, and blamed his discomfort on disorientation and fatigue.

"I must attend Taff," Tilly said abruptly. "Excuse me."

Arck watched as six of the taller human-forms, similar in height and build, lifted Taff's body to their shoulders and carried him off swiftly, looking like pallbearers. Arck looked at Tob, still cradled in Matsy's soft brown arms, and seeming to take some comfort from them. "How are you?"

"Okay," he replied, as if his home, parents, and life were somehow still intact. "I had an awful nightmare." He bit his lip, and frowned, obviously trying to convince himself it had been no more than that. "Arck? What's happened? What's happening now?" he searched Arck's face for reassurance.

"Can you walk okay?"

"Yes, sure," Tob answered. "I'm fine. At least I think I am." The Tutan tentatively placed him upright on the gray flagstones, still holding onto him. Arck took one of his hands, Strom the other. Tob was wobbly on his feet, but he could walk as long as they were there to steady him.

"Well, we're in Taff's place, in Clove," Arck said, "and Taff is badly hurt." He looked at him. "Tob, you're covered with bloodstains; you need to be cleaned up."

Tob's face was smeared with dried blood and his clothes were full of stains. The Tutan led them to an enclosed bathing compound beside a small grove of leafless trees, then pointed toward a large archway into the bath-hall. Their guide excused himself and hurried away.

"Strip," Arck said. He traded a look with Strom. She turned her back while Tob undressed and covered his mid-section with a towel. Strom took the clothing and left. He sat Tob down on a stone bench and sat beside him. Arck still held his hand, but he turned away from his frightened face.

"It's the worst possible news, Tob," he whispered at length, softly. "Tonight at the house, we were attacked by Taff's enemies. Everyone is gone. All. Gone."

––

When Vupec, the Vilemarc who sought to capture the Taja Noloyd at the Bolkant mansion, destroyed a Freeguard Wizard, and committed murder against the Bolkant clan, and was himself vanquished, reports traveled swiftly to his superior, Bandor, the Vilemarc high lieutenant of the Great Betrayer, and the proud leader of a large army of vicious Bonelves and Vilemarcs. But even Bandor had his own Lord and Master to account to, and he trembled at the thought of facing him with the news that the Proudhon had escaped. Immediately, he traveled to Troan to confirm that at least it was the true Proudhon who had been discovered, and this was not some machination of the Wizard to keep the Chrisarma off track. It would be necessary to land secretly on the planet in an unpopulated area at night, and visit Gat without drawing attention. Soon after they were orbiting Troan, an impatient Bandor came out of his Pulsar ship, Avamrate, in a large carrier, a ceptor, which whirled into the higher atmosphere until it found the coordinates it sought. Here, in the hold, he got into a smaller, large-bellied craft, a welter, which was then propelled from the ceptor into the lower stratosphere, and quickly landed on the cold continent of Troan at about midnight, the night following Charblind, well away from any settled area.

From here, with a shard of Bonelves, that is five, and two of his trusted Vilemarc lieutenants, he took the even smaller ship inside the welter — a muted, almost-invisible subdounced flyer — and landed just out of the small village where Vupec's lanier-aircraft had been hidden. It was still there, unmanned and undisturbed. Stepping out into the dark, the snow, the heavy gravity, and the bitter cold, Bandor and his platoon were bitterly blasted by the elements of this alien world. In spite of the shock to his senses, the Vilemarc at once sensed annujet. It was faint and distant but it was there. He flung up a warning hand. "Not a sound," he whispered sharply in Ace to his Vilemarc lieutenants and their Bonelves. "Not a word!"

Well-armed, filled with malice, and covered by heavy dark cloaks, they walked slowly. Already sickened by the oppressive gravity, Bandor grew more and more angry as the cold ate away at him. After about a mile, at last they came to a roadway leading to a house with a large, square-bodied droy in its driveway. Bandor approached it and all at once he glowed red. He passed his fluorescent hand over the engine; it softly started. "This will have to content us," he said, under his breath, "Get in–quietly!"

They drove directly to the village, always bearing toward the annujet weapon, which Bandor was more and more certain had been Vupec's. Bandor's anxiety grew as he thought about what the Great Betrayer would do to him when told of this debacle. He wished Vupec were still alive, so he could personally see to it that he died a dozen savage, excruciating deaths not just one, at someone else's hands–but whose?

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when they passed through the village to Ash Lane, and came upon the devastated remains of the Bolkant Mansion. Immediately he knew it was a Zora Sanctuary. He sensed the dispersed power. They pulled into the driveway. He got out slowly, resigned to the worst.

"Be prepared," he hissed to his large Vilemarc lieutenants. He walked cautiously toward the burned-out shell. At least there was no one about. A small group of Bonelves clustered together around something and motioned for him to approach. It was the annujet weapon. He reached out to activate it. A red glow emanated from his pointing finger; it projected in a pinpoint of crimson laser thirty strides away, where a small fiery disc rose out of the snow and flew, in a tight spin, toward him. It hovered in front of him and he took it in his hands. He deactivated it, with automatic familiarity. The weapon had been Vupec's. It held the Lord Eft's markings and contained a clip tracer to Avamrate, Bandor's Pulsar ship.

He walked to the shell of the house. The burned bodies had been removed, but precious vibrations remained. He could sense the house's former glory. Bandor stood in the snow, as still as a statue, for a long time. The wood and cement would give up no secrets, as though hostile to him, but he gleaned three facts. A Druid had indeed been here, although it couldn't have been a high or skilled Druid. The annujet had been overlooked, and traces of simple Druidry had been left. Secondly, a Freeguard Wizard had been wounded by Vupec in a surprise attack; therefore he concluded it had been a powerful Wizard. Somehow he had survived a full surprise assault and destroyed Vupec. Which Wizard it was or how he had defeated Vupec, he could not have guessed. And thirdly, Bandor sensed he was even now being watched from outside the property by a Mauller with baliwax, jaye, and annujet disc. Even though the Mauller's weapons were hidden by a cloop-cloak, he was so close that Bandor could detect them.

This last discovery diverted his attention from the building. He was chilled to the bone. He thought of giving chase and capturing the Mauller for information, but if the Mauller turned out to be not a male warrior, but instead a female Mauller Druid, and if there was any more loss, or defeat, or embarrassment of any kind whatsoever, Eft would surely tear him apart, limb by limb–even now, without any further problem, that was likely. He decided to return to his ship at once and report to his Lord and Master, Eft, whom the Zoras called the Great Betrayer or Dread or, sometimes, just Power.

––

Once Tob had been attended to, Arck, Strom, and Tob made their way inside the structure, where low white globular lights lit a warren of hallways and connecting corridors, and deep rich carpets met a solid plane of mirrors. Above it all, the ceiling was decorated with crystalline rocks of ocean blue, streaked in sea-salt white. They walked into a room with several exits leading to other halls, which in turn led to bathrooms, small libraries, and the odd samaparvis–chambers which served some unknown purpose and swirled with peculiar lights. They found rooms filled with electronic equipment and places they couldn't enter, though there were no visible locks.

A tall young Hittite came to meet them. He looked no more than a boy–maybe only older than Arck by only several years. He wore a big, friendly smile, but he seemed worried. He introduced himself as Reed, Taff's Apprentice.

"I have been asked to attend to your needs," he said, bowing slightly.

He took Strom's large pack from her, and led them through one of the exits. At first he would answer no questions relating to the attack on Taff and the Bolkant family, although he did discuss some of the strange wonders all around them, with a noticeable degree of pride. Often, he just smiled at their questions and feigned ignorance, or changed the subject to the pedigree of a carpet, or the scientific theory which explained certain kinds of non-electric illumination. He showed Arck to his room, and the bed seemed the largest, softest one imaginable. From exhaustion, Arck fell to sleeping at once.

The next morning, he woke up still fully dressed. He crossed the hall and looked in on Strom. The room was like his, rich yet austere. She was still asleep under a silky light cover and he snuggled in beside her. Eventually, she stretched and sat up. She too had slept in her clothes. Her room was painted cloud-white and sparsely furnished, yet opulent in spite of its bareness. It was harmonious, in some intangible way as Arck's room, although an armful of fresh flowers contributed a heady wealth of perfume and color, and music, as of violins, drifted in from another chamber. The luxury and comfort of the bedrooms were beyond anything Arck had ever seen. It was white, like Arck's room, but where his was the white of desert sand, hers was the white of a soft summer cloud, and here the flowers were carved alabaster lilies and Offspry-roses, in a marble urn on a marble pedestal.

"I can't keep my thoughts from going back to Charblind Eve," she whispered, "to the blood in the snow, the recess yard, my disgustingly drunk father kissing you, and then to the shining Larkspur." She reached for it on a table beside her and looked at it for a moment. Her eyes filled with tears and Arck thought she would cry, but she recovered herself.

Pale satin curtains, embroidered in white, were draped across one entire wall. She rose without touching Arck and pushed them aside, to find that the window behind was also the full length and height of the wall. It was a sunless day, but the view stole their breaths. Straight down, perhaps seventy floors, perhaps eighty, the earth spread out to other, smaller buildings, some trees, and people they could barely see.

Arck could make no guess as to the kind of architecture, except that the walls were straight up and down, without porticos or colonnades. Strom started out to the bathroom. The nearest door hid a clothes-closet, but on a grand scale. There were women's clothes on hangers.

"These must be someone's quarters," she said, looking through them. "Everything is my size though–even the shoes."

Three different-colored sets of Troanean cotton shirts, pants and sweaters, even socks, had already been laid out on a separate shelf. Arck could tell that she was overwhelmed. They seemed especially for her, but he didn't know how that could be.

When she opened the second door and saw the bathroom, she squealed with delight like a little girl. It was filled with mirrors and gauzy draperies, an immense tub of fragrant, foamy warm water, a white velvet robe draped on a bench beside a stack of fluffy white towels, and rows of bottles and boxes and jars of lotions and powders and creams, a dozen different kinds of scent in jewel-colored bottles, and more fresh flowers. The violins' sweet pliant sound drifted softly through it all.

"I'm going to take a bath," she announced.

"I could wash your back," he said thoughtlessly.

"Go look on Tob," she suggested.

When Arck stepped out, he heard the click of the lock, and when he returned to his room, he checked the closets, mystified to find clothes which also fit him perfectly. He slipped off his clothes and surrendered as well to the warm, scented bath for a time. When he forced himself to get out of the water, his skin was smooth. He dried himself with one of the big, soft towels. The mirrors reflected every angle of his body, the pale sharp leanness of it. He didn't know whether Strom was attracted or repulsed by it. Strom let herself into his room a minute later. She had found a red dress, long and simple and it settled over her body like silk–it clung gently and moved with her as she walked.

They went to check on Tob. He was sleeping peacefully–no one seemed to be up. Strom and Arck returned to his room. Still relaxed from her bath, she dozed off for a minute in his arms, and then Grey breezed in, somehow waking her without making a sound. Strom stood and smoothed her red dress. A quiet tap came to the door and in walked Reed. Tilly was at his side.

"Are you alright? he said to the Proudhon.

"What do you mean?" Arck asked.

"It looks like you are using drugs."

"I am trying not to go over the edge." This was whispered with some anger.

"That will not help."

"When can we see Taff?" Arck asked with a trace of authority.

"Three days, maybe four," Tilly answered. "Have breakfast now. I must rest." He turned to leave, stopped suddenly as if remembering his manners, then frowned. "Do not leave the perimeters; you are all in grave danger. As soon as Taff is able to be moved we shall leave." He nodded and bowed slightly–but it was a formal gesture which commanded respect.

"Where are we going?" Arck called after him.

Tilly stopped and smiled patiently, as at a precocious child. "Well, that has to be decided, doesn't it?" He turned and walked away quickly, while Reed stayed with them. A rather protective look replaced his usual smile.

Later, with Reed at their side, Strom and Arck met Tob in an expansive living room with gigantic windows. The place was immense. One complete side of the room was glass, from ceiling to floor. It revealed a vast, windy cityscape full of high-rise buildings. An open air balloon circled above the grey horizon; in the distance, a silver tram passed swiftly under a rusting bridge.

Just below them, the shapes of large trees and gleaming buildings were set in straight rows along streets sprinkled with parks and worship centers. A group of tall buildings off to the west looked like silver glass. The city seemed deserted and the roads were bare, with only a trickle of vehicles. Charblind was observed here, too, but the city's inhabitants seemed subdued by the melancholy of winter; the cold snap.

They sat around a grand table in front of the great expanse of window, to eat a breakfast which the Apprentice served hot and steaming.

"You know, sixteen years ago," Reed said, "when I came to Troan to help Taff and Tilly with their plans, we were certain our enemies would never find us–absolutely certain. But let me start from the beginning."

Tob's eyes widened, and Strom sat back, listening half in fascination, and half in dread.

"There is a system where different races live," he continued. "A place that is a loose collection of stars systems, the Circle Cluster. There are many agencies and authorities, but I will condense it to the essential three: the political and religious power of the Chrisarmains, the state and military power of a military structure, CentreRule, and the one force behind which hide all power, order, and authority — the Beginning One. Opposing these organizations — huge, monstrous entities, all — are the Zora Allies — us."

"What gave you the right to use my family in your fight against your enemies?" Tob asked.

"We have no right," Reed said, stunned and apologetic, stumbling for words. "Your brother had no choice in this. There was no evil intent toward anyone."

Tob looked puzzled. "Is he my brother or not?" he demanded.

"Well, he was not born of your father or of your mother. The Zora-Council had planned a quiet life for him with you. Even from the beginning, he was protected by certain forces," — Reed did not mention Grey by name — "different from the Freeguard."

Reed's face was worried. Arck could see that he didn't like being the one to tell Tob these things, especially since Tob and he had always been so close. But Reed's simple manner and childish enthusiasm soon resurfaced, and he smiled happily again.

Arck thought him of simple cheer that obscured a considerable intelligence. Tob's eyes rested on his face. The thought of their family intermittently brought tears to Tob and Arck's eyes.

"Considering our slim network of information on Troan," Reed continued, "screening became liberal in terms of what we most wanted in a family for the Proudhon: protection for Arck after his birth, and some form of financial independence for the family that kept him. This is how the Bolkant family came to be selected. In addition Taff had already met Fonny and liked her. The mansion was ours through an alliance. It is a Zora-Sanctuary." Reed took a sip of juice. His meal had been much smaller than theirs, and he hadn't eaten with pleasure.

"A wide range of thoughts and questions swirl in my mind," Tob said. "There are a thousand things I want to know. Who are the Council?"

"They are the representatives of the Zoraselmains and they fight CentreRule and the fearless Chrisarmains. We belong to a subgroup, the Freeguard, of which the Ariste Druids are not a member. The races of the Zora-Council are united, but they are always on shaky ground. It's a political alliance and gets complicated. Really, you have to talk to Taff about it when he's well enough to answer your questions."

"You are trying to tell us that Arck's pet is from a race of another world?" Strom said, in disbelief.

"She's not only from an intelligent race, but Grey is also extremely wealthy and powerful."

"I see," she said patiently, as if humoring a lunatic.

"What of Arck's real parents?" Tob asked.

Reed's attention returned, along with the faintest trace of a smile. "Long dead. Centuries dead. Both hunted and killed by the Chrisarma, the strong arm of CentreRule. But that was eons ago."

"Is that who is after him?" Strom asked, not daring to inquire how a pregnancy had begun without people to accomplish it.

Reed nodded. "Arck is the Proudhon–he can control the Taja Noloyd that has power over the Mij, the three noloyds of the Chrisarma, as well as the Kiji, the four lesser Noloyds of the Freeguard Wizards. He is of the pure genetic bloodline of the Liebrent, and therefore the one who can control the Taja-Disc. The three Mij Lords of the Chrisarma will hunt to seize it–but without tarnishing the noloyd's power. Their purpose is to gain more power."

"But what is Arck?" Tob asked, still incredulous, "I mean, why?"

"Nothing I can explain all at once," Reed said, as if Tob had happened onto a subject too secret to discuss. The Apprentice rose hastily and said, "Excuse me, I have to go."

Tob looked at Strom. "This is crazy," he said, almost in tears, "Freeguard, Ariste Druids, Mij Lords? From where do they come?"

She looked over at Arck. He shrugged helplessly. He could never imagine telling them about the secret Ariste Grey Cabal or the fact that he had heard that Taff was by Troanean reckoning centuries old.

In the days that followed, sorrow hung over them, but at least Tob's innocent heart didn't turn bitter. Arck and he both longed for the lost comfort of their old home. They missed their mother's love most of all.

On the last day of Charblind, Grey came up to Arck while he was alone. "Bandor has landed on Troan," she mindsaid. "He is the highest lieutenant of Dread, and he has traveled to Gat. I wish I was there–he would die a horrible death."

"Let's go back to get him."

"We don't want to play our hand yet. You didn't see Vupec. He looked half dead when he attacked, the fool. By the time Dread comes, they'll all be ripe."

"The Bonelves don't suffer."

"They are a mere inconvenience, Arck. Look." Grey took out a small annujet weapon. "This was one of Vupec's." Grey reached out to activate it. A white glow emanated from her paw; it projected in a pinpoint of white laser light, where a small fiery disc rose in a tight spin, around them. It hovered in front of Arck and he took it in his hands.

Grey deactivated it with automatic familiarity. The weapon held the Great Betrayer's markings — the embossed cross intersected with baliwax blades — and contained a clip tracer to Avamrate, Bandor's Pulsar ship.

"I left his other one at the sight so that Bandor will think I missed it," Grey mindsaid, "and he will conclude that it couldn't have been a high Druid who guarded the Zora-structure. How could an annujet disc have been overlooked? Do you see? I also left traces of simple Druidry, but he may be able to figure that the Wizard was Taff or at least a Freeguard Pulsar Captain. After all, Taff survived a full surprise assault–they will soon figure it out. Only one of the four Kiji Holders could do that."

### The Great Betrayer 9

The next morning, Arck walked over to the hall with gigantic panes of windows looking south and watched the black droy sedans propel themselves furiously from underneath the Continental Towers, on last minute errands he supposed. Behind him there was a shuffle of noise, and he turned to see Tilly.

"What is it?" he asked. "News of Taff?"

"Soon. Did you know that the Tutans call you the Harijan?"

He did, but shook his head anyway, just to be friendly; besides, Arck sensed that Tutans in general, and particularly Tilly, could be surly.

Tilly's stern expression lightened at his reaction and Arck returned to the window. "It's nice?" he said, "the lights of Charblind are picturesque."

Tilly came up beside him and gave him two verdi-books containing text, images, and a modine-interpreter. One was a collection of writings from the leader of the Freeguard, Zor Wing. It was called, 'The Subversive Wing,' and the first title was, 'The Spirit of Being is Law Unraveled.' The other was from Taff Hart, and was called, 'From Centre to Pol-Ti-Ne-Mur; The History of Zor Wing and the Zoraselmains.'

"These are yours to keep," he said. "Please, read them." He turned from the window and looked down the hall where a number of Taff's troopers were waiting for him. "I have to go."

Arck watched as he hurried toward the door. "They are square but they are fair," Grey said in his mind. She had been monitoring their conversation. He laughed softly to himself.

The next day, Tob and Arck wandered from room to room with Grey. Arck could tell that Tob searched for some sort of sign to tell him what he should do next. He was depressed, mournful, and Arck felt similar. The halls were bright, and somehow, sunlight penetrated into them everywhere they went. Arck thought Tob looked wonderfully sneaky, like a thief creeping along an alley. It was late morning. They saw Reed coming in their direction, and Tob slipped behind a pedestal holding a marble bust of Zora Wing. Arck joined him. Tob was disappointed when Reed seemed to have no difficulty whatsoever perceiving their hiding place, and greeted them warmly and offered to play games which took physical stamina.

They played half a dozen different games, all of which they won–Arck wondered for a second if Reed had let them win the games, then they had a sauna bath, and they swam in a large deep pool. Tob suspected — and so did Arck — that the Apprentice had been charged with cheering them up, and, though it didn't work fully, Arck still appreciated it. Before lunch when Strom had joined them, Reed drew out a stringed instrument called a baccatto, and sang to them. They managed a smile for the performance. Reed sang more songs, which none of them really seemed to understand. Reed played with a lilting beat probably never intended by the composer. Then they stopped for lunch. They were grateful to Reed for the distraction–the adventure they could learn to love, but the horror of their family was too much to bear.

In the afternoon, Tilly summoned Arck to see Taff.

"He is still in withdrawal," Tilly said, "but we're hoping your presence may bring him out of it."

Taff no longer had black skin, nor charring, bubbles or bandages, just patches of yellow that looked like bruises healing. However, he was almost bald, and looked a little absurd. His head was patched in yellow, brown, and white, as if quilted. His face looked punched, and his hands were folded neatly out over his stomach. He lay naked, and a muscle here or there seemed to twitch faintly from time to time. He smelled of all kind of spices and vinegars and they had his genitals covered with a small square white cloth; eight medics or nurses attended him.

Long, precise, silver scars were obvious on his forehead, and large black plastic devices were stuck behind his ears, penetrating the skin at the temples. He was breathing, but faintly. He had the Kiji Noloyd around his neck, and for a moment, Arck studied it. It was only slightly smaller than the Taja-disc. On one side, inlaid with tiniest culex-diamonds along its circumference, was carved the universal symbol of the individual against the state: a warrior with his weapon raised against the Centre Binary. On the other side, were etched a naked women and man, facing each other and with their hands raised toward the sky.

A machine behind him clattered, started drumming, and flashed red lights with short blue dashes. The shuffling of coming and going of the staff was impressive, and their soft voices speaking in the foreign tongues made Arck feel better–languages such as Echoen, Bewa, Hittitean, and more.

"What is it?" Tilly said with a husky, authoritative voice. He and Arck stood together beside Taff. They all fell silent.

A tall blonde fierce-looking Freeguard female, replied, "We think that he is trying to signal us."

"I believe the Wizard was attempting to retire the sama mode," another, softer, female voice said nervously.

Tilly coughed. "You may turn the monitors off and leave us," he said gruffly.

They switched off a number of machines and left. The room became silent, until a warrior entered. "Yes sir?" he inquired, looking directly at Arck and then the SelmaKeatra Captain.

"Yeah, Jaoby, give us warning if the Druid approaches while we're with the captain. See to it that we have complete privacy for a few minutes."

"Yes sir," answered Jaoby and left.

Tilly waited until Taff stirred, and held a cup of fluid to his bruised lips. "Well old man, you slept a long time," Tilly said happily after Taff took a sip of the liquid. His eyes opened, slowly focusing. He touched a small white gauze bandage circling his head.

"A Vilemarc," Taff said with his first words.

"Yes, we were informed one had arrived," answered Tilly. "But I received the news after its attack. Slowly, my friend. Here. Take some cold water." He picked up another cup and held it while Taff drank. "How do you feel?" There was a brief silence.

"It could have had me clean," Taff said in a shaky tone looking over at Arck. "It was one of Bandor's well-trained lieutenants. But the fool had to let me know." There was a pause. "That gave me some seconds, but not enough. I was lucky the Druid was close by. The thing had me cold. It even . . ." he paused again. ". . . ruptured my withdrawal to the disc with a flash electron fire. I had enough Volscyl to save myself. But not enough to return to my body."

"The Vilemarc's name was Vupec," Arck said.

After a long pause Tilly spoke. "When you first arrived here your condition was critical. The Druid was keeping your body maintained but the sama waves were becoming distorted."

"It is ironic that I was saved by her," he said, his voice held a note of bitterness and his eyes caught Arck's. "The problem she represents has become clear to me." He coughed weakly and there was another pause for water. When he spoke again, his tone was more gentle. "Our young liege here, has come into his power without his noloyd." Strength grew in his voice and he stared kindly into Arck's eyes. "In some ways the Druid possesses him."

"Has she combined her power with his?" Tilly asked sounding incredulous and looking at Arck. "Is this true?"

Arck nodded. "They are anarchists," Taff retorted. "They have repeatedly attacked our plans. Only later did they join us, after the motion had carried in the Council, when their own subterfuge was spent."

Jaoby knocked at the door and brought in a cart with hot food and juice. He placed it silently before Taff, bowed, excused himself and left. With Tilly's encouragement and assistance, Taff managed some food, then rested for a few minutes before he spoke again.

"Well, I am alive," he said. "Grey has left her mark on me. Ka mournji ji kij jaye. Ka lourn jii jiouha ji!"

They both laughed at the comment, which Arck gathered was a private joke between them, and which translated something like, 'A mean wind has passed through me.'

"A fog has scattered the rest," Taff continued. "Whatever has happened during my convalescence?"

Anger and frustration colored Tilly's reply. "The Druid will communicate nothing to me. It's as if she is in the enemy's camp. Arck's brother was knocked unconscious, and missed much, and the girl was not there."

"Tob is here?" Taff asked.

"Yes, and Arck's girlfriend, Strom."

"But how? I mean, the droy wouldn't have stopped in the first place."

"The Druid overthrew your droy-annujet. It has not produced a single samapulse since it arrived here."

"Strom has been controlled by the Druid," Taff said. Again looking at Arck, but Arck felt little shame for what he'd commanded Taff to do. He loved Strom. "And I will be damned if I helped Grey do it," Taff continued. "How else would this young female have left home? Are we all to be pawns to Grey's constant scheming?"

"I think so," Arck said softly and this caused both Tilly and Taff to laugh.

Taff closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them. "Arck, you haven't kidnapped her?" He suddenly sounded worried.

"No," he answered, "on that score I am sure."

"She is just an adolescent," Taff added, "but I'm beginning to see that Grey has been arranging this relationship for some time."

"I think so too," Arck said.

"Can you not fight it?" Tilly asked.

Arck shrugged. "I love her."

"What else?" asked Taff, sounding resigned to more bad news.

"Arck saw most of the rest," Tilly said. "The Vilemarc had a team of Bonelves. They slaughtered the rest of the family."

"Oh, God! Not everyone?" There was no reply. "Arck, did you see it all?"

"I saw Mal, Stearn, Jan, Grace, Keaton, mom and dad die before my eyes," Arck answered, gagging his tears. "No one else left by the front exits–maybe Pom escaped with the two girls"

"Yes, the others could be alive," Taff remarked. "If they are, someone must see to their safety. They'll be hunted and captured once the Chrisarmains realize that a Vilemarc has stumbled onto the real thing. This will confirm their information that the Taja was found, and also that the Proudhon has been brought forth."

"I have made plans to dismantle as soon as you can be moved," Tilly said. "Our force is disbanding and will meet at the Fault. With Arck in power before he has mastered the noloyd . . . well, I took these liberties. I am not an Wizard, but a warrior." He paused. "Fern is expecting us and her wards are activated already, which will camouflage us against any Vilemarcs. Since she's outside our sphere, and has been here for sometime before Arck was born, there should be no trace of our trail. This will give you time to recover fully, and to be with Arck, at least for a short time, before we must leave altogether."

"Not if the Betrayer himself comes," Taff interjected.

"He is now in the Mer Solar System," Arck said.

"Then we are doomed to run the gauntlet," Taff said sadly. "Has the Dark Side been signaled? I fear we will need Coldfire at once."

"Yes," Tilly answered, though in this, Arck felt a lie and decided to mention it to Grey later.

"Then you will see to any survivors?" Taff asked him. "With a SelmaKeatra squad, we should be able to escape Troan with little trouble. Place your best fighters under my command immediately and take with you only those who will be inconspicuous. We have already brought enough attention to our presence."

"As soon as I deliver you safely to the Fault, then I will fetch any survivors," Tilly insisted.

Taff didn't argue with this logic. A tap came to the door, and Jaoby came to remove the food cart and saw that he was too soon. "Anything else Captain?" he asked Tilly. He received a negative shake of the head from the Tutan, and left.

"We must be off this planet within the month," Taff continued, "Arck, you can no longer complete your training here. It is too dangerous. The Druid still protects you. Is she in your mind right now?"

"I'm pretty certain that she isn't," he answered.

"We need her for the time being," Taff said, "but perhaps it will not always be so." He let the sentence hang in the air and looked Arck in the eye, then changed his attention to Tilly. "We have been friends a long time Tilly, and I can tell you, she scares me."

"Her power has gone with the Keep," Tilly speculated aloud, referring to the Bolkant Zora-mansion.

"That's unlikely," Taff answered. "She killed the Vilemarc and its team of assassins. Something else. Tob has a flower that lives with the slow power of a menhir, quiet and murky, imperceptible to even him. So does the Strom girl."

"Are you saying that Grey is super-inducing some living Keep?" the SelmaKeatra warrior asked.

Before Arck could say anything, Taff responded — Arck was pretty sure that Taff didn't want his opinion on this — that he wanted him just to prick-up his ears. "Tob's flower was meant for me," Taff said, "though I hesitate to think that Grey ever expected me to accept it, so perhaps she plays a complicated game. I wonder that I gave it to a twelve year old."

"Maybe I produced it without her?" Arck suggested whimsically.

"The Druid's powers are centric to points of volscyl," Taff said. "Maybe she attempts to maintain full power without a Keep." Taff thought for a while. "She has hoarded your dreams for sixteen years," he continued, "and Druids can be brilliant artists in these matters. We may even be witnessing some intricate power play among the Aristes. The Grey Druids are an ancient cabal. I believe the Council erred in allowing them power to protect you, and I'm a fool not to have seen the negative possibilities more clearly." He frowned, then as though another thought occurred to him, he said, "The flowers. If somehow they have become a volscyl . . . Imagine."

"Would she attempt such a chance on a Liebrent Heir?" Tilly asked. Arck nodded, but Taff said nothing, "Besides," Tilly added, "we can see there are only two flowers about."

"Arck may be intended to be the entire Keep. Perhaps these two flowers were not intended to be exposed as Arck says. Maybe our boy here exceeded her grasp. If this proves true, then if they are to be separated in any significant way, it will depend on you, Arck."

"Such massive interference of his consciousness is unthinkable," Tilly said, touching Arck's arm as though he was recovering from a sickness, "even from a Grey Druid."

"There's more, Tilly," Taff said. "Perhaps an even greater problem for the Zoraselmain movement." Taff reached for Arck's hand. The Wizard's skin was as soft and warm as a baby's to the Proudhon. "You've been a fish out of water for a long time," Taff continued, then recited a Naja Quadra in a soft weak voice,

"Ra mour rije, mour rij,

Ra jiji ha Kji, ho Kiij,

Jjji gohj-ool

GoàLú hij-ol."

Arck didn't understand the first part. In his head the poem translated vaguely something like this, 'They will write for it, preach for it, sin for it, fight for it, and die for it, but they will not live for it.'

"Are you saying that he's religious?" Tilly asked softly looking at Arck.

"I don't mean committed to any so-called ritual," Taff countered weakly, tiring now faster, but looking directly at Arck. "Committed to the essence of it–the goals of sacrificial love, and resignation of the will to One Purpose. You know my thoughts on this matter, Tilly. Religious ideals translated into politics become the advocate of authority. For the whole populace, whatever their different shades of skin, moral behavior is enforced from above."

Tilly's voice sobered. "I've not sensed these convictions in him."

Arck decided not to respond. He really didn't know what they were talking about.

"Actions speak louder than words," Taff said, "Arck, you are often defensive and uncommunicative. Even when you sleep, your mind is obscured as if by heavy fog. I can read through most Hittitean mental clouds but not yours. Do you see?" Taff raised his voice briefly. "It is the Druid." He sounded discouraged and worried.

"They pledge themselves to non-involvement," Arck finally said.

"That's their contradiction," Taff cut in. "They are avatars of the crassest kind and they interfere when it suits them, just as they have with you."

"If the Druid has chosen Strom as Arck's partner," asked Tilly, "Then where will she stop?"

"The truth is," Taff said, his voice now softening, "since the dissolution of the SelmaSarma six hundred years ago, the Druids' study of annujet and noloyds has been in relative secrecy. They've retained their alliance with the Zoraselmains, but after all, they stand alone. They are wealthy and secretive, especially Grey. Like us, the destruction of the Overseer is their first purpose, but they're only conditional friends of the Freeguard. Their passion for commonwealth is tainted by their belief in 'The One/The Many'."

"Arck is a Liebrent, the Proudhon. No one, not even a Druid, could steal his will."

Arck nodded in agreement, and would have said so, but Taff cut in with his weakening voice. "Alas, you're irredeemable, my friend. The Druid has picked the fruit off the tree before it is even ripe. Arck's upbringing tangles his mind. We'll see whether he makes his own destiny or not."

Tilly's voice grew comforting. "The Druid was as surprised by Vupec's attack as you. She's not infallible. Perhaps she doesn't see that Arck uses his power without her. For that is how the Chrisarmains must have found out."

"If they knew it was the actual Liebrent Proudhon," Taff continued, "they'd not have sent just one Vilemarc with five minions."

Tilly's tone was speculative. "They may have simply sent the nearest, expecting surprise to do the work of an army.

"Grey didn't think that Vupec would attack until the Great Betrayer was on Troan," Arck said.

"She knew of him?" Taff asked. Arck shrugged.

"There might be more to follow," Tilly said, "wave upon wave, until he is captured."

"Captured?" Arck asked.

Taff nodded wearily. "That may well be, Arck. Grey must be operating under the assumption that Dread wants you alive with the Taja intact. We must assume the worst possibility and get off this planet as soon as possible. And not only for our own sakes, but for Troan itself." Arck paled.

"As soon as you give the word," Tilly said to Taff. "Thank goodness you are safe."

Taff smiled slightly. "Now until our departure, let me sleep."

Arck felt Taff spiraling into the logical concourse of samavolscyl, the gravity of central essences of the mind. They both nodded and left.

"He's a tired old warrior intent on recovering before the next battle," Tilly whisper to Arck and said good-bye.

Alone in his bedroom, Arck opened the curtains. It was snowing outside. He watched the snow falling for some time, perhaps even in a trance. It was shortly after this, Grey came into the room and entered his mind. He was beginning to note when she was, and was not, inside his head. She searched for what was said in the meeting with Taff and Tilly but Arck refused her, except for telling her the story about Tilly lying about Coldfire's whereabouts, so, she was able to take away only a vague sensation.

At this rebuff, she showed no anger and Arck was relieved about that; however; she stayed in the back of the room still for so long, so absolutely without the slightest motion, that anyone watching — anyone who did not know the rites or values of Druidism — would have concluded that she was a statue, a minutely detailed double. But of course no one was there but Arck, so Grey sat unmolested, a shape at once still, dark, and brooding – concentrating on what only she knew.

"For Vupec to have attacked us in spite of all of my precautions isn't really plausible," she mindsaid to him at length. "He's not that clever. As you are learning, your incredible volscyl DreamGarden is real, and powerful. So powerful that you can transmute dream symbols into solid objects without me; indeed, even without my approval, you've already done so. But this didn't give away our location on Troan, of this I'm sure. The Chrisarmains have never even charted the solar system of Mer, let alone this small eco-planet which drifts among two dozen other unspectacular ones."

"What is it?" Arck asked aloud, perhaps alarm.

"This spells scheming, Arck, betrayal. There are no loose ends, no obvious trails. It has to be a Druid's work — a Druid interfering with Vupec's mind — yet that's not possible, yet I know it has happened."

"A Druid? How?"

"My mind swings back and forth, remembering, prodding, concluding, then rethinking, but always coming back to the same starting point. I've gone over and over it, to no avail. There's something missing — some gap in my knowledge — and at last I have to admit it. If Bandor is on Troan, and he is, I will try to seek him out, read his mind, and then plant some seed there, to the effect that you're truly mad; that the One Noloyd could be taken without a fight; the Proudhon is corrupted by religious ideals and his own desire for immortality."

"But what if, instead, the Great Betrayer comes to Troan?"

"He too can be useful. Let's not rush Taff. I can't openly attack the Great Betrayer, yet he might at least be tricked into revealing the new traitor among us, or even better, make a fatal mistake, and with the Taja and the Kiji Noloyds working together, we'll get him."

"What if we make a mistake."

"What? The Freeguard? I'm counting on it."

### The Great Betrayer 10

The large black welter seemed to be hanging in the air, but it was flying at speed nearly as fast as light itself. Almost at once, it passed through a lock into a black sphere isolated in another dimension, and disappeared from the sky. As Bandor's craft entered the hold of Tragal, he was thinking how ironic it was to present himself here, in person, before the Great Betrayer himself. Reason had told him to do what cowardice or caution would dictate, that is, transmit his dismal news through the brett. However, reason has more than one facet, and Bandor saw that this would have made it easier for the Betrayer to order him slain on the spot, without considering consequences.

Bandor was taken by two huge uniformed Fulmvixes wearing the Betrayer's crests to the control center of Tragal, which was ominously dark and empty. A huge brettiscreen gave the only light; it showed the planet Troan floating in space as if by a miracle. Bandor counted a dozen more bretts, all turned off. The Fulmvixes shuffled away awkwardly. On the screen, the Mer sun blanketed Troan and gave it a false image of peace and tranquility. For several minutes, the Vilemarc stood dumbstruck by a feeling of dread which seemed to emanate from all sides, then the heavy, burring voice of the Great Betrayer, resonated through the silence.

"Why have you come?"

The huge, coal-black creature rose out of the shadows. His muscular bulk was clothed in dark flowing silks, and he was both beautiful and terrible to behold. His full height was more than one and a half lengths of a regular Hittitean, and he was a prime male of the race called Spurl, a species whose adult males would average four to five hundred pounds on Troan–Titans among the races of the Cluster. Perspiration broke out of every pore in Bandor's face as the Great Betrayer loomed over him.

"Lord, it is I, Bandor," he said humbly, bowing low. "We may have stumbled upon the Proudhon after all. In this we were not sure, as I have explained before, and one of my lieutenants, Vupec, not realizing the Proudhon's importance, rushed headlong into attack. He tried to take down a Freeguard Captain but in this failed–he may have been stopped by an Ariste Bodyguard. Vupec acted without . . . I mean . . . he was ambitious — rash — Lord. I am remorseful and beg to earn pardon in your service. I myself would attempt a strike at them, but in this I wished to consult you first, so that I might not act, as Vupec did, unwisely, in his ambition to please."

The Betrayer glared down at his Vilemarc lieutenant, showing no surprise. He turned in silence to the floating image of Troan. He knew that if he wished to destroy Zora's Proudhon, he could simply annihilate the whole planet this instant, and turn it into a large brown rock. Bultnisfree and foidvod missiles would certainly do the job, and he had enough on Tragal to do the job himself thrice over. But his thoughts were on the Taja Noloyd–with such a device he could serve the Overseer even more efficiently. Or might it be necessary even to serve? And his mind whispered, not for the first time, "Very old is the Beginning One, and hasn't His time come and gone?"

Eft's voice suddenly filled the room with barely suppressed violence. "If any of your retinue is on Troan," he said, "gather them and leave Mer at once. Seek out Sphange and give her your service in these matters. Tell my sister, also, to speed to Stardance Milroy. On Lorlett, at Barkel mountain range, where the old Keep of Mauller Druidry was, she must monitor who comes and goes. Say to her that the Greywheter Druid, Anarchy herself, has again come forward, and I believe she will try hard to visit the planet Lorlett of the Stardance Solar System in the near future."

Bandor stepped back, bowing, his heart beating hard, wondering — as he would for all of his life — why he had remained unscathed. He resolved to hurry out of Tragal, round up his spies, and leave this star system as quickly as possible.

––

A loud, cranking noise came from further down the hall. It grew louder. Arck bounded to his feet, rapidly refastening his own garb with one hand, and helping Strom up with the other. He had thought they would be alone in this seeming abandoned corridor and his expression of anger was hidden behind the approaching wall of sound. The hub of the great commotion was a machine rumbling toward them. It was loaded down with wooden crates, and driven and attended by several tall male and female Hittiteans. Arck was ignorant of the fact that he was always under covert observation, watched for any clue that might verify his right to leadership and the title of Liebrent Heir, or, on the other hand, his rumored madness. A certain distrust of him had begun to ripple through Taff's staff.

Defying the smirks, Strom took Arck's hand, and they walked away. They came to the reception area, where a giant door was swinging open to reveal Taff's strange droy, which sat silent and shiny. For the first time, Arck became aware of the day's flurry of activity. Behind the droy, on a flat dray-like trailer, were three wooden cases piled side by side and held by heavy chains.

Another explosion of noise came from behind them–an engine revving and grinding under the weight of its burden. An elevator landed somewhere below with a harsh thud. A woman rushed by; she was short and hooded. There was a curse from one of her fellow Freeguards and an alarm sounded in the distance.

In the shadows, Arck could see guards preparing to leave. He had known of these through samasense; they came and disappeared like wisps of smoke. Other Freeguards went about their tasks and seemed hardly curious about the confusion.

"They are getting ready to leave," he said despondently.

"We are leaving at midnight," she replied in a similar tone.

"Let's find Tob."

Arck thought of Reed–some information might be gained there. Arck had no idea of what might be taking place, what this bustle signified, or what lay in front of him, not even so much as a hint from DreamWorld. If he had been aware of these things, he would have found it absurd that secrecy hid almost the whole of the Zoraselmain's protection of him. He would have been incredulous to know that the Zoracouncil expected none of their enemies to believe that a Liebrent Proudhon–born of surrogates, living in an Ariste's Keep in some ice-laden continent in a primitive, colonized planet on the edge of the great Circle of Stars that had a hundred other planets more likely, and each of those with a thousand places more likely–would be hidden in a little northern village on Troan.

Had he known that the Chrisarma Trinity had spies everywhere, and that they had been blessed with a stroke of luck, or, even worse, been helped by someone near enough to his protectors to learn his location, then he would have understood how much energy and how many resources had been expended to find him. Thus he would have had cause for real fear; all the more because his position might have been given away purposely.

Arck and Strom did not find Reed; but they did find Tob. They came across him in a back hallway and watched fascinated as he tried to grab the Ariste Druid by the neck, as the two of them played some game of tackle. Tob was trying in vain to catch Grey – as if ten boys, or ten men, could bring her down.

Grey shook him off like water and stopped only to paw his face, like a fencer's touch to symbolize a kill. Tob wailed, if only in frustration, as she raced to and fro. Strom started to giggle, and then even Arck had to laugh. Tob tumbled and shouted. Grey tore up and down too fast to believe. The bandage around Tob's head was now only a narrow white strip – it sat on his forehead like a royal diadem – he was the brother of a Liebrent Proudhon, so perhaps it was.

Tilly exchanged a glance with Taff. Everyone had gathered in the lift landing outside Taff's quarters. The Wizard knew in his heart that he could not at present stand against Arck's wishes, and that both Strom and Tob would likely end up leaving Troan with them. However, neither he nor his old friend were really unhappy about it. They both liked Tob, and Strom was truly beautiful to look at, as well as being far more mature than her years warranted. She appeared to be a steadying influence, and they could see that Arck drew strength from her; a rebellious strength, granted, but he would need it. Still, Taff knew that it was not right–but then, what was right in this situation?

"It is all set, Taff?" Tilly said in Hittitean as the Wizard was assisted into the droy by Reed.

Taff nodded, and almost at once the floor under them started to tremble. The rest of the passengers piled into the huge droy. A moment passed, the cage door slammed closed, darkness surrounded them, and the elevator jerked downward. Tilly watched Tob's amazed face, and smiled. He knew that this was better for the boy than grief.

The building — the magnificent, towered monolith that had been both temple and castle — was apparently to vanish forever. Its purpose outlived, its sprinklers swirled over black smoke and soot, and its dying sama life spiraled out of it unseen. An earthquake could not have covered their tracks better.

The Freeguard and the SelmaKeatra, as a matter of policy, would leave no evidence of the Wizard's presence on Troan. Everything would be left in confusion and turmoil, any investigation would automatically become entangled beyond hope in looping bits and bytes, malfunctioning mainframes, and irretrievable data.

The droy did not hesitate to permit a sad farewell, or even a look back at the glorious sacrifice. The machine traveled rapidly through underground tunnels for several miles, as smoothly and evenly as it would on rails, deeper and deeper under the surface of the city.

Strom was indeed one of the passengers inside Taff's droy. For a long time, she could see only grey walls, and, sometimes, the beams of light caught large grey rats for an instant. At least she had time to think for a while. It was impossible to sort out her feelings, but they did include deep resentment against Arck for having betrayed her by trickery. Ironically, it probably wouldn't have been necessary to use such underhanded tactics as tampering with her mind–she'd already felt the stirring of tender, protective feelings toward him, that were growing into more than friendship. And the flower–it didn't have to be a magic flower, an ordinary living, dying flower would have touched her equally. After all, what made a real flower so appreciated so much was that its beauty was momentary. But alongside the anger burning deep inside, there was another fire that brought no light to confusion, and that was her wish to be with Arck, and her desire for him. She wondered if that desire was really all her own, or if someone or something was still exerting control over her. The question didn't help to sort things out. He had wounded her deeply. And yet . . ..

"What am I doing here?" she said to no one in particular.

The droy hit some low, rigid object. They felt the jolt, the machine caromed back, then accelerated up a steep incline and burst into the lighted streets of early evening. There was an immediate effect: they felt free and safe. As they came on to the rail, control of the vehicle was relinquished by the Druid to Tilly. It continued to move toward their next destination as if swept by the wind.

"Because I love you," Arck whispered.

This just seemed to infuriate Strom. "No! You stay out of this," she demanded. "Now. Doctor Hart, why am I here?"

The Wizard didn't quite know how to answer. Uncomfortable, he drummed his fingertips against his knee for a bit, trying to think of something to say that made sense. He realized that the girl must be told enough so that she could make a free decision, if there was such a thing for her any more. Only now did it cross his mind that the Greywheter Druid — or even Arck himself — might not release her. With rising concern for justice, he spoke slowly and carefully.

"While worlds spin on their axis," he began softly, "there is always something looming just beyond one's control." He stopped, suddenly feeling old, and wondering why his words sounded ominous. This was precisely what he did not intend. "I mean, Troan spins in a system that is itself so much smaller than many systems. In our great galaxy, it is hardly detectable. But among those many systems, there is one lurking like a dragon, as it has in our past; as it will in our future."

This little bit of honesty revived Taff's self esteem to some extent. "This dragon, this system, is known by us as the Circle Cluster and by our enemies as CentreRule. It is a collection of Star Systems in a dominion of commercial trade, political oppression, and bloodshed." He turned to see Strom's reaction, but her face told him nothing. She looked tired. "You have likely heard of the Freeguard. Reed and I are of that group. We are one of the seven member groups of the Zoraselma Alliance Council."

He turned to Strom again. She was asleep, leaning against the door. Her breath had left a patch of mist on the cold window. Angered, he glared at Grey–he knew it was the Druid who had put her to sleep.

In a deep recess of his mind, a place where architecture had been created within strange dimensions, and where symbols were filed away within its image, he opened a door to the age-old house, went to a room and proceeded to annotate one more in the long record of facts and observations concerning the Ariste Druid. In this way his mental records, his memories, were preserved intact and could be recalled merely by revisiting the house. This time, he created a photograph of Strom sleeping in an old rocker, holding a black toy Troanean droy in her hand. He hung it on an overcrowded wall full of other depictions, each one a proof of misdemeanor or, at the least, one tabulation in a series of suspicions which added up to guilt on the part of the Proudhon's capricious protector. As he withdrew, other objects whispered for his attention, but at this moment he did not have the stamina to investigate the ones that could be important, or even those that would become critically urgent.

It was minutes after midnight and they were leaving the straggling edge of the city. Taff could feel the trailer swerve occasionally behind the still speeding machine. By now, firefighters would have overrun his fortress at the top of the Continental Building, only to find nothing but a smoking, sooty crater. He pushed aside a sense of loss, and a brief resentment against the unfairness of it all. He knew it was as it must be. Beautiful possessions were no more than material objects, and a home was something he could not afford, no matter how luxurious, or how simple, it might be–he was a Freeguard leader, and the obligations of his position were paramount. He looked intently at Strom's face as she slept. There was a fierceness about the girl, but it was somehow compelling. Odd, though. He wondered if that was how she protected herself. If so, no amount of fierceness could compete with the Ariste Druid. He would have to do something about it.

Fortunately, they were heading to the Fault, Fern Rewel's sanctuary. Now there was someone who was capable of giving any girl her wisdom. She was one of the most powerful Witches in the Freeguard movement, and one of the reasons they had chosen Troan; Fern's keep was one step closer to his ceptor, and much safer than any other place of which he could think.

While on Troan, he and Fern had not had contact, but it was always understood that in a time of crisis, like now, the Proudhon would be welcome, no matter what the dangers represented to Fern.

Taff realized that Greywheter had precipitated this. Even though she didn't have the power to strike at the Great Betrayer herself, she was arrogant enough to use his and Arck's noloyds to try. Could this work? Could they actually destroy the Great Betrayer with such a plan? He didn't think so–it seemed like an outright folly.

But in regards to Strom, he would outmaneuver the Druid by placing the girl under the influence of Fern. Taff realized that his assessment of the Druid's cunning might fall short. He yawned and felt weary–they would be at Fern's soon enough. He could feel the sleep spell tugging at his subconscious, and his body was pleading with him to rest.

Everyone else had gone to sleep, except Tilly–and the strength of his resistance was being put to the test. Fighting her powers, the Wizard glared at the Ariste. His eyes narrowed, showing no more than contempt and hostility.

"There are two kinds of thinkers who are revolutionaries," he said at last in a cold voice strengthened by moral conviction. "Those who create gods to control others–and those who will not control individuals, who set them free of false gods. Listen and learn, Druid, As the one is treated, so go the many."

One skein of his samawaves quickened suddenly; it grew more intricate and alluring as he yawned. He was feeling the full effect of her power on his weakened body. He looked over to her as she sat statue still, with her shining green eyes in a fixed stare.

"Sleep, friend," she said gently into his mind. His eyes slowly glazed over and he could no longer resist the spell.

Being this close to an Ariste Druid, and the only one awake, made the SelmaKeatra nervous. Tilly began to suspect that he too might fall under the hypnotic spell, and drew his full defenses to the fore. Outside the droy, it had stopped snowing, but the wind was still viciously whipping the drifts into stinging pinpoints of ice. Tilly stared into the night and he found it hard to imagine any landscape more magnificently beautiful than that which followed a massive snowfall on Troan. Pure white — defined into shapes only by smudged shadows of blue and gray — obliterated all ugliness, all dirt and trash, all signs of human forms' contempt for nature. Grit and slush hit the side of the droy, unseen.

Unlike Taff, Tilly had spent part of his boyhood on Troan, and what he lacked here in refined power, he made up for in knowledge of this world, especially the territory which they were heading toward. His apprenticeship years had been spent at the Witch's Fault, so in a sense he was going home. The sky was clearing. The constellations were appearing in the sky, and Offspry, was a quarter moon hidden by the remaining clouds, but he knew where they were and he knew who controlled them. Inside the droy, hardly a breath could be heard. He still had not told Taff that Coldfire was gone. He knew no explanation why the Pulsarite had left the Solar System. He might know tomorrow.

Soon on wheels, the droy was racing along back roads at a pace that pushed its endurance to the limit. The trailer swayed and swerved, and occasionally it bounced, but it remained secured. North by northwest, they sped toward a great body of saltless water which laid always under thick mists and heavy clouds, and was touched continually by rain or snow. Tilly's thoughts preceded them to their destination. He was impatient to see Fern Rewel, and the wild beauty of the Fault and his mind drifted away.

Grey was content. The droy held her favorite two-legged creatures, all sleeping. Her spells were powerful, and she was well-schooled. She watched their peaceful faces for a while, then stretched and decided to do something unusual–a kindness. She stretched over the top of the front seat, to Taff. She began to glow again, with the same pure white radiance. She placed her mouth next to his and blew short puffs of shimmering, evanescent fog into the Wizard's lungs. The results were immediate; the Wizard regained his natural color and began to breathe deeply and calmly.

The Ariste continued to glow, and suddenly her back arched, her hair stood on end, and she hissed. The droy jolted to even greater speed. Now she knew that there was a great and dreadful power on or near Troan, and that it was no other than the Noloyd Mij Holder, Eft Coll, the Great Betrayer, the essence of evil, the ultimate enemy.

The Witch's Fault would hide them, but she might lose some of her power there. Within the Witch's Sanctuaries, the forces of Witchcraft can block the Druid's art. To the Ariste, this meant only one thing: they could not stay long–and even that depended upon whether or not they had been betrayed here, too. Grey knew they must flee the planet as soon as possible, but she dearly wanted a stab at Eft first. If luck was with her, in his greed and rush to possess Arck and the Taja Noloyd, the Betrayer might make a critical mistake.

Besides, over the years, the Druid had gathered a small collection of Troaneans, and she intended taking them along to help the Proudhon–in the hands of so many Zoraselmains, he would not be easy to guide. Now it was time to round up her team, so to speak She had a little Ariste laugh, remembering an old adage: Fortune favors only fools and the brave. If you are neither, fly from the easy paths.

Of course, to seek refuge at the Witch's Fault could be bad counsel, but Grey was the emissary of Anarchy, and Anarchy gives way to all counsel, even the bad. The cost might be high to get anywhere beyond it, but it played into her claws as well. And as always, like all Ariste Druids, she kept her own counsel.

Part Two

### The Great Betrayer 11

Arck woke first, and it was quiet and still. Lights were flashing softly inside the droy but the headlights were off and it seemed quite dark outside. He shrugged his shoulders forward and back a few times, and massaged a kink in his neck. Everyone was still asleep except Grey–she was gone. He struggled to break free of the fresh webs of DreamWorld, as he rubbed his arms and stretched his legs. The back window was already frosting. He wondered where they were and why they had stopped, then pieces of the puzzle fell into place. He sensed the Druid nearby. He grabbed his coat and stepped out of the droy, not quite sure why. There was more light than he had thought; it was gray rather than black, as it had looked from inside the droy. It was freezing. The cold spread through him and cleared his head. He shivered and looked up into the sky. Dawn was approaching. They had been driving for hours, and it felt good to walk on solid ground. His feet sunk into deep, heavy snow. He was wide-eyed, but weak-kneed. Ahead of the droy, a large hole gaped in the snowdrifts, to show a pair of shiny metal doors, half raised, so that a driveway appeared to roll down the hole into a dark tunnel. The road they had traveled ended here abruptly, as if swallowed by the tunnel. Once the huge doors were closed, all traces of the opening would disappear under the drifting snow. A low, distant roar of giant machinery caught Arck's attention. He turned to look in its direction, and saw Grey was standing a few strides away, looking at him. She mindsaid to follow her, and led the way through the thick snow toward the noise. He trailed, putting on his gloves, and sinking deeper into snow with every step. Grey's webbed feet gave her great advantage on the surface, and she raced ahead. As he started following her tracks, he heard the droy's door close — somebody else was awake, but he didn't turn back. He brushed against a stone wall to his immediate right. Brambles blocked the way but he reached around them and saw that Grey's prints went through a narrow divide between the mountain rock and more tangled bushes. This area was sheltered, the snow was less deep, and he was able to catch up to her, so that they broke together from the stony hollow out onto a great open ledge.

The roar resounded in his ears. Arck reached back against the cliff, holding onto a branch of a small bare deciduous. The view in front of him was vast. Mist or snow floated up in the distance, and the earth fell sharply into grayness. He felt drawn to it–what would it feel like to fly out into the air? Vertigo grabbed the pit of his stomach; he closed his eyes and breathed deeply until it went away. The sharp scent of cone-bearing trees filled his nostrils. Further up, he could make out bushes and trees on a more gentle slope. About sixty paces up a steep bluff to his left, tons of water spewed from a narrow cataract, and crashed to the floor of the ravine with tremendous noise. Fascination overcame his fear; he let go of the branch and inched closer to the edge of the cliff. Where it hit the ground, the water recoiled violently into huge curls and spray. The waterfall was breathtaking.

Arck watched the morning rays flood down into the ravine. Then a burst of cold yellow broke over the jagged horizon. The shadows lifted from the gorge. Perhaps half a mile beyond the falls, the river was swallowed by a great mouth in the earth, leaving behind it only a stream which straggled down a slope. He was mesmerized. The overwhelming magnificence made him feel humble, and, after a while, cleansed of the dark remnants of hate and lust that he wanted to forget.

Some monstrous enemy might be hunting him, but he would hide here now, be safe, and heal. Thus, the Proudhon fooled himself with false reassurances; minutes later, he saw Strom and Tob watching him from a small stony pass near the beginning of the ledge. Laughing boyishly, he pointed to the waterfall and motioned to them to join him. They took hands and moved cautiously toward his promontory. Tilly swept up behind them, eyeing the Druid, but smiling expansively.

"Much further along," Tilly shouted above the barrage of sound, pointing to the place where the water vanished, "the river returns to the surface in a most unusual manner, as you will see later." His face struggled to contain his joy. "We shall take an underground path through the caverns, to gain Fern's quarters."

Arck's eyes swept the lonely landscape one more time, just as the sun vaulted over a distant group of pines, giving chase to still more shadows. He was hungry. The amulet was hot against his chest. Tob followed right behind him as he started back, and Strom carefully withdrew from the lip of rock that had been her own vantage point.

When they got back, the droy and trailer had been pulled into the mouth of the enormous burrow behind the metal doors. The Wizard stood inside, out of the wind, leaning against his big black droy, and, Arck thought, looking incredibly improved.

Suddenly Arck caught something like shadows beyond his peripherals; his samasense became all at once finely tuned. What struck him as odd was his certainty that whoever was approaching held no threat. He couldn't figure out how he knew this.

"Look," he said, pointing.

From a copse beside the path they had just made, bushes shook and snow fell. Several armed women and men, tall, and dressed in grey and white fatigues, moved quickly into the open. They seemed aloof, expressionless. Some came directly to them, while others dispersed into the background. A fierce-looking female with black eyes, a weapon strapped securely to her back, drew up in front of them.

"Well, my friend," she said, first approaching Tilly, "you have brought company. The Lady will be pleased." She looked around, puzzled. "Where is Taff?" Tilly turned and indicated. She moved quickly and rather gracefully, in spite of her heavy boots, to the Wizard.

"Welcome Taff," she said, half in deference, half in familiarity. "Are you okay?" She touched his arm. Concern radiated from her face.

He leaned and whispered something to her.

With a broad grin, she spun around to the rest of the new visitors. "Welcome, all of you, to the Fault," she announced. "On Troan, you will not find one place with more beauty crammed into it than here. We are its Company of Defenders, and I am Sheila Brine, daughter of Fern Rewel." She smiled warmly at each in their turn. "Please, go forward," she continued. "The Lady awaits you anxiously." She took a step back. "We shall attend to everything here. Take care, the way is dark and tricky, as always." She laughed and spun neatly on her heels, giving orders at the same time, and rejoined her companions.

The Company headed for the mouth of the enclosure. Her troopers cast their eyes on the Proudhon and saw his awkwardness, and the resentment in his eyes. They traded surprised looks, a few of them shook their heads in wonder, and they walked away in silence.

The roof of the opening closed, and darkness surrounded them as they gathered near the Wizard. There was a smell of mildew and damp mossy stone. Taff moved to Tob's side. "Raise the goregem," he said quietly, "and I will light it."

Tob pulled his Charblind gift from Taff out of his pocket. The Proudhon drew nearer as his brother raised the opaline goregem above his head with one hand and squeezed it with all his might. Taff touched the stone lightly with his index finger and the spark at the center of the opal smoked, then caught fire, and burned with a bright flickering light.

"Wow!" Tob gasped, as tingling pins and needles chased through his arm. Light flared into the enclosure, and he laughed in wonder. Taff patted Tob's shoulder. Seeing the boy so excited did his heart good.

Arck could see there was more than nature at work here, though from all appearances they were standing inside a cave untouched since the stone age. Tilly started out on a path leading into the depths, and called Tob to follow him. The floor was rough, and the walls were black granite with dull red and orange striations. Arck reached for Strom's hand, and stepped behind Tob. Strom still wore her larkspur, now fastened to a gold chain under her shirt, and a faint purple fluorescence shimmered through the cloth.

Reed and Taff trailed behind them into the tunnel, where Tob's goregem lit their way. They moved quickly along a black stone floor smoothed by eons of running water. Water was still near; it gurgled somewhere close by. Soon they reached a point where rocks and broken slate littered the floor. The walls' rich colors began to mix and fade into streaks of crystal.

"Oh, Wow!" Strom said, astonished. "What is this place? It's wonderful!"

"Yes, it is beautiful," Tilly said, "But wait, it gets even better."

They veered into a smaller, branching tunnel that soon met low-lying mist, and then a narrow underground river that bubbled its way swiftly and darkly past them, spitting spray at the intruders. The tunnel widened, unevenly and bit by bit, into a larger cavern where a wooden bridge, just a few planks wide and braced by columns of stone blocks, gave passage over the water. The wood smelt fetid, and there were no rails; but there were signs of recent repair, and the crossing was well lighted by lanterns. On the other side, the path continued into another tunnel, which at first looked as though it would careen straight into the swirling river. Underneath the bridge, the river plunged almost noiselessly into the shadows, then plummeted through the mist to unseen depths.

"Be careful, Tob," Arck called out as his brother stepped out onto the bridge.

One by one they crossed the bridge and, once through the unlighted cavern, their passage became a short narrow tunnel which led out to a slick, railed ledge beside the angry falling river. Arck stared down into the misty abyss. Bone-chilling icy air, exuded from great depths, and wrapped itself around him.

"It's only a short distance now," the Wizard offered, smiling. Arck was obviously not enjoying himself like the others. Strom had unbuttoned her coat, and Tob wasn't shivering. Reed, at Taff's side, was smiling too.

They moved toward a cleft in the wall of stone. With Tob leading and the Tutan's hand on his shoulder, the small group moved close together and entered the crevice. Only a few paces through, it opened into a long, narrow cavern. The abyss was gone. Once more the river seemed to have been swallowed by the earth, and the only trace of it was a low rumble coming from somewhere indeterminate. Soon, their path merged with others and became wider and much faster to travel.

The pathway's twists and turns came to a gigantic cavern with huge stalactites. Taff directed their attention to ancient petroglyphs on the walls–the sketches were thousands of years old, carved crudely into the stone. Arck felt eyes watching them, observing. He knew there were sentries, hiding in the dark, and he knew where each one was. Samasense no longer seemed unreal. The path dipped deeper in places, but invariably led upwards again, until the air became lighter, as if the very weight of the rock plateau above had lessened. The tunnels and caverns opened out and the darkness diminished. Finally, they saw another bridge, this one smaller and covered with thick flowering vines. It was cheerfully lit, and picturesque, and Grey sat lazily in a stone cleft beside it. The flowers were pink and blue, each with its petals drooping over a four-leaved, deep green stem. As they approached the bridge, the Wizard withdrew the fire from the goregem, and Tob shoved it back in his pocket.

"This is fantastic," he said.

"A marvelous place, indeed," Tilly agreed cheerfully. He came to a halt in front of the bridge, waiting for some sign, or perhaps for Fern herself.

And suddenly, there she was, on the other side. Silver-speckled mist floated around her like a wrap; she was tall and slender, and had masses of black curls piled softly on top of her head, from which an occasional tendril escaped to caress her face or neck. Her garments flowed in shining cascades of black, gray, and silver, her smile was the red and white of a sliced apple, her cheek held the blush of the dawning day, and her eyes had stolen their darkness from a wood violet in early spring and hidden themselves underneath a thicket of black lashes. She walked toward them with a slight, graceful sway that swirled her robes into shimmering eddies. She paused for only an instant when she beheld the Druid; then her smile flashed wide again, and she continued her approach.

"Wow!" exclaimed Tob, star struck.

Tilly chuckled. "Indeed," he said. "Indeed so, Tob."

Taff grinned as she came near, but her full concentration had already centered on Arck Bolkant. She stopped just short of the bridge, and stared at him. Though he felt a waft of fresh air touch the right side of his face, the Proudhon could not draw away from her searching eyes. They burned their violet flame through him, cataloguing his heart as well as his thoughts.

"Turn your eyes away," Grey mindsaid to Arck harshly.

Then her eyes released the Proudhon, and turned their probing search to Strom's face.

"Taja jaye tada nonsa jay." The Witch intoned the words with slow rhythm; then, in a light, musical voice, she translated, "This is the old Naja tongue and an ancient proverb which says, 'Angels are wise in matters of love; women wise in matters of gifts.'"

Arck was nervous, even afraid.

"The Druids don't called them Enchantresses for nothing," Grey mindsaid to him.

Fern Rewel and Strom's eyes fastened upon each other's with only the smallest hint of challenge. Fern resembled a royal huntress unconcerned with small game, but her slow assessment of Strom concluded that this girl might be worthy. As for Arck's Angel herself, she was but a young dove in first flight, untethered, realizing neither her own beauty nor the significance of such a look of acknowledgment from a Freeguard Witch. With a smile on her perfect lips, Fern produced a necklet holding an extraordinary blue pearl. Its beauty was so compelling that the Proudhon knew at once that it was from some other world.

As she drew closer to Strom, he could see delicate streaks of silver tracing the soft, black curls. There was something else he could sense, now; something indefinable like a wall just out of sight, something that warned of danger, something dark that belied this romantic depiction of the Good Witch from a child's bedtime story. He understood nothing of all this, but somehow he could sense her power; though not what kind of power it was or where it came from. She looked young, but great wisdom lay deep in those eyes, beside that dark mystery. Her bearing proclaimed nobility, but of what race, or what world, he could not guess.

"Welcome," she said. Her voice floated like a harp's notes through the clematis petals surrounding the bridge. She turned to Taff and gave him a brief, formal bow, with her head down just long enough to signify respect. "A Mij Holder has entered the Solar System. I fear it is the Betrayer."

The Wizard looked to the SelmaKeatra, but Tilly seemed mesmerized by her voice. Now serious, its tone had dropped to that of a cello.

Taff swore in quiet frustration. "Grey? Did you not know this?"

Grey didn't respond. "I'm sure Dread has come," Fern repeated, solemnly.

She stepped onto the bridge, and the flowers parted to let her pass. The Proudhon looked hard at the vines–maybe it had been his imagination. Already, he felt entangled in silken threads.

"The Fault is somewhat protected against him by its secrecy," she said. "My guards will watch for signs; yours may be quartered at once."

Taff nodded. Wearily, he looked at the Witch. There was a long silence, leaving only the sound of the stream running underneath, and an indistinct rumbling from somewhere in the ageless rock. The cavern sparkled with some sort of faint effervescence that carried gentle heat with it.

Unlike the Proudhon, Taff found Fern's entertaining magic displays quite ordinary. He knew the flowers were charmed to protect the entrance, and that didn't take much strength. On the other hand, it probably stopped rodents quite well.

Witches are funny creatures, he thought; but, then, Wizards have their moments, too. In any case, he could not make fun of her today. She was not here to serve him, but she had offered them sanctuary, and now she might be discovered by Eft Coll, the Great Betrayer himself. Taff, being a Kiji Noloyd Holder, might keep him at bay for a time, but the Betrayer would eventually come back and destroy the Fault.

Taff knew that the Fault was the result of decades of painstaking work. A Witch's power was often quiescent, and almost always defensive.

Moreover, he wondered if they were not bringing to her sanctuary a danger from Arck himself. There was a possibility that some blunder on Arck's part would upset its balance and harmony.

The fresh breeze soothed his hot face. He brushed a hand over his stubble head. It was obvious that he had not fully recovered.

"Thank you for your kind welcome," he said at length, somewhat uncertainly.

"Then I say welcome again," she replied, gently. "These lands which I guard, in turn guard you, Taff; you and your friends. Are not our hopes equal? They will stand together against all oppressors. Please, come inside." She turned and led them into her strange and wonderful home.

––

The black giant looked at topographic images of Troan, then switched to a flat, two-dimensional map. His cartographer had been sent on an avion-aircraft, the fastest craft known to CentreRule, and had done a job in days which was no less than miraculous. His target was elusive and cunning. The Betrayer's expression combined anticipation and frustration. He was alone at the controls of his computer console.

"Now, where would the Wizard have hidden his ceptor?" he asked himself. "On the same continental land mass as the village, certainly. It must be nothing less than a distance of a thousand miles, but north or south?" He had eliminated east and west because there was a long industrial belt running along both sides of the continent. North, he suddenly decided. It had to be in the north, where it was less populated and the machine could be hidden in the pack ice of a polar zone. That would be more than a thousand miles, though. But it had to be there. "Yes, yes," he said aloud, in his terrible, resonant, buzzing voice, his logic seeming to him impeccable. "And he hides–perhaps in a metropolis now, somewhere between the village and his ceptor. There it is! Clove. It's Clove!" He looked down at the pinpoint that represented his conclusion. He pivoted in the chair, and flicked on two more brettiscreens while he rose quickly. There before him were clear depictions of the planet, from many perspectives.

"Boormun!" he shouted at an intercom. Boormun was the only Fakir in his service on this trip. He shouted twice more.

A quiet, distinguished-looking human-form drew up to Dread's console, wearing the crest of CentreRule—the two sister planets orbiting the two large binary stars. He also displayed an emblem of the Chrisarmains. Within the foreground, a devotee of one of the Races was holding up, Ztilo, the Chrisarma Testament.

"Lord?" the pale, tall Centrite asked, tonelessly.

The Great Betrayer looked up at his Fakir, pushed aside his disrespect and impatience for the moment, and sounded almost polite. "I need the location of a Wizard on Troan," he said calmly. "There" He pointed to a live brett of Troan on the screens. "This continent. In this general area somewhere, so eliminate all populous regions, all large forests, all geographic sections with instability. Bring it to me as quickly as possible."

The Fakir looked up at the brettiscreens. "I could lead you to him, if you took me with you to Troan. I have a nose for Pulsarite Captains."

The Betrayer suppressed a smile. Getting this Centrite Fakir to do his bidding was as simple as dealing with a child. "I see," he said. "Come to the Hold around seven hundred. On that stinking, primitive place we will get ourselves a Druid and a Wizard–that is if they both still foul the air with their breath. Are you good with Ariste Druids?"

Boormun looked puzzled, but nodded. He turned and left. A shiver of disgust overcame him in the corridor, as soon as he was free of the vibrations of Dread.

Still in front of the screens, the Betrayer gloated. "A Druid and a Wizard," he said, in an evil, rumbling voice. "And maybe something more!"

### The Great Betrayer 12

Thunderbolts flashed from the eyes of the Great Betrayer, just like those that were crashing from the wendroys of his ceptor. The huge rotating wendroy's discs oscillated around the ship adjusting the pressure, atmosphere, and electricity on the surface below. Someone had made a miscalculation.

"Put a stop to that lightning at once," he bellowed. His crew froze, paralyzed by terror.

Boormun entered at that moment, went straight to the Comp-Modine console, and raised his icabus staff above his head. An actinic reaction slowly suffused his body with a dull purple glow; then the soothing light floated out from the wand, bringing calm to every soul in the room.

The chief navigating officer, Hynt-yr, a small red Mantus Mur, hurried to the subconsoles and made several swift adjustments to reduce the stratospheric stress on the craft, to right it against the horizon, and to slow it to landing speed. The Fakir looked directly at the black monster who led them.

"Lord, it is no boon to have them kill themselves out of fear," he murmured, "especially when you are on the very craft they drive." If Eft had been certain the murmuring voice held a note of sarcasm, or if he had not needed Boormun — at least for the present — those words might well have been the Fakir's last.

Eft turned to Hynt-yr and spoke in Ace, "How soon to Clove from here?"

"Leaving at once," Hynt-yr answered in high-pitched Mur, "by Lanier, with one stop to adjust the security systems, two hours at least. Once you are there, if there is no disturbance among the Troaneans, Boormun might work his magic undisturbed."

"Magic, bah!" Dread muttered to himself.

"That is so," Boormun said. "An incident on Troan could play into the Zora's hands."

"Have a lanier readied," the giant barked.

With two Vilemarc Warriors, each with a shard of Bonelves, and Boormun's personal guard, a Centrite called Corbil, quarters on board the lanier were close. It was a fighting craft, not generally used to transport personnel. Boormun would have preferred to take a slightly larger craft such as the avionjet, an aircar with perhaps lesser tactical capabilities in battle, but at least it was equipped with small bays. Added to these factors, of course, was the huge bulk of Eft, the Great Betrayer.

Their first coordinates landed them on a cold slab of slate beside a desolate northern lake. Dread and Boormun disembarked while the crew ensured that the craft would be silent and undetectable in this quadrant. An amulet swayed gently against Eft's cloak as he stepped out. It was no less than the Mij Noloyd, the very one from the Proudhon's Taja collection, and it glowed inside its casing with a slow red dullness. When the technicians finished their tasks, Dread called to Boormun, who was standing further off on the rock face. He seemed to be listening or looking for something.

"Are we ready?" The Betrayer yelled to him.

"Lord, can you sense it?" Boormun held up a restraining hand. "Somewhere on this latitude there is a Witch's Sanctuary."

Eft stood for a minute, his head bowed in concentration, and nodded. Then they left for the wintry city of Clove.

––

The lone Mauller was originally from the planet Lorlett, he was the son of a famous Mauller Druid, Staff Slager, and his name was Durakerk Laiver. Like his mother, he was a close friend and ally of Taff Hart. As most young Maullers, he was broadly-built and muscular with pulled-back long hair. Maullers, like Aristes, were an outlawed race, a hunted people in CentreRule's domains. Durakerk's skin was smooth, velvety gray, and he had vibrant, intelligent eyes with irises a darker shade of the same color. In spite of his heritage, he resembled a Vilemarc both in general size and demeanor–and this was no coincidence. His race's genes had been deliberately corrupted by those evil enemies, especially the Heart Harrower–who planned to create an army of killers from the very stock of the race they intended to destroy.

He had left Gat soon after Bandor sensed him in the woods near the Bolkant mansion. He knew it was imperative to stay as far away from Eft's highest lieutenant as possible while he pieced this puzzle together, and it would be safer to keep on the move. Only days after Bandor had detected him, Durakerk arrived in Clove. He would have been there even sooner had he not been delayed by a futile wait for another friend, a Troanean who had promised to meet him in a town not far from the Proudhon's village. This friend always kept his commitments, so Durakerk started to worry when he didn't turn up. He made his way to Clove mostly in stolen road droys, each one lasting until the fuel was spent, for any direct contact with Troaneans could lead to his discovery by Vilemarcs, to say nothing about breaking all the rules of living in anonymity. By itself, coming to the city was breaking those rules.

The mechanized autonomous droy he had now still contained a good supply of fuel. Taff's headquarters would have been easy enough to find–the Continental Building was one of the tallest in Clove. But now, Durakerk's heart sank when he saw black smoke in that direction. He parked discreetly among droys near the property, carefully hopped a fence and crawled into the burnt-out tower through a smashed out window. Even as he did so, night fell to the city streets.

Durakerk did not let himself doubt that Taff had escaped; still, he couldn't help worrying about the Wizard's safety. The building's elevators were wrecked and the lower flights of stairs were littered with debris. Cloudless skies and the bright Offspry moon had become the ceiling for the forty-fourth floor. Soot, snow, and broken glass were its flooring. Of the Witch, or the Fault, Durakerk knew nothing, but he did know his luck had just run out.

It was a feeling, and it made him frightened, but at the same time, calm and alert. It said he had to get out of there, fast. He raced to the remains of an elevator, with its doors askew and gaping. He shoved his arm into the dark opening, swung it back and forth, and touched a rough rope of metal–the cable was still there! He jumped and grabbed it, and there he hung, suspended in the black darkness, slowly slipping, slipping down, like a huge spider, to the ground.

"It's Dread himself!" he said softly. "Dread–and a Fakir, to boot. Vilemarcs. And their filthy two-legged hounds, the Bonelves!"

He knew Dread had found him; he was here. He could feel the Fakir greedily reaching out for him, pinpointing his location.

"How is Dread here on Troan?" he asked himself, sliding, sliding down, his hands raw. "The Zoras have been betrayed!"

He hit the top of an elevator cab with a thud, and scrambled through a lidless hole in its roof. His feet flew along a corridor; lighted streets below showed him he was barely more than half way down. He flung doors open until he found a flight of stairs, and scrambled down them, running, leaping, using his bleeding hands to slide alongside the railings, as fast as he could move in the dark. He knew Vilemarcs were coming after him right now. There might even be some of them waiting on the ground; Dread would not have taken his whole retinue into the building. Damn, how had such a misfortune happened to him? How?

He hit bottom, racing full-tilt, and he felt an enemy annujet disc activate. He halted abruptly, then rushed into the nearest room, raising his own two fiery discs. He crouched down. It had started to snow. There wasn't a bit of glass left in the wall that had been a window, and his breath hung white in the air as he waited and listened. He counted to five, trying to get some sense of what he was up against. He stood, suddenly, and dove head-first through the window frame–a thing not so easy for him in this gravity. He rolled and somersaulted in the snow, clambered to his feet and kept running down the hill below the building. At the bottom, his luck gave out. A Vilemarc stepped out from behind a thick pine tree. Laughing like an evil child who has just scored victory by deceit, he sent his deadly annujet straight at Durakerk.

The Mauller, partly by sight, partly by sheer will, spun one disc toward the Vilemarc. At the same time, he leaped into the air and flipped backwards. His wrentsword was out of its casing by the time he landed on his feet and started moving in, praying that the fiend was alone. Durakerk's annujet was spinning at the same time as the Vilemarc's disc came hurtling toward him. The annujets collided in midair, a ball of fire flamed into the night, and Durakerk hurled the wrentsword at the Vilemarc. Fire washed over them, and he heard the crack of bone, the piercing scream of death from his enemy.

With one less disc, one less sword, and his robe smoking, Durakerk ran for his life.

On the roof above, Dread cursed. "She is escaping!" he hissed angrily to Boormun, concluding because of the Mauller's skill and strength, they had happened across a female Mauller Druid. As Boormun and Corbil raced to their craft, Dread reassured himself that at least they were on the right track and that he would soon have a chance to strike at the Wizard.

––

Grey hoped to use Fern's ancient sanctuary as a base to prepare a quick strike against the Great Betrayer that would undo him. She knew that whatever Dread had in mind when Tragal brought him to the Mer Star System was neither planned in advance nor well thought-out. Nevertheless, an act of fate had thrown them together on this distant, unimportant little planet called Troan. If she couldn't take Dread down here, she couldn't destroy him anywhere.

All parties to the approaching calamity seemed to ignore the potential danger they were bringing on themselves by staying at the Fault. Either they thought it was undetectable, or truly believed there was a chance Dread could be tripped up with the help of Fern's power.

Fern herself was certain that the sanctuary was impregnable.

In Tilly's mind, it didn't matter either way. He had not yet heard from Coldfire and Taff was still recovering, so they were as safe — or as vulnerable — at the Fault as they would be running helter-skelter over the snow-filled northern plains of Troan trying to get to the ceptor.

In Taff's heart, he hoped for two things by staying at the Fault; an alliance between Fern and himself, and a bit of peace for the Proudhon.

The atmosphere of the Witch's Sanctuary rolled over Arck like a heaven. He relaxed, and days went by in brightness and warmth. The fresh food was farmed in some mysterious manner within the Witch's caverns, and it was the best Arck had ever seen. Fine wines were brought directly from growers on famous rivers in countries to the east, and were perhaps the Fault's only contact with the outside, except for its charity guilds and covert printing industries. He thought often of his mother and the rest of his family, but their accusing faces no longer haunted him. Furthermore, between the Freeguard, the Witch's people, and the guests, there were contests, games, and other activities at once sophisticated and simple. They made Arck laugh or forget himself from time to time, and they had names like Last-of-the-Great-Waves, Batball, and Fields-Forests. Taff was unbeatable at the table games, and he often defeated Fern Rewel, who accepted defeat graciously, if not, as it seemed to Arck, sometimes deliberately. Reed was a great player and he laughed when he lost. He laughed a great deal, and Tob liked to laugh with him. So they lost together, and laughed together, and had an exceedingly good time.

Arck was sure there was also magic and sorcery afoot within the Fault, though the Witch proclaimed it mathematics and science. Strom seemed to understand the explanations when they were given, but Arck was skeptical. Music was often heard, especially during and after meals. Everyone could select a preferred piece, and it would be reproduced with the sound of a live performance. But the Proudhon knew only songs with words and she had none of those. She was distrustful of the intent of words written to hide behind music, but often he recalled the lyrics he liked, and sang to himself as he wandered through the endless halls and passages of stone. He spent as much time alone as he could, or so he thought, but the truth was that Grey was almost always within easy reach.

Long conversations amongst the guests and their hosts took place, often about matters philosophic or scientific, and he listened carefully to them but avoided participation. He either didn't understand, or didn't care to. Tob argued with them about religion and Arck watched and listened as they tried to rationalize his God. He was secretly proud of his brother, but left him to fend for himself. Beautiful Sheila had deep, dark, forest-flower eyes like those of her mother, and the same soft, rich black hair, although hers was not yet embellished by silver tracings. She, especially, seemed to love these nights of talk; but sometimes she would sing; and her voice captured the enrapturing mystery of a siren's song, but she would bestow this gift only after Arck's persistent pleading.

The Witch's Fault exuded a quiet power, and there was much to be amazed at. It was even difficult to tell where the castle itself ended, and the caverns began. But sooner or later, in corridors or passages, chambers or halls, growing areas, mills, perhaps at the foot of a waterfall or taking the place of a candelabra on a table, the Proudhon would find an orrery–a slowly rotating and turning miniature solar system. Some depended upon an ancient tradition of clockwork, others seemed to have no justifiable reason either to move or to hang suspended in midair. Some were ornate antiquities of gilt and gems, others so transparent as to be nearly invisible, and they were large or small, depending upon the space harmoniously available, but they all moved in concert, attuned to the same positions of the Mer zodiac. Arck realized they were tied to the Witch's power in some way, but he did not know how.

Tob was given the run of the Sanctuary, at the side of Tilly Croft. He dragged the stout warrior from one end of the Fault to the other, and told his brother of the wonders he encountered: things like dams, and generators turned by the rushing cascades of the river, and grinding mills where grains and rices were processed. Past the living halls, a colorful court was lit during the day by natural light coming through the perpendicular slash of a fissure running the chamber's full height. Behind the opening, a glass skylight kept the elements at bay. Jets of water shot into the air from a central fountain, but only high enough to obscure the marble feet, or an ankle here and there, of naked dancers intertwined in a circle of erotic fantasy.

But then there was that crazy-quilt of a bird, and Arck hated it. A large wire cage was crowded with fleshy succulents, palms, and giant cacti. The cage door was always ajar, and the air in the court was always hot and humid. A smell hung around the coop, which was home to the most extraordinary feathered creature Arck had ever seen. It was as large as an Hittitean's head, and its plumage was blood red and black-tipped. It was lovely to look at, but the Proudhon hated being alone with it. He sensed something wrong about it, aside from the fact it seemed to be quite mad. (As one madman knows another). Grey obviously shared his aversion; she was noticeable by her absence from this area.

In the mornings it would preen its feathers and display its wings, chirping in the sunlight pouring through the skylight; but by the end of the day it would start jabbering, and Arck found it hideous to listen to. It was named Bloodbird, and it complained endlessly. Tob would sit by the hour, watching it, giggling and making ridiculous faces, but Arck steered clear of the court (except to look at the statues of the naked dancers). His stomach knotted at the very sight of the bird, and when the group talked together, Bloodbird was relentlessly annoying. It would swoop about like a giant bat, repeating bits of conversation which it had snatched up, and then contrived or paraphrased into rude, vulgar expressions.

Invariably, it aimed its worst remarks at Arck, though he could not have said why or how. It particularly liked aphorisms such as, "Hedonism is the pain of pleasure for its own sake," or "Happiness is perpetually murdered by truth." Over and over Bloodbird would repeat the same trite sayings, always accusingly, until it found a new one it liked better. There were times when the thought crossed Arck's mind that the Witch might be causing the thing to behave in this fashion to torment him, but that would not have been consistent with the generosity and protection they had been afforded at Witch's Fault.

His visit was peaceful and sometimes adventurous. Many hours were spent in sleep, and still more in quiet conversation or long walks with Taff, who managed to make him feel important and not just a cog within a wheel. Sometimes, as they meandered through the system of rivers and caves, life grew discernible to the Proudhon, in flashes of insight, and he saw some purpose in it, and self-definition. He would grasp the theory of samascience or the philosophies of the Selma and the Sarma as they were explained to him; but then he would blunder back to his room to sleep and they would evaporate like fancies. He would awaken with only one desire that grew stronger with each passing day–to lie with Strom again. But he saw less and less of her; she spent her days with the Witch or her daughter Sheila, and though he could not quite understand how or why, he was constantly turned away.

He could see the Witch grow closer to Strom every hour, and the girl became paler and more serious by the day, yet neither less beautiful nor unwell. To the contrary, her inner strength had intensified in some mysterious way.

One night, invitations had been issued for a special entertainment which would take place on open promontories at the cleft of the Fault. As Arck neared the spot, he saw Strom and the Witch standing together. The Witch was murmuring to her pleasantly, while Strom looked at her intently. The girl's pale face had been further whitened by some cosmetic, which gave her face an exotic, ageless aspect. Arck started to turn away, to find a more distant vantage point for the spectacle, when the Witch turned to him, her smile warm. The wind made her robes rustle and flutter. She greeted him by touching his arm with her fingertips, before she went to welcome other guests.

Arck was nervous and self-conscious. It was clear to him that, Strom was being elevated in some way, changed into someone further and further out of his reach, while he was being left behind to wallow in self-centered callowness. He was being cheated, and by Fern Rewel.

"Strom, you seem different," he stammered. "Are you all right? Has the Witch hurt you?"

"Why do you always call her 'Witch'?" She looked at him coldly.

He suspected she was getting over her head into something she didn't understand. Yet neither did he–at least not enough to try to explain it to her. Fern had become Strom's trusted friend, and he knew it wasn't worth the gamble to say anything against her. He tried a different tack. "We have not made love since that first night," he whispered.

She looked at him in disbelief, taking a step back, shocked. Revulsion showed on her whitened face. "Is that what you think love is?" Sarcasm weighted her words.

She stared back out of her dark green eyes.

"Your loyalties have sure changed!" he accused her bitterly.

Icy winter frost was as though seeping up through his legs from the cold stone, only to meet the coldness already piercing his heart. The amulet at his chest began to grow warm. A wave of electric blue radiated over him, hiding the look of torment that distorted his features.

Quickly, Strom took another step back, and turned her head away. She didn't want to watch this weird spectacle again. It was all so absurd. She shook her head, confused, on the threshold of understanding something she didn't want to know; whatever it was made her afraid. Her fear communicated itself to him, and he pulled himself away from his incipient powers.

He passed her quickly, his face a mask of anger. He hit his head as he disappeared into the tunnel, swearing, and cursing the Witch.

Just above Strom, after consulting an assistant, Fern returned to her conversation with the Wizard. They had been speaking about Greywheter. "We might outmaneuver her," she said. "Strom and Arck are both tied into her plan somehow. Right now, I could separate them easily." Her robes of blue and green silks, like sky and sea, flowed in the chill, late afternoon wind. Fern Rewel was wise and clever, generous, even kind, but she held fast to her own mysterious purposes and causes; fortunately, her objectives often coincided with those of the Wizard.

Taff shrugged. "Teach her right, but we can't get rid of her completely, hmm? Arck would be brokenhearted?"

"It would be wise to initiate Strom," she said. "Her father has obstructed her emotional development to the point where nothing Arck could do now would make her happy anyway." Her voice was carried away by the wind. "The boy could turn her against us."

Taff's head began to pound, and he cursed the Druid. For a moment, they stood, watching the tumbling water hundreds of paces below. The walls on this side of the Fault were sheer and unscalable, slick with moss and lichen. Enormous icicles hung like tinsel from every possible spot. On the cliff opposite, bare granite held snow-covered bushes and cedar shrubs in a deceptively tenuous grip.

"Arck will not leave here without her," responded the Wizard. "It will be hard enough as it is to get him to leave. Except for some problems of the heart, he has been happy here, and that I think is a new experience."

"The girl rebels against him," she retorted. "But the Druid has tied her irrevocably to him. So . . . when the skies cannot be changed, then wisdom must change with the skies." Taff was silent.

At length Fern continued, accepting the fact that Taff was not going to respond to her offer, "The Druid navigates a course through murky waters full of treacherous currents and undertows which could pull us down at any moment." She waited as if expecting the Wizard to concur.

"To Strom, physical contact with him is abasing; to Arck quite the opposite. He flees from comprehension; she struggles to see. She mocks prayer yet is angelic; he prays but has the desires of a common man." She looked at Taff with a bright smile. "Well, Taff, am I not a poetess tonight?" She laughed, but the sound was lost in the river's roar.

Arck was out on the open Fault, but well below where Fern and Taff were standing. Grey was on a small, enclosed ledge behind him. He couldn't see her, but he knew she was present. He could feel her nearby. He had forced his thoughts away from Strom and the Witch, and concentrated on the breathless view before him. The sheer drop awed him, and even more so when twilight began to spin the afternoon light into obscuring veils of shadow. Close to the edge, he looked straight down, and felt dizzy. Water surged from the massive wall in several spots. The river he had seen the first day, which had been swallowed up by the earth, had returned here into the open air. The icy water raged violently. A cascade tumbling from a large fissure tore a gigantic icicle away from the cliff face. It plunged down, caromed off the jutting rocks and exploded into pieces.

Arck heard his brother yelp excitedly, somewhere above him. He stepped back, rubbed his cold hands together, put his gloves on, and went looking for Tob. Much of his agitation had dissipated in the grand perspective of nature's power and magnificence, and now darkness was invading the Fault . . ..

The cold was increasing sharply. He took a path which twisted up through a thick grove of frozen briars and faded away at a knoll covered by ice-silvered trees. Dead, iced leaves chimed in the wind. Off further were immense pople trees, and beyond those, miles and miles of coniferous tree, baax, spry, and krouce stretched up the sides of steep mountains which formed a circle around the majestic Fault, like a coronet. There were no visible roads or footpaths into the Sanctuary.

By the time Arck reached the small group on the ledge, he felt as though he'd been hypnotized. The water still roared below, and the Fault still echoed back. He watched while one of her troupers whispered something to the Witch. She nodded and stepped forward.

"Begin!" she called, standing on the lip of a ledge and throwing her hands up.

At once, many natural openings in the rock below began to pour out an increased flow of water, to create a mist that hung before them like a thick, round rain cloud. She raised her hands again, and great multicolored light beams flashed along the breadth and height of the fissure, and broke into swirling patterns. Then a succession of pin lights seared through them, flew straight out, bent at perpendicular angles, and bounced back. They split as they flared out, producing a visual chorus of hundreds more.

In the middle of the white cloud, a jet of black smoke muted the brightness, but only for a moment before rainbows of fireworks exploded to reinforce the display. Color upon color flashed like lightning.

"Wow," the Proudhon admitted, stunned by its beauty. "It's marvelous."

Pleased, the Witch smiled at Arck, then turned to Sheila and Strom to see their reactions. There was no need to look at Tob's face for his response; squeals of joy conveyed his sentiments adequately. Even Taff looked impressed, as another explosion sent a radiant flywheel to crackle and spin at the center of the mist

In the darkness behind them, Arck could sense dark muscular figures–soldiers and workers who had come to watch. A bright flash showed Tob and Tilly watching from a nearby ledge.

Then a whole set of cannon blasts created a huge conflagration that flared up, then subsided to form a gargantuan, radiant fire dragon of red light. Now Arck could clearly see watchers from crags and ledges everywhere along both sides of the Fault.

Without warning, two slim hands were placed against his waist. A cold shiver went up his back. Cool lips touched the back of his neck, and a fire melted the ice up his spine. With a cunning smile, he turned around and seized Strom in his arms. A loud blast over their heads burst into a brief fountain of fireballs in the air. He kissed her hard, his spirits soaring. In the background, a spaceship of fireworks hovered above the dragon and shot an arrow of flame into it. A massive explosive shook the air; when it cleared only the spaceship was left, a brilliant spaceship of light and fire, like a rocket.

### The Great Betrayer 13

It was late when Arck woke the following morning. After a cursory breakfast, he roamed, daydreaming, into far reaches of the Sanctuary. He wandered the tunnels and caverns of a world of glistening granite and laborious paths until he was lost, with no thought but those of love and lust. Had he paused long enough to acknowledge a feeling of unease that gnawed at him, it would have grabbed him with panic–he would have realized that the monster who kept searching so relentlessly for him, had finally found his prey. And had he realized this, he would have soon figured out that the Ariste Druid had been aware of the Great Betrayer's approach, but had not warned him — or anyone else — of the danger; except for some odd but vague and unexplained gestures. Even if he had kept his wits about him, the Proudhon would not have been able to explain why Grey kept this to herself.

For a while, he walked a path leading upwards, and though he could have sensed a Freeguard here or there, he saw no one for over an hour. Then suddenly he was shaken out of his reveries by Sheila Brine, who was standing in front of him, smiling.

"Hello," she said softly.

He smiled back. "Hi!"

"Of all places to find you!" Her smile was a bit puzzled.

"Why is that?" he asked, mystified.

"Well, it is opportune," she said. "My private quarters are near, and since you will be leaving tomorrow, there is something I wish you to have." She looked at his face for any sign of suspicion, but there was none. "It's a book," she continued. "A book which Fern has written. I asked that she sign it personally for you. Even though she is going with you, I know it would mean a great deal if you took it to read." She pointed out the direction to take.

"Sure," he said, and was about to ask, "Is she going with us?" but in a way he'd known it all along.

They came to an open cave where she led him through a narrow dry, well lighted tunnel that widened into a large cavern and then fell into a room full of alcoves and large bookshelves, with a doorless bedroom beyond. This room opened onto other rooms, but Sheila went no further. She stopped at one of the bookcases and reached for a thin, paper book.

"There," she said handing it to him. It was bound in black and silver leather. "It is a series of essays which I have collected from her over the years–lectures really." She took his hand.

"Thanks," he said, somewhat embarrassed.

"Please read it," she urged quietly, with a gentle squeeze of his hand and excused herself.

He opened the book, but he could not unlock its esoteric intent. He began to flip through the pages, picking out stray expressions. He coveted ideas, but at the same time he had no comprehension of them. He turned the pages one by one, not knowing what to make of these strange ideas of personal liberty and political freedom. What did it mean he wondered? To be free, to be really free. What did that have to do with government? He felt trapped inside a body with his biological needs. He continued to read other bits and pieces, but nothing was coming together. Before he threw the book aside in utter frustration, he leafed indiscriminately through a few more pages, he lacked the key to unlock the ideas. He stretched out, the entire length of the bed, and laughed at his own perplexity.

––

Dread waited in his weltercraft, now sitting close to the Witch's Fault. The welters were larger than avionjets or laniers. In a pinch they could fly directly from the surface to a pulsar ship and had the capability of ceptor-to-ceptor transportation, while being much faster and smaller than a ceptor itself. The swift craft was hidden in woodland beside an open snow-bowl of fields. He had sent Hynt-yr, his Mantus-Mur chief navigator, in the lanier, back to his ceptor, which was orbiting patiently in the upper stratosphere around Troan. The ceptor was to have returned to his pulsar ship, Tragal–which was parked in orbit around Gradle's huge moon, Dobos. Hynt-yr was to bring back enough Vilemarcs and Bonelves to wipe out the Freeguard Witch's troops.

The thought of rest or sleep did not occur to the Betrayer. His heart was flowing over with a desperate desire for possession. Deep inside him, a song of power was building to a crescendo. He, Eft Coll, the Great Betrayer, was Power — Dread Power — and to have his power enhanced, to feel it enrichened, to be filled by its increase, was terrible in its joy.

"To my Gods,' his dark voice hissed. "The very delivery of my soul!" He stared out toward the Fault, and his eyes shone behind narrow slits, like polished black jade.

At length he turned to Boormun. "How much longer, Fakir, until the ceptor lands?" It was more a complaint than a question.

The sorcerer yawned, rose, and reached out to a console. "I was sleeping," he said. This comment was more a remonstrance than a reply. He punched in a code. "Ten minutes."

"Sleep then, sleep," the black giant muttered impatiently, drumming his huge, splayed fingers on the counter. The ten minutes came and went; they seemed like ten years to Eft. Then a shadow flashed across the field in front of them. The wind fled the field, routed by heat blasting from the craft. Ice crunched and cracked, and a smaller tree here or there snapped off at its base, but, surprisingly for a machine with so wide a field of static and so much radiated heat, relatively little snow melted.

"Come, Boormun!" Eft bellowed, waking the Fakir once again. "They are here!" Anticipation crackled like electricity in Dread's buzzing voice. Nothing was moving fast enough for him, not even time itself.

The routine that ensued, as the welter was checked over and loaded with supplies and troops from the ceptor, tested his patience to its very end. Dread paced up and down, barely controlling his temper, until the crew had finished. The precaution of a phlofusion force field had never been deemed worth consideration for The Fault, so well was it protected by nature and isolation. All the Fakir had to do was suppress any automatic electronic monitors that might be in operation, an easy task for him, then the welter rose and, within minutes, landed inside the borders of the Sanctuary.

But Eft's troops were at cross purposes, confused in their directions from his lieutenants, and not adequately dressed for open battle in the bitter cold. However, the soldiers emptied quickly enough out of the craft, for they were well-motivated by their leader: Dread had touched their hearts with fear and drove them forward with horrible threats.

"Kill every Freeguard here," he ordered before they left. "Cause as much confusion and mayhem as possible." He knew that most of the Vilemarcs would rape almost any moving thing within reach, and that most Bonelves would eat any race's flesh, given half the chance. This, then, was their opportunity, and he chuckled at the thought. As they dispersed, Eft was surrounded by his most trusted Vilemarc lieutenants, but he looked toward Boormun.

"What do you intend?" the Fakir asked, with a hint of suspicion.

"Ah, do you know me so well?" The giant smiled, but not with his eyes

Boormun shivered, but it was difficult to tell whether from cold or disgust. "I know that we cannot win here today, in open warfare. And I know that you are equally aware of that. Here, there is a Taja Proudhon, an Ariste Druid, a Freeguard Wizard, at least two Witches, a SelmaKeatra Captain–need I go on?"

The Betrayer's smile was smooth and placating. "Boormun, you are right of course. Let us say it is but a ruse for a friendly visit to size up the Proudhon–a small chat, perhaps. Presently I will disengage from my body and fly by the power of the Mij Noloyd into the heart of the Witch's Sanctuary. While I am gone, you and my lieutenants will watch to see that no one comes near my body. If something were to happen to it, I think you can imagine the results, and there can be no doubt that I would take extremely severe and imaginative revenge against all of you." The Betrayer filled the air with instant dread.

And so there, at the end of a frozen pathway, where wind and bitter cold joined together, the Fakir planted spells of secrecy. The Betrayer's mind rose into the sky with the small vermeil disc. He spun relentlessly over the Fault, searching for the area he wished to enter.

The disc's capabilities were almost beyond imagination; it had been handcrafted by that same Mauller scientist, Aarona Raker, who had created the Proudhon's unifying one Noloyd and the Wizard's Kiji Noloyd. It defied all common sense, and it served to transport the mind of Eft Coll, the Great Betrayer. His black, gigantic body, retaining all of its form, was being guarded below, but his mind, at the point of the disc, controlled its entire will.

––

Sheila Brine came into the kitchen and stood for a minute. Her mother was at the counter, the Proudhon at a stone table. He was munching a fresh chocolate wafer, and had a cold drink his hand. Fern and Taff were bantering back and forth. The kitchen looked in four different directions: the dining room, the sub-kitchens, the courtyard, and a hallway which led to Fern's personal quarters. Vague fear began prodding at Arck, but it was nothing he could pin down. Nevertheless, the feeling was getting stronger, and he tried to concentrate. Sheila was suddenly called away, and left the room by a door to the back kitchens.

Just then, Strom came in.

Hi," she said, looking at Arck, Taff, and Fern. She wondered how she could have become so involved with these three. She wished it were all a dream so she could wake up and be back in her own life where she belonged. It might not be the best life in the world, but at least she had some control over it. She would awake, not raped by Arck and not whisked away by coercion, by people untroanean, to places alien, too beautiful to be real, too unreal to be accounted for. They constantly talked of planets and stars, witches and wizards; of cats that think and talk, and more–they talked of monsters of incredible power that live past their times and lust after omnipotence, they discussed ideas which were not Troanean, but belonged to many other civilizations older by far than that of Troan. They even had histories for these. Strom wanted to go home.

"How are you doing today?" Fern asked her bending to remove some sort of utensil from a lower cupboard. Before Strom could answer, Bloodbird flew into the kitchen, shrieking. It perched recklessly close to Arck, who quickly picked up a big wooden spoon from the shelf behind him, and whipped it accurately at the bird. It screeched, and flew squawking out of the kitchen.

"Vanity," it shrilled, "Vanity!"

"Ha!" Arck shouted back.

Taff laughed, but uneasily. He felt, as Arck did, that something was awry. He took a few minutes to walk to the courtyard and look through the skylight. Thick snow was pelting down, and twilight was settling in. Dishes clinked in the dining room behind him. Then suddenly a cold flash of fear or warning shot through him. Something . . . but what? Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite make out what it was. He started to pace nervously back and forth between the dining hall and the kitchens, trying to sense what was the matter. Sheila abruptly entered the kitchen from a back entrance. She whispered something into her mother's ear, excused herself, and disappeared as rapidly as she had come. To Taff, this was even more ominous. Some commotion seemed to come about in the halls, and now the Wizard was sure something was wrong. He signaled for his lieutenant, Les Chide — his shining hair was short, brown, like his eyes, and swept-back in a manlike manner — he stood before him in a matter of seconds. Taff moved a step closer and spoke softly.

"Put all the troopers on alert. Now."

The large orrery in the corner of the room began to grind to a halt as if it suddenly had a great weight attached to it. Rising to his feet, Arck swallowed, and looked for Grey. He saw her streak in from the back kitchens. Now the Zodiac had completely stopped. The Druid howled and leaped to Arck's side, pressing against him.

"Dread has come!" she said into his mind. "But not as I had wished. Beware."

Everyone took a step or two closer together, forming a rough circle, as if she had spoken aloud, though in fact no one had heard anything. Then the whole world started falling apart. A steel door fell, covering one entrance at the side. With no more warning than the first, another fell, blocking both exits at the back. The Proudhon spun around, puzzled. In the distance, alarms started to wail. Two more steel trap doors crashed tight in the outer kitchens. He was not sure whether they were being protected or trapped. With a white clenched fist, the Witch banged a panel near the archway to the courtyard. A chunk of stone the size of a bread box slid out. She removed a periapt, the size and shape of a heart. It was white ivory; its chain was heavy and linked together with signets of constellations and solar systems. She threw it around her neck and spoke roughly into a box in the wall beside the open drawer. There was no answer in any language. She swung around, searching for some indication of what was happening. Fear fluttered in and out of her face. Arck could see that she did not know what to do.

"Bloodbird," she called, her voice harsh. "Speak. What is it?" The bird was still and silent. "Speak I say! Fjfar rarri!" she shouted and there was anger in her tone. Rage filled her face, then power strengthened and smoothed it.

"From the skyline," Bloodbird screeched in terror. "Dread comes. Near! The Betrayer is near! Near!" Screeching unintelligibly, it spread its wings their entire length, and flew out into the courtyard. "Deadly peril-l-l!" It hid among the plants in its large cage and tried desperately to bury its head in its nap and wing. "Deadly peril-l-l-l."

Even as Sheila left the kitchen to check with her guards, alarm made her feet move faster. When she came upon Avisann, face down in a pool of his own blood, she unsheathed her falchion, drew out her jaye-pistol, and raised her annujet discs to the ready. She ran a half a mile to a conjunction box, and then cursed for not having her larlstone with her. She saw at once that the diameters of electric current and magnetic prehension had been neutralized by a Fakir's spell. With all her strength, she sought to break the spell, but could not. In the nearest autoconsole, she manually phoned each station where troopers might be caught unaware. In this way, Sheila mustered her troops at a battlement called GardenWalk, on the surface of the Fault. She took several flare guns with her on the way there, exploding them down the halls as she ran upwards through the Fault, hoping to raise those not yet warned. So quite by accident, she got the smoke detectors to react and the fire alarms to sound.

As she stepped outside, she felt the presence of an enemy's annujet–most Witches had the skill to detect sama-weapons such as those. She hid behind a large oak and watched a small black figure scramble under some brush. She crouched against the rough bark, breathless but keenly aware, her senses attuned, her fingers ready at the trigger of her pistol. The ambush was only paces away. She smiled, without knowing why. The blood rushed to her head as she ran forward with a blaze of shots. She sent jaye pellets singing into the brush, and five Bonelves burst out, screaming, and scurried away. Their Vilemarc leader headed for the hill behind them. She almost laughed, but instead sent her fiery annujet disc to his dispatch. It sliced through his body like white-hot metal and he collapsed. For a couple of seconds, the Vilemarc's body curled in agony, then dark blood fed the snow from both pieces of his corpse, which separated as it fell. She drew up to his body in disgust.

She felt the Sanctuary rising up to her; she embraced the earth and wind. Soon she was among her troops in the GardenWalk. Some of Taff's Freeguard were there. "Let us find the Fakir," she shouted over the wind. "Anavere, take Caley and ten others, drive toward Fern's quarters. Ask her for my larlstone, and then we will teach these vultures some manners!"

Already she was moving to the bridge at the west side of the Fault, for even as her thoughts formed around it, she had located the Fakir's position, although she knew nothing yet of what awaited her there.

When Sheila had left the kitchen, Arck and the others stood shocked, until suddenly a dazzling blue arc of electricity flew into a spray of golden sparks, and the glass of the skylight shattered and fell to the floor. Arck saw the Wizard, standing with both arms spread wide, engulfed by a green burst of actiniform flame which did not consume him–he knew this was produced by Taff's Kiji Noloyd. Arck felt the Ariste provoking some sort of reaction inside of him: power surged in his body and his heart filled with fire. It was something sexual and savage at the same time. The Flower-Garden came in a rush over his mind, in all its fabulous colors, and each flower a pillar of mysterious strength. It seemed that a blue light flowed from the aurora of his DreamGarden, to touch both Tob's rainbow dragon and Strom's purple larkspur. For the first time, he saw the depth of his own power – it was frightening.

The room filled with beautiful tints, and the amulet at his chest strained with raw power. Yet, for all that, Arck did not feel overcome. To the contrary, it gave him new strength. He himself began to glow, a soft iridescent blue. He saw Grey glimmering and radiating soft white light which somehow flowed into his power. A white cloud emanating from the amulet at Fern's neck embraced her.

A silvery-golden glow appeared above them. Then his samasense perceived something rotating so fast that physical perception gave him nothing of its nature. It was gold; a disc like his Taja Noloyd, but perhaps smaller. He felt its overwhelming power, and suddenly it drove him to his knees. He could see the Wizard fighting it with his own Kiji Noloyd and he could feel Taff's effort against the destructive presence. The lights flickered as if the disc were sucking electricity from the Sanctuary's generators to add to its already unbelievable power. It proclaimed fear and dread, and somehow, it laughed without a voice. The Proudhon winced, breathing erratically, and for a moment, not breathing at all. He held onto his mind's balance, and watched the Wizard glow much brighter. All was ghostly still as if prepared for impending tragedy.

Behind Fern's fog of silver-white, the Proudhon could barely see Reed and Tilly, but he realized that the SelmaKeatra Captain was armed with annujet, the same kind of weapon the Vilemarc had used to bring down Taff at the Bolkant Mansion. He also comprehended with shock that Reed was all but defenseless, with nothing but a falchion. Spinning above them, the Betrayer's Mij Noloyd turned a bright orange and Arck felt its power move forward, improbably, toward Strom.

Immediately he felt power rush out of him, to her larkspur. A bright purple fluorescence glowed from her. She sent a shrill scream piercing through the room, her body stiffened, and her face twisted with pain–the life was being drawn out of her. He sensed the Betrayer reaching with deadly force to possess her mind.

All of Arck's love for Strom, and his fear and hatred of the Great Betrayer, flowed out of him. Dread's servants had killed his mother and father, maybe his whole family, he would not have Strom!

He channeled his blue fire into the larkspur, and put his every strength into the effort.

Inside, Strom raged against her attacker. Horror overcame her as she unconsciously drew from her larkspur the flame which was protecting her without burning her. With a burst of valiant effort and pure anger, she repulsed it and felt it move away from her to another object. Her whole body was covered in sweat. She was unaware that, with the help of the Taja Noloyd, she had resisted the Great Betrayer.

The Betrayer had tested his power against the Taja's strength through the girl, and he was impressed. Then, unexpectedly, in one foul stroke, the Betrayer flung the whole of his malign force against Reed. Arck watched Taff manage two steps in the Apprentice's direction, then double over in pain. Tilly emitted a wordless, threatening protest, and Arck opened his mouth to speak but no words would form. He wondered why Grey didn't attack the Betrayer outright. With the Taja and Kiji Noloyds, they certainly could resist him. Grey was already inside Arck's DreamWorld, she could strike at Dread, but she didn't do so. He and everyone else moved in a slow-motion nightmare, as Reed struggled with the terror of possession. His struggle slowly diminished to a listless groan from Reed, and he turned as gray as death.

Abruptly Reed glowed a warm golden orange, almost a red color. It was the color of the Mij Noloyd disc. His body jerked forward. His face contorted, his body rippled with spasms, and he fought for breath. He began to stumble forward, and his friends moved from the wall, to support him. His face was sweating now, and he was crying. He had bitten into his lip, and blood trickled down his chin and his neck. Abruptly, the life went out of his eyes. The gold disc was spinning directly above his head. Then alien beams of orange light replaced the lifelessness in his eyes. Reed slammed his palm violently against the table and laughed, a hollow and metallic laugh.

"Greywheter," the Betrayer hissed through Reed's lips, in a rasping burr that filled the room with dread. Reed's body turned awkwardly to the Druid, while the horrible burring continued. "This soldier must suffer while one like you laughs. Life is so unfair." The sound set Arck's teeth on edge, and it sent a chill over him, from the very tips of his toes to the roots of his hair. He was completely blinded by the savage power. "I came to talk to you, Druid," the Betrayer taunted. "He dies so that I can speak to you." He emitted another horrendous laugh. "Unless of course you withdraw from the Taja power which protects you, and give up your life for this one!"

Grey let loose an ominous wail which echoed and rippled with hate and warning of vengeance. Arck sensed something false in it.

Scanning the room from Reed's cavernous eyes, his voice maniacal, Dread taunted her again. "No Druid? Well, no matter. It is what I expect from you." He smiled with Reed's stiff lips. The effect was as grotesque as a grinning cadaver. "Another time, I shall have you at my disposal, and you will die the death you warrant!" The orange disc above Reed glowed bright again, then dove closer and spewed flame at the body Dread's mind had just released. Wind and heavy smoke swirled through the room. Reed's body was hurled forward and landed hard against the wall. The temperature in the room soared.

Arck felt a surge of power, up, then down, and he knew that the Druid had borrowed strength from the Taja. Again the bright orange flame gathered around the disc and flew out at the Druid. Arck sensed the Betrayer's ambush had not worked, and that Grey had been expecting it. He felt Grey somewhere inside his DreamWorld, though this feeling was vague. To Arck, the scene resembled one in which you might coincidentally see yourself, but not one you could ever believe existed on its own account. He had the sense however, that the Druid did not openly fight Dread, because of a secret hope that if the Great Betrayer lingered, they might somehow destroy him. Arck didn't really understand how, but it did give him courage.

The disc dove to Reed's slumped head again, and dulled for a second. Slowly, Reed's body stepped back and turned with a stiff, ungraceful step to face Fern. Its eyes were inflamed and filled with hate. "You, who weave chaos and call it freedom," the rasping, buzzing voice howled, "You cannot stop the needs of the Races. Everywhere, they will rise up with fanatical demands, and by revolution, they will give license to their need. They will respond to the voice of the Chrisarma when it comes. You — I know you! — your very existence here on Troan guarantees that it will come here sooner than later."

The voice stopped and Reed took several cumbersome steps to the table, then lurched stiffly forward, scattering cups and cutlery to the floor. A spasm convulsed him. Suddenly, he jerked straight up, standing unsteadily, and raised one fist above his head as the others stared, in horrified fascination. Still trapped in the Betrayer's grip, Reed brought his closed fist down so hard on the table that the thick oak trembled, and a loud crack jolted the air. A jarring scream escaped Reed. A chair was flung back against the wall as his right leg flew out. Bone shattered in his forearm and jutted out of the skin above the wrist. A horrible battle was now taking place inside that body, and gore and blood were visible tokens. Arck closed his eyes. When he looked again, the golden irises were gone from Reed's eyes, and his own voice spoke through immense pain.

"Arck," he whispered, staggering. "Help me."

The plea was desperate, but it horrified Arck–he fell to his knees and reeled, helpless, unable to stand, but then, with a desperate strength of will, he rose all at once and rushed headlong to Reed. However, a great stinging red fire smashed against his blue actiniform and he was lifted up and thrown back against the wall.

Taff made another attempt to intervene, but was stopped by a sound like the cracking of a whip. The Mij disc spun faster. Great fear for Reed showed on the Wizard's face, and despair dulled his eyes. He was trying to raise his Kiji Noloyd. Arck could sense that for some reason he could not do so. Again Arck tried to mount a defense for Reed, but another blast of power from Dread put him off his feet again. Once more, Arck sense that perhaps Grey sacrificed Reed, just as maybe she'd sacrificed members of his family to get to Dread.

Anew, the golden hue returned to Reed's eyes and, with his good arm, the young apprentice rose his fist in the air, but this time he held up his falchion. He moved suddenly to strike at Taff and somehow caught him off guard. With a staggering blow, he hit the back of his shoulder. Inside the green glow of the Wizard's actiniform, an orange flame burnt for an instant; but before Reed could strike another blow, Grey pounced into the fray and knocked the possessed Reed off balance. Power surges erupted wildly inside the room. A smell of arcane bitters rose, and the Betrayer laughed, recovered. The Apprentice stood at the table, the Noloyd now spinning even faster beside him. The smell of bitters degenerated into a horrid stink. Grey did not chance another attack, and the Betrayer did not risk another strike at the Wizard. In this standoff, the blood continued to pour from Reed's arm.

"Boy!" the Betrayer growled at Arck. "Unwittingly, you have become the Proudhon, but you are no more than a toady to the Druid, who will use you until you are destroyed and then find another victim for her endless profanities against CentreRule. You do not know."

The voice added a chanting rhythm to its buzzing drone "She is Anarchy and the Taja is the One Noloyd which unites the others. Tonight, as you live, you will come to understand the Sarma and see the beauty of control. I am not Dread as you've been so often told, I am Power. Order and Authority are my sister and my brother–leaders of great numbers, who know true justice. One day soon, you will be happy to know it too."

Pride disguised as wisdom rose inside of the Proudhon. He was surprised by his own defiance, but he still could not stand when he tried. Dropping all pretense of winning him with words, the Betrayer leveled him to the floor with a blast of power from the disc.

"Yes, prostrate yourself when I speak," he hissed. The disc moved directly over Arck, and the chant was replaced by threat. "Death! Death–silly Liebrent Proudhon! There was never a kingdom for you to rule. Yes fool, you thought you had a stolen kingdom to claim. It is they, the Druids, who have stolen the kingdom by coveting the Selma and teaching its ways in secret to our citizens. Death! Death to Druids! Order will be restored; and you have lost before you have begun. She has not told you that, has she?"

The Proudhon opened his mouth to speak.

Silence!" the voice of the black monster roared at him. Arck jerked suddenly, as if reality had forced itself back into existence. Reed was dying before their eyes. Dread's voice droned on, full of evil. "You are the last of the line of Liebrent. When you are undone, there'll be no other. The Druids plan to make you a Living Selma and then, they will make you fight a war that the Seven refuse to fight. Ha. The Living Selma! The Overseer will find that particularly amusing. Yes, humorous. God laughs at you, and you should pray that He continues to laugh or you will spend all eternity in pain, serving Him. Through infinity! Ahhh, you quake." The thick voice sneered. "If your forefathers could see you now. Victory will be so easy that I regret such a weakling for prey."

It was clear that the last of the life was draining out of Reed. He was still bleeding from the forearm. Arck wondered if he had lost too much blood to survive. Still, the Monster droned on, gloating. Arck tried again to rise. He knew the Druid could strike at the Betrayer through him and the Taja disc, but she didn't do so. She was hoping that Sheila and her troops would reach the Betrayer's body while he was inside the Mij Noloyd, and then strike. So Grey let him have his boasts. This was the gamble she betted. Thus the Witch might slay the Betrayer's Spurl body and trap him inside the disc, then Grey would attack. But Arck cursed Grey for it as well. What of Reed?

"Hear me, Liebrent!" the Betrayer continued. "One day you shall willingly join with me, and the power of the Noloyds will restore the SelmaSarma Unity and return the Races to harmony. I am at your heels, always–you will learn to love and be ruled by me."

The voice boomed in laughter, then a burst of power flattened the room. There was shattered glass and splintered wood, as if Dread's very laughter could tear the world asunder. A fire blazed up in the tiny library off the kitchen; shelves and binders blew apart and burned. Still the glowing forms remained immobilized in the muted gleam. Shadows played along the high ceiling, and smoke twisted up unevenly, thickening as it folded down into the room again. Arck watched it, the veins pulsing on his temple. He made one more effort to stand, but the force holding him down was too great. He felt incredibly weak and tired.

The Betrayer's voice sounded now as if it were floating off into the distance. "I am the High Mij Lord and I sit at the right of the Overseer. We will not be undone–so dismay! You are my victims as well as my children."

The rhythmic incantation swelled, then, faded even as it spoke, yet it left their minds infected with its horrid song of power and dread.

Suddenly Reed screamed horribly. Arck winced, and clenched his fists, but he still couldn't rise. He looked up and there was a miasma of death in the air. Reed's eyes burned with the disc's gold glow, and he turned around slowly to face the wall behind him, then he flung himself headfirst into the granite wall. Bones snapped and crunched, and the body fell back. It looked more like a lump of clay or frozen mud than it resembled a human-form.

The Mij Noloyd disc burned with one more brilliant, triumphant flash and was gone.

At once, the gates lifted and the doors opened. Fresh cold wind blew in from the courtyard, the air grew lighter, as if the living world had returned after a long absence, and the evil smell dissipated.

### The Great Betrayer 14

Well before dawn broke the next morning, Arck stepped out of his sleeping quarters. Some confusion still remained in the halls, but most of the cleanup had been completed. He hadn't been able to sleep–all night, his Garden of Flowers was just beyond his fingertips, but Reed's face appeared every time he closed his eyes. It was still dark, but he began to wander aimlessly down back halls and through tunnels. He went this way and that, not noticing where, and he passed soldiers and warders, but he didn't notice them either, or that they stared after him. He was retreating blindly down passageways, not realizing that their minds were filled with thoughts of the Betrayer, their hearts saddened with a sense of loss – the passing of someone of value.

Arck was lost in anxiety, afraid that anyone else who came close to him would be consumed. He knew that power resided in him, slowly ticking, but he needed it now. It was like DreamGarden – just out of reach. He needed Strom's body. He needed forgiveness and shelter. He needed his mother back. Fonny was his vision of love without condition. She had shown him, always, what love meant; by not using him for her own benefit, but just loving him for his own sake. He believed that in fulfilling her inner purpose, she had found some happiness. She had been true to herself, so she was true to others.

"Fonny," he whispered. He ran to touch the wraith his mind raised ahead of him, but it vanished in the same instant. He thought he heard her voice just ahead, further down the corridor.

"If life is a path," her voice floated to him, "leading us wherever we would go, then love is the force that will take us there. Give, that you may take in good conscience, to give anew. Love without cost is only half taken, half given. Love is trust, because love is shared, and therefore equal. Love is learned by those who receive it, as well as those who give it. Love is the fuel of life, and equal love is the soul of justice."

Had he loved her enough, he wondered, as he followed her voice. Had she really spoken these words, he asked himself angrily – or was it the Druid, putting memories into his head? He began to run through the passageways faster and faster until he stopped, breathless, knowing clearly that this was not real. She was gone forever, and his family was gone forever. Now Reed. What for – the Selma, the Sarma? What did he care! He had power so great that not even the Betrayer could take it away. Why, then, couldn't he just live his life away from all of this?

He roamed deeper into the maze of passageways. In one of the smaller tunnels, attracted by the roar of the river, he brushed recklessly through a small webby enclosure, and hit his head on the rocky wall above an opening. He cried out in pain and wiped blood from his forehead. He stumbled through to a narrow bridge, crawled on his hands and knees to the middle, and sat with his legs over the edge. He stared into to the thunderous rush below, and he began to laugh. Imagine, he thought, if he were in the river, cleansed with the icy water. Imagine if he became the Proudhon that never was. He knew the Druid was close; he felt her, just off the bridge, and knew that she was creating a volscylsama. Compelling thoughts reached out to him–Grey would never let him die at his own hands. Still, he pushed his body forward and fell, but not into the river. He landed in his DreamGarden. It was serene, and magnificent, and Arck was happy again. In his Garden (and in reality), he rose to his feet and shuffled through the fields of Oleander, Daisy, and shy Laurel. Brilliant green covered the earth, below a warm sea of petals infused with endless colors. The sun warmed his body, and he bent to smell the blossoms. He traveled over the knolls and through the valleys. He was a king, returned to his beloved homeland after the madness of a faraway war. He was not yet aware of what betrayal and hardship might lay ahead.

He felt healed. He lifted his face to the sun, and ripped his clothes away as if they were chains. He was free and naked under the sun. His heart raced with joy, and his breath was taken away by the glory of his kingdom of flowers. He fell to his knees then, the better to see a crimson flower hanging from a delicate stem. But it was not really one flower; it was a hundred flowers hanging like tiny fragile bells. It was the wonderful mysterious wisteria. He watched in fascination as his hand reached out to it, and for the third time in his life, picked a flower from his Garden.

He heard a voice calling to him, from a place he did not want to think about or return to, but the voice had authority, and it sounded kind, so he obeyed it. He woke. He was standing in front of Fern, and he was as naked in this world as he had been in DreamWorld. His cheeks blushed as red as the flower he held out to her. He reached forward, making no attempt to cover himself, and handed her the wisteria.

"Thank you," she said, happily. A gentle touch to the cut on his forehead stopped the bleeding. "You will one day be repaid for this," she said, smelling the perfume of the Wisteria. She could feel its mysterious power.

"I was in my Garden," he stuttered. "And I got mixed up." He turned quickly to leave. She watched his smooth behind retreating. A smile came to her lips.

––

Some hours later, Sheila Brine emerged from the courtyard, with a certain degree of ceremony, holding a golden-handled knife lightly in both hands. The stout Tutan, Tilly Croft, followed her.

"This nakus-dagger is Reed's," she said. "I am sure he would want you to have it, Arck."

"A token?" Arck asked.

"A remembrance–of a fine person. "He was to be ordained full Freeguard soon. Next spring, on Goldage." There was a silence. Her eyes were as haunting as Fern's, but her smile was quick and open, where her mother's would have been more cautious.

"Tilly and I are also leaving today," she said. "We believe two of your sisters are alive: Larska and Di. And Pom, too. In fact, Arck, we know they are."

"My sisters," he said, only half surprised, but he had to blink back tears that sprang to his eyes. "Wonderful . . . please, when you see them, tell them that somehow, in some way, I will make it up to them."

"All life is a risk," Sheila whispered, "You are not responsible, Arck." He wondered if all Witches were as philosophic as Wizards. "The Druid has taken some chances." Sheila was not smiling now.

He saw that, like Fern, Sheila distrusted the Ariste. Her black eyes stared into his resentful ones. "Grey loved the whole family," he said defensively. "You might as well blame the Liebrent heirs for existing, or the Zoraselmains for placing them there to begin with."

"Mistakes," she murmured. She passed the dagger to him. "May this blade protect you long and true, Arck."

He wondered if he detected a certain note of irony in her voice or whether she was just being solemn. Her gaze softened, her renewed smile hinted that only he might hold ill feelings, not she. Embarrassed, he turned his eyes to the floor. The stone was spotlessly clean, with no trace of blood left, even though this was where Reed had lost his life.

"Fern also takes some risks, for your sake," Sheila said. "She is determined to see you through. Be true to her, Arck."

He nodded and shrugged, all in one response, balancing Reed's falchion. He knew Fern's kindness did not bind him–or Sheila's, either, for that matter. "Thank you," he said quietly. He tucked Reed's falchion under the belt of his pants, turned, and walked away.

––

"How is your wound?" Tilly asked the Wizard.

Taff pushed his new growth of hair back, looking gravely into his friend's eyes. "I seem presently joined to bad luck."

"Yes, bad always follows good," Tilly agreed.

"I got too lucky, finding the One Noloyd at Lorlett," Taff said. "Now, it seems there's payment due. Anyway, let's get away from here. We could signal for aircraft, get to the ceptor, and be gone from Troan within four hours."

Tilly lowered his head and wished he'd mentioned the Pulsarite before now. "The road is not to be quite that simple, milord, I am afraid."

"What?" Taff said, with a concerned look.

"Coldfire is not in the system." He let the words sink in. "If we took the ceptor, we could possibly get ourselves well hidden in Mer. The ceptor is well stocked; but . . . I have thought this through, and it does not add up to much of a plan."

There was a pause.

"Damn it, Tilly!" Taff said. "Why did you not tell me this earlier?"

"No time seemed right, Taff. Coldfire has been gone since before Charblind. I have been trying to find the Bolkant children. And now what has happened here, and, well, you have not fully recovered, and everyone is mourning; and . . .. What can I say?"

Anger flashed from the Wizard's eyes. "What are we to do? Loiter around here like polar animals, as Dread hunts us? We certainly cannot stay at the Fault. What about our women and men? What about Fern's people?"

"Please Taff, calm yourself! Coldfire certainly hasn't abandoned us. Perhaps your old stō has talked Coldfire into a plan of track and tact to hunt for Tragal, the Betrayer's pulsar ship, or Avamrate, Bandor's, that would be just like Ruby Obiss." The Tutan hesitated uncomfortably. "Or Coldfire may simply be waiting until the ceptor has been reached, to make his move. Very likely this is all. My crew will stay with me; well, those you do not need. Fern's will stay here at the Fault. It will be safe enough once you have left. We can rendezvous with Drew on Swirlwall or perhaps you could send Graham Puul, if Flowerstaff is free? In any event there will be no rush once the Proudhon is safely off Troan."

"No signals went out from the ceptor?"

"Dear goodness, no!"

Taff's face looked suddenly much calmer. "Does the Druid know?"

Tilly shrugged. "She must."

"Yes, of course. What is she up to, hmm?"

"She knows; alright. She always knows too much!"

"Since we should not contact the ceptor until we can do so in person, I suggest we find the least risky means to get there." Taff closed his eyes, and thought for a minute. "Fast snow machines leaving from several points of the Fault might shake Dread, if we ran without sama or communications, hmm? Do you think Fern has any vehicles such as surface-mogues?"

"No, I don't believe so," Tilly answered. "But it is just as well. If, as Sheila says, a Fakir works with Dread, he might detect those more easily than powered vehicles. It may take two or three days by snow machine." He scowled, and looked worried. "The bulk of Fern's force can return to the Fault in a few days. Sheila and I will meet them here with Arck's sisters when we come back from Gat, then stay here until we are delivered from Troan. Does that sound feasible to you?"

"Yes, it may have to do–and it just may do it."

The SelmaKeatra Captain nodded and left to make the necessary arrangements. Though Tilly was leaving with Sheila for Gat, he knew the difficulties facing Taff. The Proudhon would have to leave the Fault at once. If he did not, the Betrayer would very likely return; this time with an army. Taff had to make his way through polar desert to the hidden ceptor, without leaving a trail for the Betrayer to follow, then get off the ground, and to Coldfire, without being blown out of the air. And, he had to do it with the scheming Ariste Druid and the young untried Proudhon. A sinking feeling came over the SelmaKeatra Captain. He shook his head. There was something else. He was becoming certain that Taff's suspicion about Grey was right. The Druid wanted to continue her intrigue in the hopes that the Great Betrayer in his greed for the One Noloyd would make a mistake. She would capitalize on it, but at whose expense? Maybe even Troan's existence.

––

The Great Betrayer sat brooding in his quarters on board Tragal. Two enormous black hounds stood, handsome and perfectly still, to his right and left. The giant Spurl picked at a plate of some kind of purplish food, and slowly thought through his options, which were not numerous enough for his liking. Again, simply to destroy Troan outright and put an end to the Proudhon, once and for all, was the simplest alternative. But he wanted more than that. His fingers drummed in quiet rhythm against the armrest of his huge chair.

"Boormun," he called out, impatiently. "You are as slow as a feeble old man."

The Fakir looked up from a small brett, one among a group of many, attached each to the other.

"I said I would try, not that it could be done." He stared back, unperturbed. "The Greywheter has no other Druid ally on the planet. And the Wizard's Pulsarite is not in the Mer system."

"Do not call them Pulsarites," Eft corrected him automatically. "They are space crafts like any other."

"Yes, Lord, but we waste time bickering about such details. This wizard, Taff Hart, is the same one who uncovered the One Noloyd. He himself has a Kiji Noloyd, and why he did not attack you with it at the Sanctuary, I can only guess. He may have been out of his element, or wounded. Or forbidden."

"Forbidden?"

"By the Druid–they did come close to destroying your body after all."

"Yes. I see. That bitch Anarchy, but tell me, Fakir, what is it that I do not know, so far?"

Boormun sighed. "A large squad of SelmaKeatra and a small platoon of Freeguard are with him. The Witch may have a small army. A male Mauller named Durakerk Laiver is probably the Mauller detected at Clove. As for the Wizard's ceptor, I can find neither hide nor hair of it. A path from a herd of tinacoo would be easier to find. A clear indication of the ceptor would indicate a Druid's trap; a complete blank such as this may mean that it is not on the planet, unless it is on another continent. If so, then surely you have them. However, if not — if it is there and I simply am unable to find it — then the ceptor should be close to the Fault, a day or two by motor vehicle. In that case, we should be down there even now!"

"Not 'we' Boormun. You must remain here and keep searching. Use all the monitors if you must, but if you do, put someone on watch for that damned craft of theirs. If attacked, Tragal is to retreat. I cannot afford to be stranded on Troan while the Taja Proudhon increases his power over the disc. If he gets too strong, I will be forced to destroy him and the disc, both".

"What are you up to, Eft?" Boormun asked, with one eyebrow raised.

"Fakir, you are clever; there is no doubt about it. But do not forget where you sit, and think for a while with whom you sit. You sit with Power. Eft's voice lowered as he rose. "Find that ceptor, I must leave again for Troan, at once. By now the Zoras will have decided what to do. If either the Pulsarite or the ceptor shows, notify me immediately."

### The Great Betrayer 15

In the grayness of early dawn of the next day, Arck and his entourage gathered around Troanean snow-cruisers and larger motrices, Zora snow-machines equipped with small, powerful vorpal engines for travel on Northern Troan. They were gathered just off a ground-level passageway into the Fault. Above them, towered the spectacular sheer wall of stone, and the river thrashed beside them as they readied. It twisted past piles of accumulated debris covered by deep snow. Every noise became a crash of echoes.

Arck knew Taff was in pain; he was pale and distracted. He felt as if the weight of the mountain were bearing down upon him, and simply wiping out his identity. He could see only part of the rock face; its upper reaches were lost in the falling snow. Tilly was saying his goodbyes to Tob, and Fern and Sheila kissed and hugged, more like lovers than mother and daughter. Why did that thought cross his mind? Images could be deceiving. This strange vision annoyed him, but there it was. Then he realized that Sheila wasn't Fern's daughter at all, in spite of the resemblance. But then, that resemblance itself could be enchantments.

Arck stood close to Strom and tried to close his mind to the world, but Taff's pain came back to him, and he dreamt that if he concentrated, if he laid his awareness on the burnt shoulder, he might alleviate Taff's pain. But it was all just a dream, a mad dream.

Grey prowled around them ferociously, impatient with everything. The world was flowing through every level of her perception, and she was Arck's conduit. Arck took Strom's hand; she looked away. Overspry was on the wane, ghostly pale, and the air was raw. Arck saw the faint purple glow of the Larkspur under her coat. They were impossible emissaries, the larkspur, the dragon, and the wisteria; he saw them as talismans–living gifts from a world that existed only in his mind to give him shelter and solace when he was unable to continue alone. But that they could exist independently of his imagination, that their deathless beauty could be shared by others, was more than he could fathom.

Arck's amulet was warm to the touch; his mind drew closer and closer to it, and a warm, alien face with warm yellow eyes comforted him; Aarona Raker. It was centuries since the Great Betrayer had destroyed her. Then, with his newfound power, Dread formed the vast Chrisarma forces. First, he had reduced the race of Maullers to a few shredded armies fighting on without any reason for hope — most of the others had been enslaved or murdered — and then where were those who became the worst sycophants of CentreRule: the Vilemarcs. The few free Maullers who remained alive traveled in secret throughout the Cluster, ever pursued, ever on guard against the Vilemarcs, their sworn enemies.

Voices intruded into Arck's thoughts.

"Tilly and I will look after your sisters," Sheila said to him, "so please don't worry on that account. We're leaving at once. Several parties will leave immediately after us, in secrecy, camouflaged. Others will leave in your droy, the rest will go by air. Please take care of Fern." Arck nodded.

"A storm is coming our way," Sheila added, in a strong, sure voice. "It'll help cover our tracks. There must be no sama control of these units until we are safely away."

"I'll see that everything here is looked after," Taff said weakly. "Well, let us go!" He turned to his troops. His hand, palm up, nudged them onwards.

"Don't forget about us, hmm?" she added, mimicking one of Taff's favorite expressions and smiling. She gave him a token salute, in farewell.

The snow-cruisers and motrices started their motors, and they were gone in a matter of seconds. At first the going was rough. They followed the twists and turns of the river, but they kept together in a neat pack and made good progress. The Fault's heights gradually fell off, and soon they were traveling over relatively flat land where the mounds of snow rose less high and became less frequent. Eventually, the great Fault was no longer in view. They traveled many hours, and the land had many eyes, but so far none were hostile.

At one point, they sighted a herd of sorrel-streaked herd-deer, Tinacoo, roaming in a magnificent wave over the rolling white landscape. The machines spooked them, they rose up and ran, eventually gathering into a huge, watchful circle. They did not like the intrusion at all; Arck sensed this clearly.

At day's end, already hundreds of miles from the Fault, Arck pictured the two more days they'd have to travel on the ice belt. He couldn't see how this limited means of transportation made sense for any journey lasting over an hour or so by air.

When they stopped for the day, near a copse, Tob and Arck helped the troopers build a fire from fallen tree-trunks of pople and cone. They worked furiously, chopping at logs, splitting and hauling wood, and the honest labor gave him some contentment. They were obviously disguising themselves as Troanean northern travelers or maybe the fire didn't matter–it seemed incomprehensible to him, but maybe the use of anything modern might give them away. The pile of wood grew into a huge stack and became alive, burning in a delightful, warm spire of flame. Grey silently followed Arck about. As usual, she was cautious in all small matters, but reckless in large ones. She watched his digression complacently. Arck knew she was there, and he knew that her thoughts were turned elsewhere–she knew that the next move was the Betrayer's.

At length, Arck stood in front of the fire, warming one side at a time.

While the others circled the fire, Fern Rewel and Taff Hart stood a short distance away–Witch and Wizard, side by side.

"The faster way to the ceptor might at least have saved us discomfort," Taff said and smiled against the cold, pulled a small pouch from a pocket, and sprinkled powder on the growing bonfire.

The smoke and glare diminished; now the fire would not be seen so easily from a distance. Once again, the Wizard thought of calling his forces into play. Perhaps by some miracle the Betrayer had halted, waiting for reinforcements. Arck sat on a log beside the fiery masterpiece, and watched the restless Ariste race over the snow. He knew her love of snow, and was happy for her. Grey darted one way, then the opposite, with hardly an instant between. Her wide paws had webbed toes designed for speed and maneuverability in snow which turned her performance into art. In the indistinct grayness, Taff watched her run, and she inspired the vision in him of a deadly challenge. This was her element. Was this why they had chosen to escape to the ceptorport over this pitiless terrain? Or had she tampered with their thoughts so they would run this deadly gauntlet, against such a dangerous foe as Eft Coll, the Betrayer? It would be arrogant to hope that he might at last succumb to error. Still, these doubts about the Druid were perhaps a touch paranoid. They had chosen this way. Flying would have been more vulnerable. Technicians and troopers manned his hidden ceptor, but it was too risky to make a straight dash for it. And besides, Coldfire could be two days away in space. The only question that bothered him was, 'Why had Coldfire not attacked Tragal and Avamrate?'

A large alpine tent had been assembled; it held a tent within a tent, with two separate rooms. Food and sleeping quarters were prepared. After the meal, the Proudhon wandered through the snow to the bonfire. Taff and Fern sat side by side on small, flat cushions borrowed from a motrice; Strom, Tob and Tilly were huddled close to each other and to the fire, drinking a steaming herbal drink. Blackness descended quickly and brought home to them how isolated they were; how far from help if they should need it, and how far removed from ordinary comforts, such as bathing, soft beds, warmth and music. Sensing the gloom overtaking the three younger ones, Taff turned to Arck and smiled at his glum expression.

"It isn't as bad as all that, Arck," he said. "The tent is warm enough, the Betrayer has spent his force for now, and Troan isn't a place just around the corner for the Chrisarma to send quick reinforcements." He leaned forward and scattered the contents of a small pouch onto the fire. An aroma of attar of flowers, and sweet spices, filled the air. He looked at Fern, and smiled again. "Besides, we have acquired a great ally, and one much valued." The Witch bowed her head to him, in a gesture of thanks.

Taff's shoulder was healing, slowly, and although the day's journey was long, he had been able to withdraw and rest. He was feeling more optimistic. Yes, he thought, even if the Druid had interfered, this was likely the best course.

"With some lucky weather," he said cheerfully, "My guess is only two more days to get to the ceptor." He reached over to Tob and tucked the hood up over the boy's head

"We are well prepared," he added, "and though my wound still heals, I feel better."

Tob looked up at him and then to Grey. He picked up a stick at his feet and flung it on the fire, which sent red flickers across his face.

"Why don't Troaneans understand sama?" Tob asked.

"Troanean science must discover it," Taff said, "I suppose."

"Why don't people from your world just give it to us?"

Taff took in a deep breath. "It's complicated, Tob. It isn't something you can just give to somebody else. The Freeguard and our friends do not make these decisions. CentreRule has effective control of the Cluster." He picked up a large twig and began sketching in the fire-lit snow. "Let us say we drew Troan as an ally, which is quite impossible to begin with, but for the sake of argument let's say we did, it would exponentially . . ."

"Expo what?" Tob asked.

"Exponentially," Taff replied. "Let's say, something like multiply itself by its own added factors."

"Oh, said Tob," not much the wiser.

"Anyway," Taff continued. "It would increase Troan's danger of great and unending oppression. The Chrisarma covets total control. The sooner Troan achieved any ultra atomic technology, the sooner it would fall under the domination of CentreRule." Taff thought for a while, as Tob — and the others — digested his statements.

"What is sama?" Tob asked.

"It is a scientific theory of the nature of ultimate reality."

"Huh?"

"Perhaps I can explain it this way: the Liebrent kingdom of Hittite nurtured a science which it first discovered. It was almost two millennia in the past, and the scientists of Hittite, unlike Troan's at that time, were turned inward, studying not the world that you see around you, but that which is invisible – the micro universes. They were unique among the thinkers, at least of those we know about. They had already discovered atomic and quantum theories, in the earliest years of their civilization. They believed from the beginning that the world runs in a pattern infinitely smaller than it appears. When they postulated the sama world, they had refined a volscyl transmission of electromagnetic neuron activity that could be harnessed as subatomic energy in biological creatures. Thus, after many hundreds of generations, devices of application were perfected, and of these, the greatest were the annujets: devices driven and directed by subquantum energy."

Could it be this simple, Taff wondered? He looked at Tob, who obviously didn't find it all simple. He smiled and gazed into the fire. "It was during the Empery Years of Absolute Dominion," he continued, "but the Hittite races were not part of the Centre Empire and the SelmaSarma Unity yet existed as one. The Hittiteans had no ships to float on their vast oceans, let alone to travel through space. Electromagnet waves had long been in use, but no radios were built, no television; no perceptual transmissions were carried on them. Scientifically, in some ways, they were young and naive. Though the Maje solar system is inside the Cluster, its sun, like Troan's, is modest, and probably it was seeded with Massap and Troanean races before the time of records, and so forgotten in the time of SelmaSarma Unity. This is supposed. We do not know, but Hittiteans are like Troaneans, as are Centrites. Nor is much else certain about it. It was not a perfect society either: the populations of both were sparse and intolerant, bickering and feuding with one another, and there was great hunger and poverty. They knew nothing of the accumulation of an economic capital base, or of unrestricted trade."

"I think I get it," Tob said. "But was there a Liebrent Kingdom yet?"

"Yes, and apparently quite advanced, beyond feudalistic structures and practicing some form of representation of the individual as opposed to the state. The Liebrents had held together a shaky peace for some generations, though I must tell you that on the down side, the Massap — a race which live among us on Maje — were held in servitude, almost as slaves. But then, finally, fate was cruel to the Hittiteans as well; beyond measure in fact, as it has been for so many other Races. They were discovered by CentreRule, quietly studied, and found to possess science which could threaten the Overseer. This was their doom. The Mauller Druids saved their technology, but they were conquered and their scientist destroyed."

"Tell us about the Druids," Tob coaxed.

The Wizard grinned and sighed. He was feeling better and took more of his drink. "Not tonight. There isn't the time for the very long story of the Ariste and Mauller Druids or other founders of resistance. They are the true preservers of samascience, though, and the inventors of the noloyds. There will be another night, and perhaps you will meet a Mauller Druid if we travel to Lorlett. It is the home planet of the Maullers. We might even yet meet a Mauller here on Troan, for I've a Mauller friend near who might be looking for us."

A long pause ensued and the night seemed darker, and the cold flexed its muscles as the fire burned down.

"A Mauller? Here?" Tob's fascination was undiminished.

Strom moved closer to Tob's warmth and looked up. "Tell us more, please."

One of the troopers threw a few logs in the fire and looked to the Wizard.

"Just one more story," Taff said. He stood for a moment, looking out into the dark beyond them and then, as if at some signal, he sat again. "Lorlett, like all the planets, is officially controlled by CentreRule; but there is some movement about, there, and it has certain regions that the Chrisarma do not wander into without extreme caution. The Maullers remain few, after centuries of being hunted and harassed by the three Mij Lords. But, Tob, let me simplify the sama-theory for you. At the subatomic, subquantum perimeters, and beyond, matter heats to a fixed point of energy, sama, and energy reconverts at this point."

He laughed at the look of confusion and threw up his hands. "Think of it this way: gravity is detected in the universe at atomic levels only, that is by detection of the graviton, so the cooling process can be predicted. Sama lies below even subquantum detection, so, though heating and renewal are always occurring, it cannot be known so much through instrumentation — although there are annujet and noloyds to confirm it's existence — but more so with mathematical formulas. The annujets or the noloyds are instruments designed for very specific uses and users, and they harness a form of neurons and subquantum energy. The sama is an energy transducer which gives effect to indiscernible matter particles. Sama is the concrete substance of thought, and is the power which is the foundation of all existence–or so they claim. In some sense it contradicts Troan's science, but, as you can see, it is real."

"You mean, I could learn to work Arck's weapon?" Tob asked.

"The Taja Noloyd is not something that you possess," the Wizard answered, "so much as a device which possesses you. It is crafted for a Liebrent's genetics. Umm, you would have no effect on it. You might learn how to use annujet and understand the discipline of the thought-treaters, though. But even the Druids fear the powerful noloyds of Aarona Raker."

"Aarona Raker was a Mauller Druid?" Strom asked, suddenly wondering why she had asked. Was the dream taking her over, too?

"This is true," Taff answered. "It was the Mauller Druids who learned the Liebrent science, just as they had formerly learned the discipline of their order from the Ariste Druids. It was Aarona Raker who perfected sama devices by first constructing the amulets of power: the two white Tij Noloyds, a failure which cost her seven years; the four green Kiji, which took her twelve years to construct; the one blue Taja, and the three red Mij. More than forty years of work, they say, each set designed for a certain type of thought process. The Kiji Noloyds for the Freeguard, the lost two Tij Noloyds for the Aristes, the stolen Mij Noloyds for Mauller Druids, and the rediscovered Taja for a Liebrent Heir."

"So the Freeguard are the remnants of the old Liebrent civilization?" Strom asked, in spite of herself.

"Yes," he replied.

"Then Grey's power is from the old annujets," she observed rather proudly, thinking she might soon have this mad dream figured out.

Pleased at her perception, the Wizard smiled. "Partly, yes. The Druid's power ranges wider than just annujets, though. The Aristes are skilled Icondulists as well as carriers of the SelmaGeist. And this combination may be a greater weapon."

A thousand questions wanted to burst out of her; but a part of her didn't want to know the answers. Still, she did want to know about Fern's power; but, Taff called a halt to his storytelling.

Arck rose and walked alone to the tent to get a heavy cloak before he went for a another walk to think. He sat on the edge of a cot for a minute, to warm up, but he was tired and the tent was warm. He yawned a few times, crawled out of his clothes, and into the soft sleeping cot. As he fell asleep, he found himself in his magic Garden, but he could find no refuge among silver bloodroot, the radial aster, or the other flowers, so he did not tarry there. He was restless, and dreamed a curious dream. He was being pursued over endless reaches of northern Troan by forces whose nature and power he did not understand, and so he was defenseless against them. All night he ran from them, then as dawn approached, he found himself inside a tent, cold and lonely.

––

Wrapped in heavy cloaks, Durakerk Laiver heard the krywolves howling over the barren terrain of Troan's northlands. He kept his longitude and latitude mapped to his third contact point, blinking on the tiny screen of his hand-held modine, a computerized tracking machine, among other things. Well beyond midnight, he drove on in his stolen snow craft. The wind blew against him, making the cold that much worse. Fourteen months ago, he had been home on Lorlett, a planet in the Milroy system.

To Maullers, a planet like Troan is a hateful place. Yesterday his eyes began radiating and blurring; the first signs of gravity sickness. Today he was choked up with phlegm.

He had no pedigree, no rank in the Zora, no station with the rebel Maullers, but he wanted to fight, and he was a close friend of Taff Hart's. Tonight, he swore at himself for this decision. Troan's winter cold bit into his body.

A break on the horizon showed a light, where it should be according to the modine, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His missing friend would be waiting for him there–elderly, feeble, but his only true companion among the Troaneans. Such a strange one too; yet this Troanean was somehow wise, good, and vibrant. This was the last of their three agreed rendezvous points.

Durakerk raced forward, driving the machine for all it was worth. His heart lifted, and though his mind cautioned him against a trap, he didn't slow for an instant. He pulled up only when he reached the light from a similar snow machine.

"Jeff," he called, his eyes half frozen shut, and his cheeks burning with the wind. "Jeff, is that you?"

"Here," a voice called. An old man walked slowly up to Durakerk and gently hugged him. "I am here, friend," he said in a cross dialect of common Troanish, standing back in the dark, stumbling a bit, probably smiling. "You're frozen. Come, a mile away I have found a trapline cabin with beds, food, and heat."

Durakerk managed a smile looking at the native elder. He was old, and he followed the ways of his suffering people, but he was never too burdened to laugh and joke. He was a chief among the natives of the land, the indigenous Troaneans of the polar regions, and as one outsider is attracted to another, so they had become quick friends. Now they drove together a mile or so, each of the small snow machines well worn and nearly empty of fuel. Durakerk and the Elder soon pulled up to the cabin, and while the Mauller could see that it had not exactly been built luxuriously, he was soon inside. He dropped his bag by the door, and was thankfully enveloped by warmth.

With the Elder's help, the Mauller soon had hot food and drink in his belly, and sat on the couch, sleepily watching Jeff Lag clean up.

"I have searched for you everywhere," he said in Troanish, "hoping nothing bad had happened."

"I am fine," Jeff returned. "Fine, as you can see. It was other matters; an old friend in trouble with the long arm of the law. Go on, tell me, why are you so anxious?"

"The Races, the ones I have explained to you."

"Yes, yes, the dream; the dream continues."

"Our enemies have discovered Troan," he said, ignoring Jeff's remark. "They are here. Dread himself has come! Eft Coll, the Great Betrayer–Power, he is here! And my friend, Taff; I think he has been injured. They are on the run–the Proudhon, the Ariste Druid, all of them. We must find them."

"The boy's family, they are with him?"

"No. I fear the worst. No! They have all been slaughtered. He needs our help. I feel it."

Jeff felt his heart racing. Did he want to become any more involved in this madness than he already had? "Is a dream the same as a vision from God?" he had asked himself many times. Already he recalled, maybe a decade or more ago, other dreams that had began; dreams of an evil civilization and of a powerful savior born on Troan. He remembered especially one dream of a powerful, catlike creature, which had appeared in a vision, like a god. And other strange beings there, too, but, he had told no one of these earlier dreams, not even Durakerk.

"Yes friend," he said calmly. "We must find them."

### The Great Betrayer 16

Dread made camp far north of the Witch's Fault in the barren polar reaches of Troan. Three welters from Tragal had landed, in a pattern so a Zora air strike could not cripple all craft at once. Thin lines of steam came and went in patches, and the remaining Vilemarcs and their Bonelve shards were set to engineering a temporary winter bivouac. The troops who moved around the camp had come out of the two smaller welters; the large one had not yet opened to the bitter cold of the north, and only one, a Vilemarc named Ulldor, went near it. He was a privileged lieutenant of Eft, and was known as the Keeper of Black Death, a group of mutant creatures which horrified all other living creatures.

The lead welter, with the Great Betrayer aboard, was a safe distance away. Eft was preoccupied with the whereabouts of his enemies, and he stayed in his office, working furiously, looking up only to bark orders and to check and double check on this or that. For the hundredth time that morning, he remarked that Boormun still had given him no signal of the whereabouts of Taff's ceptor.

Inaction ate at him. He had come to kill, and kill he would. Right now, he was tempted to kill his own crew.

"I have come here myself to conquer one boy!" he roared to any ear in range. "I want the Taja Proudhon, and I will find him, and I will destroy him!" He thought of the Black Death he carried with him and frowned. It was a difficult weapon and, every hour, grew nearer to spoilage. It was a swarm of starving, vicious, giant insects. The insects were clever in a cunning, putrid way, something like slimy killer hornets–mutants the size of birds, and not small birds either.

Eft's brother, Stour, had created them, and though they were mutant and unruly, it was possible to control a moderate swarm of them by the careful use of their queen. Otherwise, they were hard to handle, and would not normally be much use on Troan — especially in the cold bitter north, against a Druid, a Witch, and a Wizard — but Eft knew it was for the very horror of the things that he bothered at all. It was a joy to picture the Proudhon, unhinged by anger and fear. The mutant creatures would be a small sacrifice just to see the boy's complete power, firsthand.

"I detected something wrong with him," he muttered. "I will soon know whether I can take him and his disc without destroying them both." Thus he waited, even as greed consumed him. It had been a day and two nights since his first social call on the Proudhon.

He was watching the screens of the live brett for clues or hints to the whereabouts of the Proudhon when his most earnest scout, a Vilemarc called Krusrid, hurried into his office.

"Master, forgive me for the intrusion" he mumbled slowly in Ace. "Late yesterday, one of the Zora groups we have been monitoring spearheaded, straight north. So I traveled immediately to the vicinity, to see for myself. They moved fast, well into the evening, before they camped for the night. They're disguised as northern Troanean travelers, polar explorers. Of the boy, I detected nothing, but an Ariste Druid is among them."

At once Dread knew this was his target. "Get me Ulldor, and have readied five laniers."

Krusrid bowed and left to do his master's bidding. Eft turned and notified Boormun that the chase had begun.

––

When the Proudhon awoke, there was a heavy object pressing on his chest. In the dull grey light of morning, he saw two beady eyes burning a hole into him. He recoiled, almost tumbled out of his sleeping sack, and knocked against Tob with a loud gasp.

"Hark, false one," Bloodbird screeched, and suddenly there were feathers in the air and a ruckus that startled everyone awake.

"Get off me," the Proudhon shouted.

"The lad is lost," the Mocking One gabbled. It flew in circles around the close quarters, hitting against canvas, and there was no escape. "The Proudhon is mad. Mad, mad, mad!"

The confusion acted like a bugle call, and everyone in the tent came running. But neither the Witch nor Grey came. The Proudhon scrambled out of his sleeping bag, trying to seize Bloodbird. He jumped over legs and arms, swinging for the creature, and for an instant nearly had it, but the bird slipped through his hands. It flew behind Taff, who had risen to his knees, stretching and rubbing his eyes. Strom looked at Arck's nakedness, startled. Tob began to laugh gleefully at the scene, especially at his brother.

"I'll kill it!" Arck shouted. "What is it doing here, anyway?" His voice was wild.

The Familiar returned to taunt its enemy. "The boy is tainted. A boy without purpose. Mad! Mad! Mad!" it squawked again.

"Shut up!" he screamed at it.

"I am concurrent alter ego," Bloodbird retorted. "The Master's voice." The bird flew into a frenzy again, circling the tent and screeching.

"The boy is a mirror image." Then it stopped, and perched on one of the heaters.

"In war one may not blunder twice." Its head turned lopsided and the words were ominous.

"In battle self love must be lost." It dove at the Proudhon, and he ducked out of the way. It perched again. "In battle, defeat is death."

Arck sighed. "Taff, for God's sake," he pleaded, "Shut it up!"

"Yes, Vanguard, I am the Master's voice," Mockingbird continued, "The Master's voice."

The Witch opened the inside flap of the tent and called the Familiar. It went to her quite meekly. "Breakfast is ready," she said.

The Proudhon shivered and threw on his clothes. By now, everyone else was up and dressed. At breakfast, he looked for Bloodbird, but it didn't show its beak.

"What a way to wake up," he said to Tob.

Outside the tent, Arck nervously watched the Freeguard troopers break camp. Then he stared blankly into the white distance for some moments, and suddenly felt a horrible intuition spread out from the center of the back of his head. Something was wrong. He spun to look at Grey, and knew at once that she had sensed it too. He could see that her nose was held up to a whisper of warm wind, and he felt some unknown thing in the air, something that was under the cloudy edge of a darkened silver stratus. Something was bothering his samasense. Something close, but not near enough to identify. He saw that the Wizard felt it too.

Within minutes they had left the camp behind. Most of the group looked nervous or worried, though not Tob. After they had traveled some distance on the open plain, at considerable speed, their fear lifted. They stopped then, and Taff and Grey conferred silently for a moment. The Druid at this point extended power into the machines, through her samaforce, to propel them away from whatever it was that followed, but it followed nonetheless, and somehow Arck knew that.

It was noon when they stopped, and then only because their path was blocked by a river so rapid and so deep that it had only pockets of shell ice at each side. For two hours it stopped their progress with jagged and broken surfaces, as they backtracked further and further down river to find a suitable crossing, and when they did, crossing was still dangerous.

The Proudhon's sickness of spirit left him glum, but despite this, he had to acknowledge that the day was splendid. The cold air was brisk, but not bitter, and the land glittered brilliant white. But, instinctively, Arck felt a threat. It was on their trail, and he knew it to be something horrible, though he could not say what. It was something agitated, whipped up–something let loose which could not be recalled. His chest felt tight, and he breathed heavily all morning. Near noon, the group stopped again for a quick lunch. They were still within the tree line though there were no more deciduous trees, and the conifers were thinning quickly.

Taff came and sat beside Arck. The Proudhon could see that his recovery was well under way.

"Dread has ship and aircraft," Arck said. "Why doesn't he just come and have it over with?" He shrugged and shook his head. "Ra Moujii ratujii tta. Well, it's something that makes my head buzz."

The Wizard looked startled. He replied, "Yes, I have felt it." He coughed. "You know that the Betrayer has a great opportunity on this wide-open terrain. He is hunting a small troupe, defenseless compared to his resources. This is what Grey wants; I am sure of it. Dread is not omnipotent, and with Grey and you acting in concert against him, who knows? Perhaps it is possible that the Betrayer could be destroyed."

Taff saw that Grey had left to roam. He watched Arck, as they ate. He knew that the Betrayer was a willing target, and that they all danced to a dangerous beat. He wondered if the Betrayer had detected Arck's confusion, or realized that, even though he was the Proudhon, he would be weak if caught away from the Druid. It was not helping matters that Arck seemed to be maintaining his consistent pattern of learning nothing and forgetting nothing. He was careful only when Strom was concerned–and sometimes not even then. There was a certain freedom, though, in the Proudhon; a certain recklessness. Strom and Tob came over, seeing that Taff was perhaps in a philosophic and talkative mood.

"Tell us more about the Ariste Druids?" Tob asked at length.

"The druids say that all ideas must be traced to their roots," Taff said. "Religion is chosen not solely for its alleged truths, but for reasons of heritage, custom, and tradition. The purpose it serves is not always morality. Fonny, your mother, was spiritual. This has less to do with religion than you may think. People see the beauty of religion in its roses, not its thorns. Everywhere, the highest ideals of religion are the same: abnegation of oneself, and sacrifice to others. This they call love. But love, too, has its own laws. As science describes the brain, so logic must explain the mind. Selma is the secret spirit of thinking, but it also provides a path for the soul. This is what druids study."

Their eyes met. "Are you saying religion is bad?" Tob asked.

"Religion is the spirit of emotion. The voice of authority preached in religions, and all political philosophies, is the same, and they preach against life by presenting an afterworld or a perfect world order that can be gained only by rejecting life's ultimate goodness. They work against individual autonomy, by promoting obedience. They practice envy by naming anyone outside their vision as impious or parasitical. They spread guilt among their followers by branding self-concern as sin, sexual longing as shameful, and proclaim humility an end in itself. They promote poverty as virtue, and procreation, which extends their power, as duty. Religion is the desire for a guaranteed moral code and a no-risk life. No supernatural order exists; there are Tewks and Fakirs, and those who would follow them."

"Well then," Tob said, "who created the universe?"

"The universe is infinite and eternal," Taff answered. "Gods like the Overseer were created to explain mysteries. The tool needed to unearth true knowledge is logic–which is why the Hanrahans and Thurgists have so little regard for it. There are no facts to prove the existence of any occult, magical dimension – science explains magic but it's not itself magical, but rather beholding to the laws of nature. This is as true for Troan as for any planet in the Circle Cluster. Or any other system, for that matter."

Arck saw that Taff's troops and crew were ready to go. He looked up to the sky, quite anxious to what blackness may be hidden there. "Let's go," he suggested to Taff in a low voice. "The Ariste Druids will always tell you that unless you're sure you can win, that it's better to run than fight."

They rode hard, and hours went by. A dark cloud formation was moving in from the northwest; Fern, half asleep, lazily took notice of it. She looked back at Tob, Taff and the others. She thought of Sheila, so full of love, and so generous. Fern was no longer young, and she was not one to tamper with her own future; she knew the inevitability of death remained a real fact. She knew her time had come, though she did not understand why. Nevertheless, it was a fact that had been revealed by her own Familiar – she would "die and yet live." This was what was predicted. It sounded rather ugly, and quite unromantic. However, there was so much left to do, and she did not have the Fault to fall back on. Much of her power and protection now came from Arck's wildflower, the Wisteria. She had her larlstone, of course, and a single annujet. She had knowledge collected over a very long life. And Bloodbird. But, while the Mockingbird was powerful, its power was not direct, like a weapon. Fern laughed; she was a brilliant idea without a voice to enunciate it, much less an army to fight for it. Another hour passed, the wind picked up, and the vague sense of wrongness came back. She signaled to Taff, and they stopped.

"It is back," she said, as Taff came over to her. "What is it?"

The undercurrent of danger was tugging hard at the Wizard. "I suppose we must see if we can find out," he said to her, with some difficulty. "They are on our trail in any event, so using sama is unlikely to make matters worse now."

They were off course by four hours. The wind whipped Taff's face. He stood still and placed himself inside his Kiji Noloyd. All of a sudden his entire body glowed green. He felt the vast barren winter land. He detected Grey roaming beyond the motrices, scouting, eyes aglow; and he sensed that the Great Betrayer had guessed their location and had somehow generated an arsenal of great force on Troan; yet, there was something unexplainable, some dark mystery. He felt its blind appetite and its insatiable greed. He wondered if it was one of the Heart Harrower's mutations. Then he realized what it was–the Black Death. For an instant he felt the Betrayer full of frustration and rage, but for only a second, not long enough to be sure. Perhaps the Druid's arguments had more merit than he'd given them; indeed, all was dangerous and the risks could prove insurmountable.

Taff re-entered his body, and stepped back to his machine. When he had discovered the hiding place of the Ta Noloyd in the reaches among the gloomy ruins of Lorlett, he knew that momentous events and dangerous schemes would follow. Even now, he knew that if they made it safely off Troan, the Druid intended to pull them back to the Lorlett ruins so that she would have the Proudhon's help to find the two Tij Noloyds of the Aristes, the impure Noloyds; the ones of flawed nature. For the Wizard, it would always be a question of courage and timing, whether or not he could outmaneuver the evil Mij Trinity, to say nothing of the Greywheter Druid. He looked around, signaling, and they all left at once. They finally pulled away from the horrid sensation, so that in a couple of hours, the numbing dread lifted. Their speed doubled, then tripled, and their progress was unhampered until late afternoon, when dusk crept back. They had crossed the tree line, and the naked plains of ice and snow rolled and stretched in slick waves. Only infrequent clutches of bush and tundra appeared like mirages in the desert.

When they came to a halt, it was just beyond a wide river, under a clear, starry sky and they sat on thermal blankets against the snow machines to eat cold biscuits and hot soup. The food revived Arck's spirits. He looked sleepily at the Ariste. That is when he saw fear begin. Her ear tufts went erect, like antennae, and the jagged claws twisted out like hooked blades. Then the awful feeling came back, not from far behind them, but now from the opposite direction, and close. He jerked forward to his knees, knocking the unfinished food into the snow. The pain gripped him, hard.

"Taff, it's back," he pleaded, his voice breaking with the strain. He fell flat as if the horror had been an arrow through his heart. The group scattered to the snow-cruisers and motrices. The Wizard reached for Arck and pulled him into action. Their boots creaked against the frozen surface of the tundra. The disruption lost them valuable minutes. They raced under the large bright Offspry moon, their only light. They turned due north, and traveled all night; but the horror did not lift. It was like a beast who could not desist, after the smell of blood was in its nostrils. Near daylight, the fear grew worse, and Grey took over control of the machines again, glowing brilliant white with the effort. She drove the vehicles without mercy and they flew like rockets.

As the first light brushed over the vast, low hills, the pain caused by whatever chased them, disappeared and, for hours, it did not return. Arck breathed without pain for the first time that morning and looked at their surroundings. He was exhausted. They ascended a long sprawling rise, and the vehicles groaned and whined in protest. Arck's face burned with frost, his woolen mask a chunk of ice, with small icicles around its mouth. Neither the Snow-cruisers nor motrices were completely enclosed or gave much warmth at such speeds or temperatures. He wondered how far away they were.

Soon, they stopped again, at the crest of the hill. Arck lost his balance and fell, getting out of the cruiser. Unhurt, he sat up and started to rise, then he felt the Ariste begin a volscyl withdrawal of herself, to restore some strength. Before he was back on his feet, she was curled up and still as if asleep. The light played with shadows on the plain. Below them, he saw why Grey had chosen to stop here. In a hollow, protected by a knoll, some small shrubs and arctic briar had attracted a large community of small arctic artins, hundreds of them. There was shelter here for their young, from the wind and from predators, although this far north, Arck could not imagine what they might be. The little white animals pooled around this life belt of tundra, which was no more than the length of a few tall men.

In wonder and amazement, the fugitive company stared at them. Arck's attention drew more and more to them, and he, too, became fascinated. The small creatures fought playfully with one another for turns at the food — food apparently supplied by a fluke of nature. It was magical. Strom decided it was all absurd — to be in an absurd dream, and then to dream a dream inside that dream, of something even less real, yet something that was fact. But caught up by the phenomenon, she decided to enjoy it, and she and Tob laughed with delight.

Arck shook his head and carefully drew a little closer to the artin herd. They were small, furry, and, unlike the great herd of tinacoo, there was neither fear nor resentment in the collective consciousness. The artins had not perceived any threat from the human-forms, which were still a good distance back of them. Besides, they were reluctant to give up hard-to-find nourishment, and it looked like they meant to eat it to the ground. The Proudhon felt a sea of loose mental images, full of gaiety, among the artin. Many of them popped up on their hind quarters to peer out over the endless plain of snow. The human-forms were enthralled by the unexpected gift nature had provided, just when they most needed something to lift their spirits.

It was such a wonder that Arck threw down a blanket and sat to watch. Life had supplied laughter where and when least expected, and the Proudhon turned the last of his thoughts away from dread and toward beauty. Tob brought him some stew and a hot drink and he leaned back against one of the machines. After a few minutes, Fern joined him; then Strom came and sat near him on the blanket. Most of the troopers had come to enjoy the sight, too. For several minutes they all watched, but then the artins began to retreat in dozens into the underbrush, and disappear from sight into their snow burrows.

Behind them, still in her volscyl withdrawal, Grey sat motionless, while the hundreds of cuddly white dots stopped dancing before her eyes, replaced by ugly black ones, coming nearer and nearer, but somehow hidden from outright perception. Arck watched as many little artin-heads began stretching and sniffing. The artins raised up on hind legs, one by one, then in groups, then the whole herd began peering around excitedly, and started heading for cover. Then the process reversed, and they began to rush back and forth, dodging and swirling in great agitation. It appeared to be some sort of ritual, and Arck stood up and watched them circle and revolve around a perimeter, maintaining a sort of boundary. Then their dance went wild and Arck hissed through muffled teeth, and though his confused mind still did not understand what was happening, a great beast had come for breakfast. Suddenly the dread returned. It crushed him to his knees. He cursed, and his thin body grew rigid from the pressure. At his chest, the amulet turned warm and his whole body was covered by an actinic blue glow, the brightest he had ever been. He raised his hand in slow motion, shouting a warning which would not come out, but everyone was on their feet. The Proudhon stared in horror. The crest of the hill opposite was suddenly lined with a dozen tall, grey Vilemarcs with acid-yellow eyes. In their midst, directly across from the Proudhon, a tall black giant in flowing cloaks towered well above the fearsome Vilemarcs. For the moment, the giant stared down at the innocent artins. It had lidless black eyes, without whites, black pointed teeth under full, curved lips opened into a monstrous black smile. The black figure looked sculpted and polished into the essence of pure design. It was beautiful in a horrible way.

The Proudhon swallowed and coughed. He felt the Druid beside him. The vision of savage determination directly across from him was the Great Betrayer, the crusher of wills, the personification of Dread. Arck watched him draw to his full height and raise both arms to the heavens. The horrid feeling came to life: a great flying horde of ugly creatures the size of ravens flashed into sight from behind the Vilemarcs, and swarmed out over the winter artins.

The artins above ground seemed paralyzed, trapped by fear. Arck shuddered. Panic flew through him and made the blue glow even brighter. How could this be possible? He had never seen anything so unearthly, the flying creatures were giant hornets with exaggerated carnivorous mouths and each round abdomen was centered by a dagger-like stinger. They were an vile perversion of reality out of an base nightmare. He heard the Wizard groan, directly behind him.

"The Jet Black," Taff said. "Black Death. The Great Betrayer has harnessed his brother's mutants!"

"The artins," Tob screamed. He grabbed his brother by the arm. "Arck, don't let them! Stop them!"

The machines droned to life, but Arck could not turn away from his brother's plea; he couldn't run, as the Druid was commanding his mind. His face was full of shock and disbelief. He swung towards the Druid–was this really why Grey had stopped here? His mind staggered at the thought. "No, this could not be," he told himself.

Then the laughter of the Great Betrayer seared through the icy air; he brought his hands down to begin his display of terror, and the giant hornets fell like guillotine blades on the herd. Many of the artins were caught instantly by starving black jaws.

Evil creatures must also eat.

"No," Arck shouted hoarsely.

"No," Tob shouted, scrambling towards the hollow. "No!" Whether it was thoughtless bravery, or intended to provoke him, Arck could not be sure, but it didn't matter which.

"Stop!" the Proudhon ordered. This time the sound of his voice cracked the air with power. His deep blue glow — cobalt-blue, now — began to reach out into the massacre. A few last snow artins still stared upwards in their innocence, but the slaughter even then was a fact; the Jet Black Death had fallen upon them like a huge meat grinder.

At a run, the Druid took down Tob who was already too close to the swarm. She began to drag him back, bending his will with great skill. Abruptly though, Grey released him and radiated brilliant white as if under attack.

"Too late, dotards," the Betrayer boomed. His voice was a loathsome sonorous buzz full of evil, and the Proudhon felt his hair stand on end. "I thank you for feeding my hungry servants." He laughed at the Druid, at the Proudhon, at all of them.

Shamed, Arck hung his head, while the slaughter was completed. Hatred glared from Arck's eyes when he looked up at the Betrayer.

Seeing the Proudhon crippled, the Betrayer's laughter shook the air.

The Betrayer's voice' rang through Arck's mind, "Too late!" A numbing anger overcame him. As in a trance, the Proudhon began to walk out to the horrid bloodbath, his blue aurora pouring from him, while vengeance rose in his heart like a tidal wave.

"Too late!"

Tears of blue liquid fire fell on the Proudhon's chest.

Hundreds of bloody carcasses were spread before him, and he took each death into his own heart, mourning the silenced voice of their gaiety. Were those little souls not like innocent children? Guilt overwhelmed him, and turned to blazing anger.

A tremendous laceration opened out in his radiant actiniform; power flooded from it to the Black Death. They exploded like gas-filled balloons as the blue fire touched them. The Proudhon's violent blue force continued to sweep forward, melting the snow, thawing the frozen earth itself. He was reaching for the Great Betrayer and his evil servants; but even as they had laughed their laughs and he cried his tears, they were vanishing behind the cloud of smoke. Gone! They were all gone.

A voice in his mind was grasping at his inner being and he knew it was Grey, but he was not finished with this power. He still burned with rage, but he already knew the truth:

"Too late!"

The Black Death had been destroyed, but too late. The angry blue flame shot out harmlessly, and Arck fell to the ground. He landed in his Garden of Flowers, where sun and warmth caressed his cold angry face.

### The Great Betrayer 17

Sheila and Tilly arrived in snow covered Gat in the midday sun, and, for the sake of anonymity, registered at the Monument Hotel as Marigold and Tilben Geftar.

"One moment," the receptionist said, "We are busy." She looked flustered.

This brought on a kind smile from Tilly, who knew that only cheerful friendliness would get them results. It was partly because of their troops that the place was so busy, although there was a popular winter carnival in the area not two miles away.

"Pay them cash and we'll take our own bags up," Sheila whispered in his ear.

In the room, he threw the luggage on the floor.

"Should we consummate our marriage?" he asked, with a chuckle.

She smiled back, then looked at him intently for a moment. His smile faded, and his eyes were drawn into her deep, dark ones. He broke the gaze, embarrassed and blushing.

"I'm sorry, Sheila," he said, shamefaced, "I shouldn't have said that. I was trying to be funny."

"Oh?" she said, and looked into his eyes again. "I didn't think you were joking." He blushed again, and looked at the floor. Then Sheila started to laugh merrily.

"Your ears are pink, Tilly! You're pink all over!" Which of course made him even pinker. Then the Witch took pity on him.

"Tonight, we might talk about this further, my friend," she said lightly. "But now let us find what we came for and see how much trouble it will be to extricate them from this village."

He nodded, unsure what to say. By late afternoon, they found a house behind a row of snow-covered elms, down a long seldom-used road, three miles out of the village. While they were standing at the door, the snow stopped falling. A middle-aged woman in a plain yellow dress answered the door. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"May we come in?" Sheila asked. The woman led them into a bright foyer. "Are you Denise Golier?"

"No," the woman said. "I am Sara. I am the housekeeper. Denise is out."

Sheila saw at once that the woman's mind was weak. There was no sense of evil, but the thoughts were blurred, unclear, like a simpleton.

"We have come to see Pom Rovich. Does she still live here?"

"Yes," Sara said.

"Are Di and Larska Bolkant here?" Sheila held her breath for a second until the reply came.

"Yes, they are here."

"Who else is here, Sara?" she asked gently, but with a tone of authority.

"The boys, and my daughter Tammy."

"The boys?"

"Dennis and Logan–the Golier boys."

"Yes, I see," Sheila looked quickly at Tilly. They were in luck.

"How old are the boys?" she asked politely.

"Nine and ten, I think."

"Thank you, Sara. Please ask Pom to come to the door. Just Pom."

Sara disappeared towards the back of the house. From where they stood, a large carpeted stairway circled up to another floor. The house was big and well-appointed.

When Sheila saw Pom, she looked searchingly into the face of the Proudhon's surrogate mother. Pom was still young, thin and tall like Arck. A nervous, almost fanatical light shone from her face.

"Yes?" Pom said.

"Thank you, Sara," Sheila conveyed the message without words. The woman turned and drifted down the hall, away from them.

Looking sharply at Sheila and Tilly for a moment, Pom's eyes widened. She knew immediately who they were. She caught her breath.

"How is Arck?" she asked at length.

Tilly stepped forward, smiling warmly. "It is good to see that you are well. Arck, Tob, Grey, and Taff are well also. And Strom, who is with us. But they are all in great danger–as are Arck's sisters and you, yourself. You must be moved, and as quickly as possible. How much do they know?"

"No more than I do," she said, as if demanding some explanation.

"Pom," Tilly chided her. "I mean, do they understand their danger?"

"They have been through severe shock. No, they don't understand."

Sheila was disappointed and bit her lip. "They must come with us. There is no time now for explanations or negotiations. Tomorrow morning, bring them into town with you, to the lobby of the Monument at nine o'clock; just the three of you. We will explain what we can to them, but one way or another they must come with us. Pom, please; they have faith in you; you must give them guidance. Let them be inspired by your own courage."

Pom looked doubtful. "They will not want to go. They have settled in safely. This seems so bizarre. But if you have found us, then so can they. Yes, I will bring the children. You'd better go; I expect Mrs. Golier back any time, and she should not see you here."

"Yes, of course," Sheila answered. "Do you need someone to come for you? If you can manage by yourselves, discreetly, there will be less danger."

"The three of you must be there in the morning," Tilly added, taking both of Pom's hands for a few seconds, while she nodded. She looked worried. "Remember," he whispered softly into her ear, "you are also Freeguard, and for us, courage is principle put into action. Where it first gives birth, then love befriends the bold."

They left together. How odd they must look to Pom, Tilly thought, self-consciously, such a beautiful young Freeguard woman beside her old friend, the SelmaKeatra Warrior.

"What do you think?" she asked him, once they were on their way.

"I think she knows more than she knows, as Taff is so fond of saying. She will do whatever she has to do to be with Arck, and she would not leave the girls unprotected. They will be there."

They spent the rest of that day organizing the departure from Gat. Each conferred with their respective lieutenants, and they rejoined each other for a drink and dinner. They compared notes on the arrangements made for their departure from Lorlett, and were satisfied that every detail was in hand. No sign of the enemy had been discovered or even felt, and there was time to relax, at least for now.

By the time Tilly had dawdled over his third cup of Prill, then ordered a fourth, Sheila's big eyes started twinkling at him.

"Tilly," she giggled, "you won't sleep a wink if you drink any more of that stuff. Don't you think it's time we went up? It's going to be pretty hectic tomorrow morning."

The Tutan began to blush once more. He thought for a minute before he spoke, and then he didn't look directly at the Witch.

"Well," he said, "I just thought I'd . . . I mean, I guess I . . .. Look, why don't you go ahead, and I'll be along later." His rosy tinge kept getting deeper and deeper, and tiny beads of perspiration dampened his forehead. He looked so uncomfortable, Sheila finally took pity on him. Laughing, she took him by the hand.

"Oh, Tilly! Come on." She shook her head and led him upstairs like a fond mother would lead a child, although she did giggle a lot on the way.

The Tutan stood fidgeting, in the center of the room, until Sheila pushed him over towards the bed. "Sit!" she commanded.

"You're strong," Tilly managed. "I mean, you're so delicate. I mean slim. Well, I don't mean exactly slim . . .." He ran out of words.

She laughed. "Delicate, indeed! Who routed the Betrayer's forces? Who nearly got the monster himself?"

"Brave, too," he said. "Sheila, you know I think you're wonderful. I always have."

"I think there's a little more to it than that." She stepped closer in front of him. She lifted both hands to his shoulders, and looked straight into his stoic, warrior's face. Their eyes were level with each other's, in spite of the fact that he was sitting, and she, standing.

"Now, about that talk. Hmm, what should we talk about? Perhaps a philosophical discussion?" She moved closer, and slid her hands around his back.

He worried about what he should do with his hands. Should he touch her? He decided not to, in view of possible consequences. Besides, there were other problems.

"But . . . ," he said.

"But what?" she murmured, pressing forward, lightly, against him.

"Well, it just wouldn't be appropriate. I'm too old for you. I'm a plain warrior, and you're so clever, and wise, and beautiful . . .."

She pressed closer; and placed a caressing hand at either side of his head.

"And then, there's Fern; I wouldn't want to hurt a friend."

"We've parted, Tilly; we've parted, as loving friends. Tilly, you're the bravest man I know. And you're kind, and generous, and honest, and . . .."

His hands found a place to go: they met each other around Sheila's small waist.

"And there's that, too," he, said in a worried tone.

"What?" Witch or not, she couldn't tell what was troubling him now.

"Well, it has to do with our being from different races . . . I mean, not just the culture difference, I mean . . . " He was scarlet with embarrassment now. "Well, Tutans are big, and you are so little . . . " His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I might hurt you."

Her laughter made him squirm even more. She was pressed tightly against his body, now, and she drew his head down towards her breasts.

"Oh, Tilly," she giggled. "You big, kindhearted warrior." Her tone was soft and fond, and amused. "Not that I blame you for worrying about that–I can feel what you mean." A throatier tone crept into her voice. By some combination of strength and surprise, she pushed him over, so that he was lying back on the bed. She held close and toppled over with him.

"I don't think it will become necessary," she whispered into his ear, as she deftly started unfastening his clothes, and some of her own as well, "but if I can't manage, I can always resort to witchcraft."

Although the Tutan warrior and the Freeguard Witch spent the rest of the night in intense communication, the conversation never did return to philosophy. Towards dawn, they slept.

When bright sunshine wakened Sheila, Tilly had already returned to his duties. She knew she must hurry, too. She hummed a pretty little tune as she dressed, and thought of something she'd read somewhere, "It comes on sudden wings–the heart beats its gladness."

She thought of Fern, and hoped her mentor would find new happiness with Strom. Then she thought of the Sanctuary. It would be her Sanctuary now. How she had always looked forward to Tilly's visits, even when she was a young girl! She touched the larlstone at her chest. Then she began to dress quickly, reluctantly moving her thoughts from her warrior to the Bolkant children.

When she looked at Di's brooding ten-year-old face, and the puzzled eyes of three-year-old Larska, she felt guilty for being so happy. These two young girls had experienced a calamity words could not describe. She smiled at them, with all her charm.

"Hello," she said. "You have met my friend Tilly. We are both friends of Taff Hart. Arck and Tob are alive, and safe. They send their love." She crouched down to Larska. "Would you like to see your Tob?" she asked. Larska nodded. "Come then," she said, "We will go."

"Where are we going?" asked Di, wide-eyed and nervous.

Sheila rose. "On a trip, Di, a long trip."

They studied one another, then Sheila looked through the large front window. A building across the street bore a sign which said Delton's Clinic, and a few patients filed in and out. Sheila stared at it and her eyelashes twitched, like cat whiskers. She sensed no presence of danger, but she was on the alert for it.

"Di," she said, " it might be hard to understand, but the bad things you saw happen to your family were real. You, and Pom, and Larska are in danger in Gat. Those creatures may come back. You must leave here."

Di's face looked older than her ten years. "Yes," she said, "I know."

Both girls turned suddenly to Pom, who had followed Sheila's gaze to the clinic across the street. Doctor Delton had been a good doctor for her, Pom thought, but Freeguard Healers were well reputed too. She shrugged, and smiled at the girls' questioning faces, then pulled them close to her.

### The Great Betrayer 18

When Arck awoke, he was in a warm but hard bed. The Wizard was leaning against a rough wooden wall, watching him. Arck felt bandages on his forehead and hands, but was too uncomfortable to inspect them closely. There were no windows in the room, but he heard the howling blizzard outside, and the light from a dirty gas lamp told him it was past dusk. The Jet Black Death swarmed into his thoughts. He had burned them away. But The Betrayer was laughing, and the snow artins had been slaughtered. What he had done had been too late. The door into the main room of the cabin was closed but he heard voices and people moving, and he smelled food cooking. He was thirsty but there was also acute pain in both his hands. His muscles were stiff and sore from weariness and it felt like no amount of sleep would cure him.

"Where is this?" he asked, looking about the room. He didn't see Taff, sitting in the shadows, with his chair tilted back against the wall.

"We have found some friends," said Taff. The chair clacked against the wooden floor as he righted it by a shoulder thrust against the wall. He felt the pulse at the Proudhon's throat.

"You have burned your hands. Fern has applied medolite from MantisMurken, and they will heal quickly." He paused until he had satisfied himself that the pulse was adequate, then added, "By tomorrow the discomfort will be much less."

"Mistakes!" Arck twisted his head away. "Too late!"

"Shush," the Wizard said, raising his hand to Arck's head, and calming him by his touch. "You are a victim of the Betrayer's barbarity. Nothing else." He paused, smiling. "I have fixed a hot supper that comes strongly recommended. We've been riding most of the afternoon and evening. Tonight, we'll rest for a time. It may be our last chance before we reach the ceptor."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, assessing the Proudhon's condition. Arck felt the Wizard's gaze reaching deep inside him, reaching for untouchable terrain. He forced his mind away from the probing, and raised his psychological defenses. He could almost hear clanging and thuds as they closed around the center of his will. Taff's smile combined irony and pride. The voice of a stranger came from the other room. It had a muted sound; it was a broken Troanish dialect, from a fragile man–an old man. Then an even stranger voice interrupted the weak one. The second voice held a gruffness, and an odd inflection. It was a young voice, but it was deep, and there was something mysterious in it.

"Who are they?"

"Friends who have sought us out," Taff answered, "as many others will. You are the Proudhon. One joins us. He is a Mauller, and his destiny is intertwined with your own. He came to Troan in anticipation of your presence, and he is called Durakerk Laiver. His home is on the planet Lorlett. The other one is native to these lands. His people call him Fox-Spirit, though he goes by the name Jeff Lag, the Elder. He is a true companion of the Mauller. This cabin belongs to his tribe."

A knock came at the door, and the Wizard rose to open it. He gave a short bow and a grin, and held the door open for Strom, who entered with a plate of food and a hot herbal drink in a mug, on a makeshift tray.

"Supper," she whisper to Arck. Her smile was uncertain. She put his supper on a low wooden chest beside the bed, and drew the chair near. Arck stared at her face. Her eyes were clear and dark. He held up his bandaged hands, half-feigning helplessness. She picked up the plate and a spoon and leaned over to feed him. He was hungrier than he thought, and when he was finished the food, Strom leaned towards him, holding the mug of for him.

"You must have sprung from heaven," he whispered in her ear. "Strom, I have to be with you." She made strange, but he still had hopes to win her heart. "We could sleep here together tonight."

"There are eight of us."

"At the least, I can have this room alone with you." He saw that his boast didn't have the effect he intended–that she felt uncomfortable. She stood up to leave.

"Strom, you've come this far with me. Don't turn away now. You're so beautiful it hurts me, right in my heart. I think about you all the time." He was tongue-tied for a minute. "Strom, I'd give anything I have to make you happy."

She went into the other room and closed the door softly behind her. Arck finished his hot drink by clasping the mug between his wrapped hands, catching most of it. Its heat felt good, and soon he began to feel alive. His thoughts returned to Strom, and dwelled upon what it felt like to have her with him. There was a new pain in his chest, which he didn't recognize–it was longing. This is what it's like to be both spiritual and animal at one and the same time. He knew this was the consummation of an ideal, but he knew he didn't understand its nature. He was the Liebrent Heir, the Proudhon–but he still didn't understand love and how much it hurt. He spent a long time working things out, and finally he was convinced that, deep inside, Strom felt exactly as he did.

He was still weak, but well enough to get up now, so he struggled into a sweater and pulled it over his pants, and stepped into the warm golden light of the larger room, where two gas lamps burned silently and smokeless, one at each end. Seated at a large trestle table along one side of the room, with the others gathered around, a robed figure regarded him wordlessly. It was a large, male figure, with grayish skin, and deep-set, radiant yellow eyes, ill-hidden by the shadows of the cowl over his head. Startled, Arck nearly stumbled.

The unflinching stare from the stern alien face continued as Arck crossed the floor. He stared back. The body of the fierce-looking creature was muscular and looked strong, as though constructed from smooth grey concrete. He was surely a transformed Vilemarc, or something close. The etched features were symmetrical, but with the inconsistency of an odd, flat nose. In no way could he be mistaken for Troanean. Arck felt nervous, but recovered his composure and managed a self-conscious nod in the Mauller's direction. At last the burning eyes turned away. Arck moved quickly to squeeze in between his brother and Strom on the bench at the back of the table, by the wall. Then he saw a second stranger, the owner of the frail voice. He looked as he sounded–an old man, thin, and almost but not quite fragile. He had soft wrinkled brows hiding eyes full of mirth. His voice was warm and slightly whispery. He was relating a story.

Taff rose. "Arck, meet Durakerk Laiver," he said, indicating the Mauller.

The Proudhon reached over and clasped his hand, almost shuddering at his touch.

"This is Jeff Lag," Taff continued.

The Proudhon leaned over again, smiling this time, but as he made physical contact with Jeff, a bright blue spark of fire flew through the air between them. Arck jumped away, and everyone else rose, startled. Arck saw that the Elder was as shocked as he. He looked around for Grey, but she was not to be seen. The Mauller rose to stand beside his friend. Arck felt like the power had been ripped out of him.

"The Yellow-Eye told me," Jeff said out of breath. "But I didn't believe. You are a power unto yourself."

Arck reached over slowly, holding his breath, and touched the Elder again. This time nothing happened. He looked around confused, then sat back down, as if the confrontation had been too much for him. The Elder looked at him with sympathy. Taff marveled at how well it had been done. And the Druid had the nerve, or the skill, to not even be present at her own masterful accomplishment.

"It is the gods who speak," the Elder said, faintly. "I have found my sign."

The Wizard rose, red-faced. Silently, he cursed the Druid again, just from force of habit. Arck stared, bewildered. Without Grey to help him sort out what this meant, he was lost. A hand pushed a glass in his direction, he smiled gratefully at Fern, and sat back, pushing away his confusion.

"You advertise the One Noloyd," the Mauller whispered to him. The remark was full of condemnation. "I could be the enemy hiding; what precautions have you taken?" Arck looked over, dumbfounded. The words had caught him unprepared and they sounded ill-mannered, but he couldn't be sure. "You reveal too much," Durakerk continued. "You are not your own man." He was in front of the Wizard, though his eyes were aimed directly at Arck.

"Let me tell you a little about whom you face," he continued. "The Betrayer is Power incarnate; his sister the Soul Slayer is Order, and his brother the Heart Harrower is Authority. This is the Evil Trinity that has forced the Circle Cluster into submission, for a thousand years. What do the Ariste Druids know? They are nihilists–anarchists. I've heard rumors of the Greywheter's plan. Do you not own up your responsibility to those who have you as their only hope? It is the Freeguard who gave you life. You are Freeguard, not some anarchistic cat creature!"

The Mauller stood and threw back his cowl. His eyes blazed. For a moment he looked even more like a Vilemarc. Arck stood there with his mouth open, speechless. "For decades I've watched the Mij-Lords plunder the Cluster," the Mauller continued. His voice was bitter. "They have destroyed my Race and hunted the Freeguard underground. Always, they keep their ears and eyes open for your coming, even when they were led to believe the Taja Noloyd was lost forever. Is it that you believe you cannot be destroyed? The Overseer pays no attention to bizarre plots against him. He is the Beginning One. He would laugh at Aarona Raker and the Druids. He'd never admit there was any danger to his eternal structure." He paused, glaring at Arck. "He's beyond seeing you as a threat, and this is your only single advantage over him, yet you are here, attracting his armies of power in some deadly game of risk, because that is what the Druid wishes. The Mij Noloyd-Holders are the very three who slew the great Aarona Raker and her powerful Mauller Druid compatriots. They are now aware of the Taja, and they muster their strength against you without the Overseer's knowledge. But the Beginning One has eyes everywhere; it is only a matter of time. They fear you Liebrent Proudhon, and though they may not be able to completely destroy you, they can do worse."

He took a deep breath and sat back down. "Yes, there is worse. They could enslave you inside the Taja Noloyd, and with that power, overthrow the Overseer himself. And they would only be replacing a systematic tyrant with an arbitrary one. A great evil replaced by an even greater evil. It cannot be avoided; it is your fate unless you fight for control of your own destiny." He stopped; his eyes were shining, translucent.

But Arck was seething. He wasn't accustomed to being spoken to in this way, and he didn't like it.

"I sense your reluctance. But courage knows no age. It has no predisposition. For you, and for everyone, courage is merely principle put into action. You may seek to escape your destiny, but you cannot hope for such a thing." He paused, and turned to Taff. "How much have you told him of the power which now pursues all of us?"

"He knows much, but not all," the Wizard replied. "He's now ready to know the rest. And there are some here who know little of the danger: Strom, and Jeff, and Tob, as well, to some extent. Would you like me to tell them how it started?"

The Mauller nodded; Fern handed him a mug of hot, dark red liquid that smelled of prill, spices, and altcin. She passed more steaming mugs around, from the piece of board used as a tray. She paused for a second in front of Tob, then she smiled and handed him a drink, too.

"After watching your bravery today, Tob," Taff said, " I consider you a man." Tob beamed.

"It began in the Circle Cluster, thousands of years ago," Taff began. "In a time beyond recall, before even the SelmaSarma-Unity. In that era, war was a state of life; our history tells us that nothing else existed, only chaos. It raged without beginning and no end could be seen. The weapons were monstrous and the Worlds of the Cluster despaired that they would ever see peace. It is said that the races in their blind despair allowed a group of philosopher-kings from the planet Centre to mislead them with the promise of order. Whether the Overseer created them, or they created the Overseer, we know not. Some maintain that the SelmaSarma-Unity created both. Some even say the Overseer had no beginning and will live without end and that he created both the Unity and CentreRule. Nevertheless, these Centre Philosophers sold science as religion, and authority as justice."

The Mauller interjected, "A compromise in principle is the worst vice." Taff gave a rueful smile, and a single nod. "The Unity was born with 'The Balance,' and on its heels came CentreRule, the era of unification began and of the eons that followed we know little."

"The Overseer has rewritten the history," Durakerk added, his hands clenched lightly. "By now, he himself, and CentreRule, too, believe their own lies."

The rest were silent, although Fern nodded sadly in agreement. Taff's voice lowered, as he spoke again, and so for some time, the Mauller and the Wizard told them of the philosophy, history, and misadventures of the Circle Cluster, and how it had come to this point, switching back and forth as though they had been intellectual and political allies — and friends — for a century, which they had.

Arck was fascinated by the Mauller's bright amber eyes and paid little attention to Taff or Durakerk's words, other than to hope he wouldn't drone on for long–he knew the stories backwards and forwards

At one point, Durakerk stood up. Intense emotion shone from his face, and the light in his eyes was almost fanatical. "Self government," he whispered, as if it were a sacred formula. "My people have never known it, and we are being destroyed, deliberately and relentlessly. Because we have no rights or free vote, soon we will be no more than Vilemarc hybrids, horrible mutants who search out and kill each other. Look at me!" He stared straight at Arck. "Do I not look more like a Vilemarc than anything else?" Arck dropped his eyes in shame, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

"My friend," Taff said gently, "oppression and subjugation are the reasons we are here. The reason you add is the inevitable result of the others: genocide." Durakerk nodded, and sat down. He was watching Arck, and sipping the warm wine. He put the mug down on the table, and leaned forward, peering at the Proudhon. Infinite sadness took the light from his shining eyes.

"Arck, think of it, " he said. "This is your heritage."

A note of accusation were in those words, as if he suspected Arck had not been listening, which was true. Durakerk began speaking again, more softly this time, and again he and Taff went on for some time. Arck could see that his younger brother's eyes sparkled at the stories, and his cheeks were rosy from the hot wine. Tob seemed most impressed when he heard the Pulsarites spaceships had independent thought and were full-fledged cognizant Zora-council members. Moreover, he was amazed that Aristes had centuries before destroyed the SelmaSarma Unity by openly attacking the Overseer — that the Beginning One and the Chrisarmains in turn had almost hunted the Aristes to extinction — that it was Aarona Raker who gave them back their faith and hope by creating the noloyds, of which his brother had the Taja, the one which controls the others. Taff and Durakerk paused after telling them of the noloyds, and the silence that followed grew to an uncomfortable length. Tob looked at Arck and touched his amulet, and when Strom moved closer to him, he took this as an encouraging sign that she may sleep with him tonight.

"At Lorlett, Aarona Raker took a husband," Taff said at length, "even though Mauller Druids are not permitted marriage. However, as her husband had wide-ranging political influence on Lorlett and he was an accomplished master of the social arts, the Mauller Druid sect, somehow overlooked the proscription in this case. She, herself, scorned this ancient Druid taboo, and she presented the argument that, as with the Aristes, mating outside the caste was quite acceptable so long as no creation of life would result. They say that where there is a mind of genius, the heart's love is completely blind. We will never know the reason, but Aarona Raker's mate became —— or already was — no other than the Great Betrayer, Dread, possessed in the flesh of Eft Coll. The Great Betrayer inside the Keeps of Lorlett. Imagine!"

"But we saw the Great Betrayer," Tob said, "And he wasn't a Mauller or a Vilemarc."

"Yes that is true enough, Tob. You see, Eft Coll, his brother, Stour, and his sister, Sphange all used body transference to defy the natural process of decay and death. I'll tell you more later about their possession of the bodies of the Race of Spurls. It's a pitiful tale, really."

However, the Wizard's smile didn't show much pity. "As Aarona Raker completed her lifetime work," he continued, "Eft Coll, the Betrayer — Dread — secretly watched her. He was amazed, as he fitted together the pieces of the puzzle. He realized that this brilliant, naive, Mauller Druid was in fact planning the greatest sedition ever dreamed of; the overthrow of CentreRule and the Beginning One himself. This was the first time he was tempted to covet absolute power for himself and his fellow spirits–his sister, Order, and his brother, Authority. So the Overseer was not informed of the Mauller Druid's ominous weapons, and the Great Betrayer began plotting to seize the Mij Noloyds when they were completed. He likely planned to destroy the others, or perhaps to subjugate their Holders. We can only guess.

"In all, Aarona Raker planned fifteen Noloyds: two for the Aristes, the one Taja, the four green Kiji for the Freeguard, the three Mij for the Maullers, and finally, five golden Siji for the Massaps. The two white Tij Noloyds were defective and hidden at Lorlett. The five golden Siji Noloyds were apparently never made, though rumor persists that the Pulsarites hold them for the Massap until the receive a Pulsarite of their own. The four Kiji Noloyds were crafted after the Taja was completed and immediately were distributed in secret to four Liebrent Wizards, and this the Betrayer did not know.

"The Mij Noloyds were designed for the Maullers and therefore, in his form at the time, the Betrayer was capable of driving them. It was some time later that he discovered he could possess any form, as long as his Noloyd-disc was close by, but the Mij Noloyd's power is weakened in the body of a Spurl and it is our belief that if the three Mij-Lords ever struck at the Overseer, they would need Mauller, or Vilemarc, bodies to do it. Fortunately, the three Mij Noloyds were made after the Four Kiji Noloyds of the Freeguard. In this way, fate allowed the Council of Rebels to survive Dread's betrayal."

"We believe that eventually Aarona Raker began to suspect that Eft, Sphange, and Stour were possessed by the three incarnate spirits of the Overseer," Durakerk said. "Why else did she removed the Taja Noloyd to the far reaches of the Keeps of Lorlett and take other steps to protect her life's work?"

The Mauller looked up from Arck, scanning the faces of the rest of the audience. Their expressions ranged from Tob's awe to Strom's skepticism, and Fern's resignation. Jeff was clearly fascinated.

"She hid the Taja Noloyd," the Mauller said. "She created the noloyd canticle, but when later Freeguard and Druids could not solve its mystery, they came to believe that the Taja Noloyd had been lost by the Cleft-Bonelves, who had inherited the Lorlett Keeps after its destruction. But this is a long story in itself and must wait. You might persuade Taff to tell it, one day."

Durakerk looked at each face, one after the other, and then with a strong voice began to recite the strange canticle. It had a soothing cadence, yet it seemed to be full of suspense and inspiration. "It's a wonder to hear," Jeff Lag said with an open smile. "Will you unravel it?"

"I'll translate it for you, Jeff," Arck offered.

"Seeds which scatter in a Cluster undone,

One day will ripen with shower and sun.

Five golden Siji to be made at the last,

A spell for the Massap to redeem their past.

Four green Kiji for the tall thin Hittitean race,

For the Liebrent heirs to deliver or disgrace.

Three red Mij the color of a summer's evening sun,

The blood of the Maullers in a river to run.

Made for Ariste Druids, the Tij are sand in stone,

Best left there latent, deep in Barkel's throne.

In the Lorlett Keep where the one Taja disc was born,

The amulet of Aarona sleeps forlorn,

For the King of the Liebrent, a lever incomplete,

To pivot the result of victory or defeat."

He smiled, turning red, "Well, something like that."

Taff took a quick, rather pleased look at Durakerk, and then Fern. They were impressed. At least Arck hadn't fallen asleep.

### The Great Betrayer 19

Dread watched the big screen fade, then brighten. A thin vertical line flashed, and spread out to form an image of Boormun, wearing the red and blue robes of the Chrisarmain High Fakirs, and looking annoyed.

"Yes Eft?" the image asked impatiently, from a face that showed strain and fatigue.

"Either find that ceptor," Dread barked, "Or so help me, I will have your head."

The strain on the Fakir's face was replaced by an indignant glare. "You'll not threaten one of the Overseer's Councilors!" Boormun regained his usual aloof expression. "Destroy Troan if it is that important."

"I need the Proudhon alive."

"Your sister is quite good in the matter of hostages," Boormun said. "Shall I explain the situation to her Consuls and ask that she meet you in Mer?"

"Do not taunt me, Fakir," he warned. "We shall be out of Mer soon enough. Find that ceptor!"

Eft signed off, more sure than ever that it was hopeless to depend upon CentreRule Fakirs. However, he was not completely unhappy–the Proudhon's sanity had been pushed closer to the brink; the Jet Black Death had almost unhinged him, then and there. The Harijan lived in fear, he lived with fear–and fear would have its way with him, if things went right. Yes! All that was needed was good timing and a semblance of provocation. Yes, fear could do it.

The Betrayer found it soothing indeed to catalogue the weaknesses of his enemy. For example, the Proudhon's fear–it was a testament to his ignorance. Torture would certainly break him quickly; he was no Wizard, he could not detach himself from physical pain as they could. They hadn't trained him properly; Dread could see that. Krusrid bowed at the door of Eft's office, hesitated just long enough to test the wind, and approached with a quick bow.

"They have been located again," he said in Ace. "It wasn't difficult." The sounds were smudged by his thick tongue. A wide smile spread over the Betrayer's black face. "They have stopped in a primitive hut," Krusrid added. "Even now, they are sheltered there against the blizzard."

"Go. Get warmed, and then prepare yourself. " the giant said. "I'll need you."

The Vilemarc turned around and left without ceremony. Dread thought about the best procedure, now that he had his enemies in his sights. Should he simply destroy them at once? Or stop them until he could devise a more fitting way to dispose of the Proudhon? This move would suit him better, but it might give the Ariste Druid a chance to interfere. He cursed her at some length, but only half seriously. It was no shocking revelation that Anarchy, as well as he, Dread, played a deadly game with their pawns.

"What can I do but attack and hope she blunders?" he asked the empty room. He looked at all the blank screens around him. "They must be close to the ceptor, though." he whispered. He turned his head and yelled at the intercom, "Send in Yetsek!" He turned quickly back to search the screens. "He's almost in my grasp! I'll have him in no time!" The Betrayer clenched a fist, and gave an exultant laugh. A flush surged over his cheeks; the anticipation was almost erotic.

Not five minutes later, Yetsek walked in, stern and haughty. He wore the expensive silks of the ruling class, flowing in the colors of the Betrayer, with the crest of crossed swords. He was a Centrite technician.

"Yes Lord," he said with a bow, "How can I please you?"

"Arm all the avion with foidvod missiles," Dread ordered, "And send the jets out at once."

"All?" Yetsek was flabbergasted.

Dread gave him a fierce look, then snapped his fingers at the computer. Instantly, the screens glowed.

"Show topographic, present geosphere, present continent, for Troan: one mile radius north of this anchor." They stared at the images forming on the screens.

"Scatterbomb these areas here," he said to Yetsek, pointing to a tight cluster of targets where he was certain the Wizard's ceptor waited. "I do not care what formula you use, but make the hits equidistant. Use whatever is required; we are looking for a phlofusion force field. Will foidvod break through the polar ice?"

Yetsek nodded. He knew better than to add that foidvod might also destroy the planet.

"That's all," Dread said. Yetsek spun and left, slowing for a second to nod at the Vilemarc lieutenant entering.

The Vilemarc, Levund, after a short bow, waited quietly in front of the desk console. Dread had his back turned to the brettiscreen; he was reading a map.

"Hologram," he said absently. An image sprang to the screen of the largest brett. "Hold." He stood back and studied it, then said, "Disperse." He turned around and looked straight at Levund.

"How many Bonelves can be deployed in five minutes?"

The Vilemarc stepped over to a monitor and rapidly keyed in a sequence. A moment passed. "Two hundred," he said. There was a touch of pride in his deep voice.

The Betrayer's eyes shone. "That will do it, then. Levund, prepare two hundred to withstand the elements of polar Troan. We will not be taking their Vilemarc leaders, but hold back the ten best shards of the lot. Assemble the rest on board the large welter."

He rubbed his huge hands together.

"Fear, fear will do it," Dread assured himself. "Tell the Bonelves, what they capture tonight they can eat. Let us hope, Levund, that they get a Wizard. That will be a good meal."

Levund didn't reply. He knew that without their Vilemarc lieutenants, this was not likely under any circumstance, let alone in the bitter cold of Northern Troan. His Bonelves would be slaughtered; sacrificed for some purpose other than any he might consider justifiable. He thought of protesting the decision, but when he felt Dread's cold eyes upon him, he could not summon the courage.

––

Boormun dismissed every single crew member from the Pulsar ship's inner control room. They went quickly, glad at the opportunity of an unscheduled break.

"Tragal, stop recording," Boormun ordered the ship's computer as soon as they were gone. "Signal Tramas."

A blue light scuffed over the screen of an enormous brettiscreen. A gust of activity came on display, the blue light drew itself in to become a thin line, then expanded across the whole face of the interspace communication brett.

"On board transmission," Boormun said when he got the signal, "High code pass." He keyed in his long combinations of secret digits. "Confidential to Sphange Coll," he dictated, and waited for the Soul Slayer to answer his unexpected summons. The blue line wiggled and an image of Eft's sister, dozens of light years away, was on the screen. Boormun smiled and nodded.

She was as gigantic as her brothers, Dread and Stour, but not black at all. In fact, Sphange was gray, entirely stone gray, and it was only her color that indicated her gender; her appearance was as fierce, and her expression as serious, as Dread himself.

Instinctively, Boormun turned away from her scrutiny. He knew she was suspicious of everything and everybody, to the point of paranoia.

"You are transmitting from Mer?" she asked him puzzled.

He shrugged. "It appears we have uncovered the Zora-Proudhon, Milady; the one the Freeguard call the Proudhon, and whom the Tutans call the Harijan."

She smiled greedily.

"He is on a planet," Boormun continued. "Third in. You will find it easily." He waited, but she did not respond so he continued. "Northern Hemisphere, Gunne continent, Gat village, Family name of Bolkant. I think his in-planet caretakers survived a botched Vilemarc attack. He is attached to them and would be distressed by their capture. Now, on the other hand, your good brother plays with Anarchy–"

"Greywheter?"

He nodded. "In the northern polar regions of Troan–this, I suspect, out of sheer spite. Nevertheless, I humor him with assistance whenever I can. The Proudhon is with Taff Hart. Now there is an old name, wouldn't you agree? Despite everything, I think they might succeed in getting out of Mer before we can take the Proudhon. Oh, yes, I should tell you–Eft wishes to take him alive. And two other things, Milady. The Proudhon is just a boy; and the other thing is that Bandor is on his way to you; you can drag the rest out of him.

"Boormun," the Slayer's voice was flat and humorless. "Why am I coming to Mer? To capture the survivors of the Proudhon's family?" She looked incredulous. "Why? Are they Liebrent?"

Boormun's smile was cajoling. "Sphange, this really is the best part. You must come. They're no more than ignorant natives, but with them in your possession, the Proudhon would walk freely into your hands with the Taja disc. They botched his rearing–he's an ignorant native himself, no wizard's callidity, no fighting abilities, no adeptness save to run fast."

The Spurl giantess looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Who can say, Milady? Eft has met him, and he's quite mad. Personally, I think he's simply without discipline and knows nothing of what faces him. They didn't think we'd ever find him. Foolish, isn't it? And guess what else? Fifty degrees up from the equator and sixteen hundred miles from the east shore, there's a Witch's Sanctuary on Troan. Can you guess who?" He gave her a second or two, then gleefully informed her, "Rewel! She travels with the Proudhon even now–but I would imagine her place is a scenic wonder, and most comfortable." He bowed suddenly. The bell is ringing. Goodbye, Milady."

Smiling, he ended the transmission. It had been completed in less than two minutes. He recalled the staff. As they passed him one by one, he smiled warmly at them, touching their minds with an etecc-kloacer which was hidden in his porphy staff and blocking any memory of the episode.

––

Arck stared into the burning embers of the fire. The cabin was quite warm, and for a moment, his mind drifted off, wandering of the events which Taff and Durakerk had discussed earlier. From the world of volscyl dreams, he knew of the Races of the Circle Cluster. Troaneans were similar to Hittiteans, Centrites, Tutans, Maullers, and Tonts, though all were quite different in size and appearance. All walked upright, all spoke, all traced their origins to two-legged omnivores, they were all two-eyed, all were divided into two sexes which needed to join together to continue their species, and all were flesh and blood. However, the Yerite and Mantar came from subterranean creatures, while Aristes and other species, such as the Massap and the Daxz came from carnivores, which in part accounted for their smaller size.

In the case of the Massap, they came from several different planets, in a couple of systems with other intelligent races. The Mantars came from two planets, and the Maullers from several. Each of these races were at different levels of development when discovered. But some of this might be Arck's imagination, he wasn't positively sure. His history came from volscyl, but he knew not how. He turned from the fire. The Mauller had left the cabin, and everyone else was sleeping or preparing for sleep. The cabin was quiet and dark. Taff had told them they had only a few hours to sleep. But Arck could not sleep. He walked carefully to where Strom slept and took her hand.

"Love, please come with me to my room," he whispered.

She rose on one elbow, and looked at him sleepily. His exposed finger-tips slid over her hair; it was cool and silky to touch. Arck swallowed. He touched her face, then her throat, with his other bandaged hand.

"Arck, no," she whispered. Yet she let him take her hand and guide her to her feet, and slowly lead her towards his bedroom door. A cough came out of the dark silence; it sounded like a woman. A shadow dived from the crossbeams and struck out at the Proudhon like a barrage.

"False in one, false in all!" The Mockingbird's screeching woke everyone. Fern grinned to herself. "The boy reaches for the kill," the bird continued. "The wound is deep."

Arck flushed with anger, his actiniform blazed and filled the cabin with an ominous deep blue light. Grey bounded out of the bedroom, radiating her silver glow. She was looking straight at Arck's furious face.

"A young saint with desire," Bloodbird screeched, diving wildly towards him, "is an old devil with fire." The Familiar swooped so close its wingtips brushed Arck's head. Grey made a threatening leap in its direction. "False in one, false in all"

It hovered and reeled. The Proudhon raised his bandaged fist in warning. Bloodbird retreated to the rafters, with one more screech as it went. Then, whether from the influence of the Druid, or of his own volition, Jeff Lag — who was accustomed to resolving Troanean crises — rose from his rocker with considerable dignity, like the tribal elder he was, and moved to Strom's side. He leaned towards her ear.

"I can see that he loves you," he whispered. "Perhaps not false in all."

She looked at the old man, startled, but his warm smile indicated only kindness. Then she looked into Arck's eyes. He met her look equally, his anger subsided, the blue glow faded. He looked embarrassed and vulnerable. An indefinable change in her feelings rose, certainly not from her head, but from her heart. She wasn't sure if the emotion was her own, or if sorcery was behind it, but the tension left her body, she relaxed, and smiled. Arck stood where he was, unsure what to do or say next. Strom reached out for his hand, cautiously because it was still bandaged, now. She was still smiling, so he took this as his cue and led her into the bedroom.

When the door closed, the Familiars, the sorcerers, the wise man, and the Mauller were a million light years away. The only sounds were whisperings of love and beauty. The glow from the Angel's larkspur suffused her with a purple as intense as the radiant blue of the Proudhon. He edged her to the bed and sat her down on it. He was sweating. With a slight shrug, he shuffled awkwardly through his rucksack, and watched her from the corners of his eyes. Her face was white as a lily. A surge of guilt clouded his determination, but only for a moment. He placed a small, rolled parcel on the chair by the bed. He touched her arm and opened the package; then, removed a yearning-mist-canister and sprayed it into the air. The aroma was irresistible, a scent of purification and newness, but with an undercurrent of erotic spicy smells.

She pulled her heavy woolen sweater off, gave Arck her prettiest smile, then unbuttoned her blouse, and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts cradled the larkspur and its purple-blue glow expanded and flowed around her caressingly. He kissed her neck and took her in his arms. The hurried movement hurt the tips of his fingers but, even so, the soft smoothness of her skin startled him. She sat up and he felt her mind submerged into his blue fire. A burning sensation had begun at the back of his head, a whisper of the oncoming blue fire.

He undressed hurriedly and she watched in anticipation. He caressed her back softly as they hugged. It might have been minutes that they spent in sleepy, fumbling exploration, but it seemed like hours of sleepy warm purgatory to him. He guided her hands, and used his own — slowly, this time — coaxing and caressing, until the blue fire and the purple glow merged and twined around each other, performing a neon fervor in the tiny cabin bedroom. His pain and depression fled; he was exultant. He felt the rhythm of her heartbeat. Then, somewhere on the borderline between animal passion and oneness with Strom, a blue actiniform fire flowed over them and for a minute, maybe longer, they became as one flame, one soul, one love, then his body betrayed him.

His aura flashed darker, to indigo, and he found himself in his Garden of Flowers. He was naked, lying on his stomach. He saw the hollyhock first, then tall Troan loran holly, great bloom ivy, and soon the other flowers crowded in around him. He looked up. The sun was clouded over. It was all impossible. This had never occurred before. A rush of panic gripped him as he watched a small blackish figure drop from the sky, as if from a tree, smiling a black ugly smile. Then another landed beside it. Bonelves! A cold chill swept through him. Bonelves had somehow got into his Garden of Flowers!

He reached for a weapon–flowers were weapons he knew. What he ripped out of the rich earth was the lone tall dtorr, yellow as the hidden sun. He lifted it high like a scepter of power, it shone outward with a wild force; an angry saffron flame poured out of its petals like lava, and streamed through the air towards the dwarfish Bonelves. One by one they exploded and disappeared, and with them went the brilliant dtorr. It was all a nightmare. He came abruptly out of DreamGarden. He was standing at the open bedroom door, naked. Behind him, Strom sat up in bed, her eyes a dull shine in the dark–perhaps she was crying. The cabin was calm and dim, and his blue glow lit it like an eerie crystal cave.

"Something's wrong!" he shouted.

Taff rose. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Bonelves were . . . uh, where's Grey?"

"She's out scouting."

A general stir overcame the cabin.

"Bonelves!" Tob gasped.

Taff turned to the Witch, now rising to her feet, with one hand on the couch.

"Fern," he said, "prepare our gear and see to Strom. She's upset." His voice was tense. "Durakerk, check the machines."

"The troops and the snow vehicles are fine," Jeff Lag answered. He was barely visible in the shadows. "No man moves beyond these walls; the land is quiet. Only the sleepless cat-creature scurries in and out, looking for I cannot say what."

Taff looked doubtful. Something ominous was in the air. Still naked, still blue, still mad, holding out a dazzling dtorr, Arck moved toward the old man.

"For you," he said.

Jeff accepted the gift with a noble gesture, as if somehow he knew its meaning and power.

Taff cursed under his breath. Everything was a skein tangled in another skein. In his mind's eye, he assembled his intricate structure of rooms and held it together with a quick samavolscyl while he entered the building, and scrambled up a flight of stairs. He rushed from room to room, searching for something, he knew not what. He opened a closet door with the symbol of the Star of Aarona nailed to it and rustled though containers until he found a gadget from a box within a box. In seconds, the device printed a small message, "Fly before them."

He cursed again. This was ominous as well, but told him little. He created a photograph of the Elder with a bright yellow flower and left it in the closet. The old man must be looked into; there was no end to the Druid's interference. Taff realized he would need months of travel in Coldfire to clean up his architectural cynosure, his mental mansion. He regarded Jeff's stoical face.

"Perhaps the sky," the Elder warned, pointing upward, while he tucked the yellow flower into the knot of a leather cord string around his neck. It seemed to weigh him down.

"The Great Betrayer is attacking from a spaceship," suggested Tob, dressing hurriedly.

"The Betrayer's ship would rip Troan apart." Taff retorted. Yet he realized there might well be something to that. He thought for a moment. This made no sense unless the Soul Slayer had joined her brother, the Betrayer. If that should happen, they'd be doomed. On the other hand, maybe the Betrayer was only using his final reserves.

"Arck," he said, "Get into your clothes. We will leave at once. Hurry!"

The more he thought about it, the more Taff felt reassured. The Betrayer had brought many more Bonelves than they'd guessed, and his Vilemarc lieutenants were using aircars. It was inevitable that The Betrayer's harassment would continue. Plans. Plans for the Proudhon. Plans within plans. It was like a complicated game. The Betrayer must have sensed Arck's sickness of spirit. Had he not said to the Proudhon, "You will come to understand the Sarma and see the beauty of power?" Surely he did not actually hope to convert the Proudhon?

Arck had retreated to the bedroom, wearily sliding into his clothes. Something had been stolen from him. Strom was almost completely dressed. He went to her and gently kissed her pale face.

"What am I to do with you?" she said, her voice falling over him like flower petals. The corners of her mouth quivered, then in affection she hugged his neck and he put his arm around her. He felt sentimental and about to cry. Then, abruptly, he pulled away from her, and he was in another world.

"Ugh," he moaned. He grabbed his coat and rushed to prepare his rucksack. Suddenly he knew of his immediate danger, and his vision expanded to join the Druid's.

"We are surrounded by Bonelves!" he shouted. Then instant, silent dread filled the cabin.

"To the machines," Taff barked. "Now!" The hut filled with chaos. "Leave everything you can't carry."

The first out, Arck leaped into darkness, buttoning his coat and carrying nothing but his own duffel bag. He saw Grey had the machines at the ready and the troops stirring into rapid action. The air was bitter cold to the nose and burned all the way down his throat. The sky was star-filled, and both Offspry and Overspry were there in the sky; an unsettling ochre, but still there was a sea of impenetrable darkness flowing in rippling waves around the log hut. That black sea was closing in fast.

The hatred of the oncoming Bonelves preceded them like a force field. Arck shuddered–he was lost. Terrified, he jumped on his machine. He felt the Ariste's power react; she waited, one second, two. Shots went out from the Freeguard troops who had obviously been forewarned of the attack by Grey. Electric blasts from Freeguard jaye pistols exploded into the black waves surging towards them. The whole Company was scrambling onto the snow-cruisers and motrices, and sudden lights pierced the night. Grey's threatening growl broke the silence, and they lunged forward. The machines sliced straight furrows through the snow, and each skipped nimbly over the lip of a gully.

Their lights fell on the horde of greedy eyes shining up at them. All at once, the vehicles slowed to a stop. They were trapped. The vile mental stench of the Bonelves surrounded him; Arck felt sick to his stomach. His lips and eyebrows were twitching. Shaking, he leaned over thinking he might retch, but the wind was ripped out of him as the machines once again sped forward, this time guided by Grey. They burst into the very stink which was making Arck ill.

Startled, the Bonelves directly in front of them turned away, leaving a wedge-shaped opening. Their malicious eyes flew by him, but only for a few seconds, until the creatures began to mill back in front. Shining a bright silver, Grey cried out wildly at the throng and hurled annujet fire at them. It was answered by bloodcurdling screeches. Jaye pistols were fired into them, then a Freeguard machine burst into flames and blew up. Arck looked to see that Strom was safe. She was with the Witch.

He sensed the black mass give way, caught by surprise, but the Druid's tactic was answered by an invisible miasma of deep hatred that came at them out of the distance. It filled him with murderous fear. He knew it was the Betrayer–and nearer than was safe. In the Proudhon's mind, bone crushing laughter followed him as they raced away. He closed his eyes and let the horrid laughter echo through him, again and again. He began to shine a deep blue. As they surged forward, he felt Grey tap into his Taja power. His skin was crackling with energy, and the blue light swelled; it spiraled laterally to the far tip of the wedge and the Bonelves jerked frantically away from it. Some, unable to dodge it, burst into flames, seething in pain and dying before his eyes. The whole company sped forward. Tob and the Wizard drew closer to the leader, so close they almost touched at high speeds.

As they moved, the Proudhon closed his eyes. His thoughts were frayed. As he opened his eyes again and looked back, the black shapes seemed beyond count. They all wore the thick shiny grease which protected their small forms from the cold. In the back of his mind, the Betrayer laughed hilariously at the horrible spectacle. No shred of mercy existed in that laugh for anyone, including his own Bonelves.

### The Great Betrayer 20

"How much longer?" Arck asked. "The cold is killing me and my hands are numb." They had stopped briefly, late in the morning of the next day to have some hot soup and collectively check their fuel.

"Eat," Taff urged, "it will warm you up. We will be there soon. The Betrayer's Bonelve attack has taken us off course. He is scatterbombing the polar arena with foidvod and we must take care not to trip up."

The heat of the soup returned a bit of color to Arck's lips. Not knowing how much more of the deadening cold they would have to face, he asked for another cup. The numbing arctic cold was reaching to the marrow of his bones. His hands were already frostbitten, and he shivered constantly. As the small company pulled out, he knew that the Wizard and the Druid had fastened a knot which united their powers and, thus bound, they put their doubled strength into speed.

The boreal wind pulled in heavy storm clouds, and a new darkness seeped towards them, while lightning and thunder battled in the distance. For hours they drove towards the storm, which appeared less and less like any storm he had seen before; as they got closer, it took on a ghastly aspect. Night was coming when he awoke from his cold stupor. The bitterness of the wind was multiplied by the swiftness of the open machines. Somewhere near, the Proudhon sensed the Great Betrayer. When they ground to a stop, he was angry.

"Are we close?"

"We are close," Taff answered.

He watched Taff's calm face, and fought to hold his impatience in check. The Betrayer was close now. He felt the vast ocean directly beneath them. He sensed that the ice was thick, and wondered how he knew this. From a distance, but not far, a sharp crack came through the air as a clear bang, even above the howling wind, and startled the group.

"The Betrayer launches annujet," Fern called urgently. "If he is this close, he'll stop at nothing to block our passage!"

"There is yet a way to avoid him," said Taff with a certain sternness. "If we leave Grey to direct the machines away from us, we are near enough to walk. Provided we use no samapower, we might slip through without the Great Betrayer's notice. The hills are filled with his spies, but the Druid has great natural speed, and we will wait for her to join us at the last."

Arck knew what the Wizard was up to. "I can't walk," he said. "Grey's not going anywhere." He looked out defiantly–perhaps, petulantly. "I won't allow it!"

"She will be safe," the Witch assured him. She'd already slung a sack over her shoulder, and was reaching for another. A warm thought touched his mind as he turned to look at Grey. At length, he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders with a shiver of resignation. He started off with a groan. His brother moved to his side, with a look of concern. They held hands, their gloves crunching with cold. Arck winced in pain. Tob removed his brother's gloves to look and said something to the Wizard that Arck missed as the engines began to roar. Suddenly the machines were gone, and Arck prayed Grey would return quickly. The Elder blocked his view for a moment and he stretched on tiptoes to watch the Ariste disappear into the shadows. The old man noticed his uncovered hands.

"Durakerk, look at his hands," the Elder cried. "They need immediate warmth."

"Perhaps I could carry him," the Mauller said drawing up. "It would be faster."

Self-pity overwhelmed Arck. "Taff, get me out of here!" he pleaded. "Hurry."

Fear spread over his body. Fern knelt down in the snow and dug through a sack. She removed a box, and from that, another, then another, and finally brought forth a pouch full of silvery powder. She took Arck's gloves and poured half the powder into one, the rest into the second, and handed them back. They were warm.

"The Betrayer follows the Ariste," she remarked, as she touched his face in some deliberate pattern. She turned, slung the sack over her shoulder, and began marching into the night.

The others gathered their belongings and slogged through the snowdrifts after her. Bundled up and silent, they looked like bulky, awkward shadows, each exuding frozen white breath that hung in the air. When there is great pain, time refuses to move, and so it was for the Proudhon. In actuality, five minutes did pass before he dropped to his knees. He felt his heart's blood move slower and slower; he felt it was turning to ice, and he sensed his death. All about him there were spiteful Bonelves and unthinkable Vilemarcs, and he felt them quite clearly. He knew the Bonelves, especially, could not see well in this environment, but they were spreading out and moving fast. He felt a huge explosion, and knew that Grey was in trouble. He moaned. There was a surge of ugly power out there, too, almost beyond imagination in its magnitude and its hatred. Overwhelmed and stunned, he reached for his amulet.

"Arck," Fern shouted, watching him. "Arck! Do not give the Betrayer our position! We are tired and defenseless. Grey will escape!" Her voice became less frantic. "Have faith."

Her words fell hard upon him and he withdrew from his mental apex, the focal point of his power, but he gasped, and almost fell forward as he forced himself to rise. Far away, he sensed the Druid breaking away on the barren surface, exhausted, and no longer capable of using her power. He knew only her natural swiftness on the snow could save her now.

"Let's go!" He cursed, and started running into the wind, but he was too weak and fell. Durakerk bent down, lifted him up, and carried him forward as the group began to move faster. Cradled in the Mauller's stone like arms, Arck removed his gloves to look at his burning hands. Even in the darkness, he could see his bandages oozing, and he smelt putrefaction and some tincture of medicine when he held them to his nostrils.

"Taff," Arck called. "How much farther?"

Taff dropped back, though they did not slow. He bent to Arck's ear.

"Not far," he said quietly. "Do not speak again. There are Vilemarcs about–many of them. Do you not feel them?"

Arck was beyond weariness. He closed his eyes and felt absolutely nothing, drifting off in his numbness and pain. A startling apparition suddenly ambushed him.

"Raja-mourne!" the Proudhon shouted. His voice was like a cannon in a church. "Let me down," he ordered, struggling out of Durakerk's loose grip.

He hit the ground and began to radiate an angry blue spire. The blue flame shot out into the darkness, and stocky grey forms broke into the ranks of the company. He was aware that the others had been driven from him by his own heat, and he stood alone, but from the first, he fixed his sights on one tall Vilemarc. Its eyes were a rancid-looking yellow, filled with bloodlust. Arck flung his power at it but the deep blue flame seemed to hesitate and hang in the frigid air, then it fell harmlessly to the ground and vanished. Arck was weak. He sunk down on one knee.

He saw the Wizard's green flame dashing toward him. In the flickering glow, he could also see a troupe of Vilemarcs surrounding them. Another Vilemarc, or perhaps the one he had missed with his wild shot, jumped into his path. The Proudhon recoiled to strike again, but this time there was hardly a response from his actiniform. Nothing. He was powerless. He looked up at the Vilemarc's hate-filled eyes. It struck him in the face with a fist that felt hard as a diamond, and although the blow was softened by actiniform, it leveled him nonetheless. He shuddered as the creature stooped over him with a smile on its face. It seized him in a bear hug and cut his breath off. Now his blue glow was faded, almost extinguished, and he screamed in rage and despair. He couldn't breathe, and he passed out.

His older brother Keaton floated up out of some childhood memory, holding out his hand to help. In a matter of seconds, Arck awoke. He was being jounced roughly away from his companions. The air was full of rank grease and sulfur. He coughed and gulped mouthfuls of the acrid fumes. A giant shadow with gold radiant eyes darted to them at an unearthly rate of speed, and he recognized Durakerk. The Mauller lunged, and a fierce dagger blow split into the skull of his Vilemarc captor. The beginning of a deafening howl pierced Arck's ear, then the creature crumpled over on top of him. Shiny, thick blood flowed out of the ruptured head.

Durakerk reached for Arck, his eyes glowing. The Proudhon's face was wet with the blood from the Vilemarc. He was covered with it. For some reason, the actiniform had not protected him from it. Another Vilemarc jumped at Durakerk, hitting and kicking at him. Arck fell over onto the snow.

A shotgun blast ripped through the air behind them, followed by a loud pop. The metallic smell of nitre reached his nostrils. There was a second blast, then the softer sound of its ricochet. Arck remained on the snow, in Taff's green afterglow, feeling oddly detached and watching the Elder shoot into his enemies' midst. Then the Elder was struck by a vicious blow from yet another Vilemarc.

He saw Taff struggling valiantly to help, as a black wave closed over them. A great green flash, in the shape of an arrow, arced into the air and hit the Vilemarc who had attacked the Elder. The creature erupted into flames and exploded with a howling screech. The bright streak of green radiance that followed blinded the Vilemarcs; they covered their eyes with their hands. In the glare, Arck saw Jeff on the ground; he looked dead. More struggling went back and forth, and he knew the Wizard was fighting alone. He tried to crawl to his feet; pain shot through his body and he felt hopelessly beaten. But he wondered–should not the dorr have protected the Elder? Suddenly the Mauller rose anew, and killed yet another Vilemarc. Arck realized that he was watching a great warrior.

A clammy, wet sensation came to his left pant leg; feeling that it was his own blood, denial rushed faintly into Arck's mind. His heart felt like it was buried in sand, and tears of self-pity turned into pebbles of ice on his cheeks. Neither Strom nor his brother were in sight. Neither was Fern. He knew this was the end.

A Vilemarc leaped over him, clutching at Durakerk. Fighting cowardice — weakness — the Proudhon once again tried to move. His body was emanating a weak blue glow. He managed to crawl a few paces before the wet feeling on his leg turned into rapidly increasing pain. He could feel nothing but the pain, and black despair. At the back of his mind, a minute pinpoint of white light shone. At first it was lost in his despair, but it kept shining brighter and stronger.

Then he knew Grey had returned.

Then he felt Dread. At this instant, he lost all sense and fainted. When his awareness came back, the pain in his leg was unbearable, and he was numb with cold. He was slung over the back of Durakerk, and he was bouncing agonizingly up and down. On all sides, as they hurried through the darkness, there were signs of danger. Freeguard troopers seemed to be shooting indiscriminately into the shadows. He sensed the Great Betrayer somewhere close. Again panic crushed him, and brought thoughts of death.

"No," he moaned softly.

Suddenly, the last burst of his strength drove the Mauller forward a few more paces, before he fell to his knees. Arck jolted onto the ground in front of him. But suddenly the harsh wind gave way to a blast of warm, stale air. Artificial light blinded him, and warmth enfolded him.

Once more, he was jolted up onto the Mauller's back; they were racing through a corridor, and panel after panel of light passed by him–strange light, like music. The walls looked as if made of rush matting; they were marked with Freeguard cuneiform symbols. Through his blur of numbness and pain, he watched the passage widen, turn, and open into a large enclosure. The lights responded to their arrival. A crystal sphere was suspended by lines of light that formed a prism, and which seemed to emanate from everywhere–similarly, he felt Taff's power coming from everywhere. He and the Mauller seemed to pass through mirrors and then Durakerk placed him down gently, though it didn't matter. By now his leg was only a dull throb with a faint sweaty feeling about it.

New Freeguard faces swarmed before him; he heard running and shouting. A short space from him, at an odd angle, Strom and Tob looked out with frightened eyes, and the Proudhon thought of the eyes of the tiny snow artins. The Angel appeared to have been crying. He tried to raise his hand to assure her, though despair and fear still held him. Dazed as he was, he realized that he had come close to being captured by Dread. He felt the Ariste close at hand and he turned to feel his leg. The throb was nagging, relentless. He pulled things from his coat pockets, injected a dangerous dose of sedative, and immediately passed out amid the uproar of shouts and explosions.

So, as the minutes passed, Arck was in a vacuum of false happiness. But a slight shaking of the surroundings, and the warm rub of engines, still made a faint impression upon him. When he drifted back to consciousness, he wondered how much more pain he could endure before he lost the ability to feel. Rising nausea was made worse by his pounding brain. The lids of one eye were stuck together as if he had been sleeping for days instead of minutes, and the pulse in his leg felt rapid. He felt a sore spot on his forehead, and he reached to touch it but a thick strap restricted his arm. He tried to get up. His thinking was blurred and dreamlike; shadows came in and out of reality. Excruciating pain muted his senses, and he thought he would throw up. He saw that the whole enclosure was shaking and rumbling from stress. Believing he was near death, he thought the Betrayer had struck them with an annujet missile.

Suddenly there was a stink of burning oxamide, and the wrench of acceleration like a launcher-device. He choked and cried out as a crushing weight sat on his chest. He couldn't move. There was a noise like an explosion, accompanied by an ugly claustrophobic reaction. He looked up through his one blurry eye and Strom's face was ashen, while Tob, beside her, had been sick. His head lolled horribly and his whole body was in an unnatural position.

Others of the group were bound haphazardly to smooth curved bays on all four sides, as he was, and all of them were as gray as Strom, except the gray Mauller, who was now pasty white. The Witch looked as if she had a deep, invisible wound.

A blast exploded them into the skies, and Arck cursed. He felt like a metal slug was ripping through his body. No one seemed to be driving the ceptor, and no one seemed to care. Convinced he was to suffer forever in this limbo of diminishing resolve, he stopped looking. He was already a hundred thousand miles from home and an eternity from his boyhood. He wondered if Strom could be right, that this might be a dream come out of madness, and therefore that he was slipping closer to complete lunacy. Fatalism and resignation washed the fires from his body and spirit. Then he lost consciousness again.

At length, he came to, at the same time a bolt of energy so powerful it was almost tangible struck the ceptor. There was a great grinding noise, and the world seemed to go out of existence and return. A terrible lightheadedness overtook him in waves of samaforce. He looked at the others and saw that they too felt some indefinable power, but Taff appeared relieved, and Arck knew at once, at least for a time, they were safe.

"It's almost over," Taff announced weakly to them. "Coldfire is near."

Suddenly the craft spun a violent half turn and increased its gravity, rotated counterclockwise, and descended delicately. Something metal slid smoothly into a groove or receptacle on the ceptor's outer shell, then recoiled with a firm pulling motion, and there was a heavy clank, as of giant bolts fastening. A wild hiss of air occurred somewhere just beyond the ceptor when immense pressure was released and Arck's eardrums popped. A large aperture appeared, and a screen next to him lit up. He was using all of his willpower to hold his stomach down.

The picture was clear; there was a waiting party and, though they looked strange, Arck felt hope. But not unmixed – Dread gnawed at the four corners of his mind. He was close to breaking down as Fern came to his side.

"We are there," she whispered kindly, beginning to unstrap him. To his right, the ceptor door swung open.

He would have laughed at the irony, if he had been able to laugh at all. They'd made it–but he didn't even know where they'd made it to. He thought he could feel something huge and ancient. He began to fall into his inner world. At the same time, a rich female voice spoke in a tongue never used on Troan. Massive hands lifted him by the shoulders and torso, as easily and gently as if he had been an infant. He did not look to see who lifted him. He was overcome by a shivering fit; he was still cold. He heard welcoming sounds and friendly laughter. Then Arck was lifted into new arms, and carried away. As the sounds receded, he heard a female voice with some urgency in it.

"Lord," it said, "we have monitored Tragal."

"I see," said Taff. "Ask Coldfire not to interfere."

Arck knew Tragal was the Betrayer's pulsar ship and heard nothing else. He was carried away quickly. He knew that whoever carried him was female. He was aware of tremendous breasts against his side, and he felt a breath that was as seductive and fresh as a lovely perfume. Her arms were powerful and she was too large to be a human-form. But he did not look up. He could not bear to see another alien face.

His Garden of Flowers floated inside him. It was waiting like a maiden who has dallied, repented and returned. He was carried through the passageways of Coldfire, which he knew was a living machine. He felt engulfed by an artificial creature; he even thought he heard it gurgle. He imagined that the cybernetic beast was old and full of promises of victory, that it had a ravenous appetite for adventure which had remained largely unsatisfied, that his arrival gave it a hint of something dangerous, and that, like a child who sees candy, it already schemed to gain forbidden delights.

––

With the polar ice pocked and blackened by a stretch of scatterbombing ten miles across and a hundred miles wide, Dread watched from his welter as Taff's ceptor, untouched by Yetsek's foidvod missiles, rose swiftly from a glacial field. It had been close to the area where a dozen jets had tossed and turned in what had been obviously, an ill-defined strategy. Even now, Dread could have his avionjets destroy the Zoraceptor–for on liftoff, all ceptors must reduce the phlofusion force field and are vulnerable as at no other time; however, the truth was, that in spite of his momentary frustration, Eft had become totally possessed by desire for the Taja disc, as well as its owner, and was now unwilling to destroy it or the Proudhon unless he absolutely had to. He had seen its power and he coveted it.

There was no need to do anything immediately. He must wait for the opportunity to outwit Taff Hart.

He, the Great Betrayer, was the right hand of the Beginning One. He was Power himself–Dread-Power, and Power is its own reason for being. The boy would be receptive to power; of this he was certain. Anyway, it had been worthwhile trying to skin that damned Druid on Troan. Anarchy sows discord wherever she goes.

Neither in fusion nor tau-space could he trace Coldfire; but somehow, deep inside, he knew they were heading for Milroy Stardance System, to a large planet there–Lorlett, the Mauller Race's original home. Somehow the Taja disc called him there, and he had a surprise at Lorlett for the Proudhon: deep in the Keeps of Barkel mountain, he had a secret fortress of which not even Anarchy knew.

So, inside his welter, his staff waited tensely for an outbreak of rage, but their leader laughed cheerfully, ordered his avion jets back to their stalls, signaled for Boormun, and waited for his pulsar ship to return to orbit above Troan. When Coldfire had shown its form, Tragal had been directed to hurl itself behind the nearest planet. The Betrayer thought about his next step. He knew the one being he must avoid at all cost was the Beginning One, for He might read his heart. Power is the light of direct instinct, and power reaches no absolute beyond its own being; however, he was still a servant of the Overseer, if only in name. His mind raced. Dread knew that the Races would follow him wherever he wished to go, but he knew, also, that he must be on constant guard against any suspicion by the Beginning One.

Suddenly Boormun's image rose before him on the large brettiscreen. For once, it seemed a rather tentative appearance. Eft looked at the Fakir's image and felt revulsion. He reached over to flick a switch. A simulated voice said, "Receiving on line."

"We are ready," Boormun said.

"Very good," Eft returned. He nodded and signed off. Right now was not a wise time to bring down an Overseer's Councilor. He waved to his navigator to raise the welter, and the craft lifted gracefully off Troan to meet the ceptor from Tragal. Whoever and whatever lived on Troan had no idea how close they had come to extinction.

Part Three

### The Great Betrayer 21

"How long will we be here?"

Di Bolkant was sitting down for perhaps her first decent dinner since the Charblind slaughter. Since that time, everything had been a haze of vague, horrid images, and she had lost interest in food.

Tilly looked at Sheila and then at Di. He shrugged. Even as the Betrayer had entered the holds of Tragal, they had arrived at the Fault with Pom, Di, and Larska. Until now, they had remained on the road, always heading in the general direction of the Sanctuary, but not coming near it until they felt sure the Betrayer was off Troan.

Their troops, nearly two hundred, had been at the Fault for several days, so when they finally did arrive, they were welcomed warmly.

"Come on, dig in," Tilly urged. They were hesitating to begin, waiting for him. His appetite had fled even as he had sat down. He would have been surprised to learn that Taff was only in the outskirts of Mer, after so many long days had crawled by. "I will show you your quarters after you have finished."

He realized Larska wasn't going to eat at all. This had been a problem for days and they were all concerned, except for Pom, who seemed to treat it lightly.

"Come here," he whispered, smiling. He put Larska on his lap and began giving her small bits of his meal. "We will go on a tour of the tunnels tomorrow," he said. "Would you like that ? You will see wonderful waterfalls, and some farm animals."

Larska nodded and smiled a tiny smile.

Di's deep set stare showed that her mind was still wrestling grief and terror, and with wonder and curiosity. She had been impressed with the stone carvings, the underground rivers, and the beauty of the Fault's inner quarters; but nonetheless she held it all suspended, deliberately making no attempt to sort anything out or differentiate between real and imaginary, as if she were much younger than her actual age. She had come into the beauty of this magical place because of a nightmare that would always remain in her heart, even when it had faded from her conscious thoughts.

However, Tilly knew that this would be home for Di and Larska for some months. No matter which Freeguard Captain was sent for them, it would take at least three months, depending upon the priority given to their retrieval. If the Proudhon made a direct request that they be moved from Troan as fast as possible, then their transportation would certainly take first place on the agenda.

"Are you going to tell us how long we will be here?" Pom asked, with a polite smile and a hint of impatience.

Tilly was feeding another morsel to Larska. She opened her mouth for it willingly, and he patted her head in approval. He looked into Pom's eyes, then smiled kindly. "It's not a secret," he said. "Two months. We will have to wait for a signal from Taff's organization. The girls will enjoy their stay." He buttered some bread, broke pieces off and popped them into Larska's little open mouth.

"It will be fine, my dear," Sheila added. "We are lucky with nearly everything here and, as you will soon see, nearly everything here is lucky."

Pom and Di exchanged looks that were a little wary, a little puzzled, but hopeful. Tilly and Sheila exchanged looks that were a little cautious, a little worried, but encouraging. And in the corner beside them, Fern's ancient orrery rotated imperceptibly in conjunction with its master. A picture of her hung not far away.

––

For four weeks Arck fell in and out of a coma . . . in a DreamGarden haze. He finally came out of his malaise, folded face forward and bent, covered by downy blankets. He had a crisp, burning headache. He opened his eyes and breathed warm, filtered air. "Warmth" flashed through his mind, as if he'd just been pulled from Troan's deadly polar cold. That instant of recognition was followed by his body's blissful acknowledgment of complete physical warmth. A soft amber light shone. One of his legs felt thick and heavy. His fingers were tingling but no longer aching at the tips, and they looked normal. Had he not really frozen or burnt them, then? He tried to turn over, and winced in pain. Hands touched him. Startled, he recoiled. "Grey told me you'd be up today," Tob said, smiling widely. "Arck, you've got to get up and see this place. It is unbelievable. The ship's alive! And it talks like a regular guy! You know, Troanish. And Doctor Hart is the captain and he commands lots of warriors, like a regular army or something." He touched Arck and tried to stir him out of his grogginess, but the Proudhon stared back through his sleepy fog.

"Where are we?" he whispered groggily.

"That's what I'm telling you!" Tob gasped. "We're on a friggin' spaceship. A monstrous friggin' spaceship!" He stopped for breath. "I mean, I haven't seen it all, but the thing is so incredible! It has this creature, or mind, or something, that runs everything, and it's called Coldfire, and it's got anything you ask for. It's so big; it's amazing. Arck, I think it might be paradise."

"Don't be such an idiot," Arck said automatically, watching Tob's face lose its joyful look. "Where is Strom?" he asked, more gently at length.

"She's with Fern," Tob answered. "But they've been here all the time. Boy, you're sure a big deal around here." His smile returned.

Frowning, Arck tried to smile back. He took a deep breath and suddenly hugged his little brother. "How long have I been sleeping?" he asked. "Where's the bathroom?"

"You've been in a coma more or less for four weeks and two days," Tob said. "There," he added, pointing to the door of the bathroom. The room appeared distorted–too large. He grabbed Tob's shoulder for balance as he slid off the bed. Plants seemed to be grown everywhere, but there were plenty of brettiscreens as well–on the walls half-hidden by the foliage. He felt Grey somewhere in the room, but he couldn't see her. He knew at once that she was responsible for his coma–just as perhaps she was responsible for his continuing fog. Strong pain shot through to his spine, when he placed weight on his sore leg. He sat back on the edge of the bed. He looked at his white legs, and was absolutely astonished that there was no cast. He knew the leg had been broken; he remembered seeing the exposed bone.

"Get Taff for me, please," he said, squinting at Tob in the topaz light.

"He's trying to get us in orbit with another Pulsarite," Tob said. "We made a jump through what's called tau space while you were unconscious. We're a long, long way from Troan now, sort of parked in deep space, Taff says."

"Just get him," he said. "I don't want to hear about it, do I?"

"No, I guess not," Tob said, moving to comply, but just then a hidden bell chimed, a small square panel lit up over an unseen door, and Tob stepped back as Taff entered the room, with a sure, comfortable step. He wore a striking uniform, black and gold, constructed in one piece, and bound at the waist by a gold chain which held a pointed nakus-dagger like Tilly's, and like the one Reed had worn. He also wore both his insignia; one was of two Freeguard soldiers, female and male–they were naked, facing each other with their arms reaching upward into the sky and the other was a million islands on a golden globe-shaped planet: Goldage.

"I felt that you would be up and about, today," he announced.

Now Grey jumped lightly to the bed and rubbed against his back for a moment. Grey's fur seemed to shine more than it had on Troan, and her protruberant eyes glistened with deep mystery. The Wizard looked at her with an ambiguous expression, and he seemed perplexed. Arck could feel the power which Taff possessed here. After all, this was the Wizard's base, his foundation.

"How do you feel, my boy?" The question was asked gently.

Arck looked hard at him, feeling strange, and dropped his gaze when the Wizard smiled. He was so different now, and so full of authority.

"I feel not well," he complained. "And I have to go to the bathroom and I don't think I can walk."

"You will be fine," Taff answered. "The leg is healed and the bone was fused more than twenty days ago."

Trying vainly to choke back rebellion, Arck bounced to the floor. His leg bore the weight, but with a sharp pain. Flushing, he hopped to his rucksack, gathered it up, and hopped again behind the bathroom door. After a few minutes, Arck rubbed his temples briskly and hobbled over to a marble stand with washbasin, and a mirror above it. He smoothed his obstinate hair and scrubbed his face. He looked in the mirror, at a face he had not seen since they were attacked, at home. His eyes were withdrawn, full of fear, and had dark circles underneath. This alone depressed him, but there was more; he'd a scar on his forehead, and his face was sallow and pasty, from loss of weight.

"You look like a freak," he told his reflection.

How could Strom ever love someone so unattractive? The mechanisms took some time to learn, and he was in such a fog, but he managed to pour a bath and let the water soak away the dullness from four weeks of sleep. For some reason, his thigh was swollen, but the pain over the whole leg had settled down to a dull ache. His hands were a funny pink, and felt sensitive as he scrubbed them. As he lay resting in the tub, he turned his mind to the Taja Noloyd, trying to raise it under his own power. He could feel it almost respond, as if ready to react to his command, but after several minutes he gave up in frustration. He knew he was closer to the secret he needed to drive the disc without Grey, but he still lacked the key.

It was an hour later when he came out of the bathroom, fully expecting to be alone. He was naked and an assistant of Taff's who had been with them at the Fault, Les Chide, rose with two Freeguard officials both older females.

"Hold your anger," Grey mindsaid. "Les is Taff's highest off-space lieutenant."

Arck calmed himself and reached for a towel.

"Excuse the intrusion," Les Chide, the ground officer said, but not too apologetically. He indicated the older of the two female fighters. "This is Senior-Officer onboard, Wal Vesper. She commanded Coldfire these last sixteen Troanean years."

The Proudhon nodded as did she. They shook hands. She was a senior staff administrator as well as a warrior. Her sharp features combined with her height to give her that distinctive Freeguard warrior look so common among Taff's troop, wild, yet severe. He knew from volscyl-dreams, and that Wal's lover was Rost Lever, a decorated warrior serving under the Wizard, Kryce Mane. She was attractive enough in her own right, but compared to the warrior beside her, she was downright beautiful.

"I recognize you," Arck said softly to the old sere female at Wal's side. She was what was called a stō, a ferocious war-ridden bewa-fighter. Her narrow cheek bones, piercing eyes, and aquiline appearance, seemed to deceive the eye about her muscular taut frame. It almost jumped out of her. She was an obvious fighting machine, and with her scraggly hair and bold shining eyes she seemed a little inscrutable. "You're Ruby Obiss," he continued, "Reed Kite told me about you. He said you were Taff's most decorated warrior and the best fighter on Coldfire."

She bowed, turned and nodded to Wal and Les, and to Arck's utter surprise, they nodded in deference and left.

"I have come to tell you a story about members of your Bolkant family," Ruby said softly, although her eyes remained emotionless, "Do you care to dress first?" He shook his head and sat on the nearest chair. "My partner, a warrior with Kryce's team, Adolphine White, was with Tilly in snow covered Gat the day they first made contact with your family. They are safely at the Fault. I am sorry to have come so soon after you've come out of your mental convalescence, but I thought you'd want this information as soon as possible."

Arck nodded. "How did this come your way?

Adolphine sent me this transmission of events, it came by way of Swirlwall before the jump." She stopped and took out a palm-held modine. "I'll leave it with you?"

She saluted Arck and left. After he had read the message of Adolphine about Larska, Di, and Pom, he felt homesick, not only for the Bolkant-mansion, but even for the fault. Arck threw the towel aside and returned to the washroom. He was still naked when he came out again, and not at all prepared for anymore company, let alone a creature out of a half remembered fantasy. Half startled, and half angered, he clenched his hands at his sides, and his temper was held in check only by curiosity.

The creature rose, full of dignity, then bounded over to Arck as if he might attack him, and there seemed something both absurd and dangerous about him. He stopped inches away from Arck.

"Your Grace," he said genuflecting, or something similar.

Arck was panicking but laughed nervously.

"I am Majaw Dijve," the dwarfed man-beast said, in a tinny, squeaking voice. He spoke the Naja tongue but to the Proudhon it sounded ridiculous. "I am the Captain of the Massap." He offered his hand, his eyes cast down.

"Stop it," the Proudhon ordered. "Don't ever call me, your Grace. I am Arck, and no one else." Arck's voice shook and he did not know what made him growl or why he was angry, but he suddenly felt swept away. "What do you want?" he snapped.

The Massap Captain straightened; disappointment, even scorn, came into his eyes, and he drew so close that Arck could smell spice in his fur. A copper-colored kilt-like filibeg covered his mid section, and a plain cotton tunic made him seem harmless enough, although many scars marred his soft face. Arck's heart skipped a beat as one green hand fell to a small gold wrent, a kryteblade. He suddenly felt naked, which he was.

"I am requested by the Council to greet you," he said, now in his native tongue of Rass. His voice dropped its squeak and now showed the weathering of an old warrior. "It will likely be the only greeting you will receive." Apparently unable to restrain himself, he added, "And for this abuse I volunteered?" A pause followed and Majaw looked Arck over again, perhaps amused by his nakedness, maybe insulted by his raving–though he had been forewarned by Taff–but most likely surprised by such fierceness.

An awkward silence ensued, then Majaw spoke again. "The Massaps have never been to Mer. My people do not have the means of the Freeguard. Everywhere, we are oppressed and enslaved. Nowhere do we own property; it is against the law for us in the Cluster. Many undertake the fight of the Freeguard, but most of us are without hope, puppets of CentreRule. The Massaps cannot resist the Chrisarma Truth readers, as the others of the Council do. We are susceptible to their constant spying, and we are slaughtered without shame." He paused. "It was with wondrous pleasure we heard of the discovery of the Taja Noloyd and of your birth." He bowed again.

This annoyed Arck, and he glared back through pitiless eyes. He began to dress in his familiar old clothes.

"A lot of good it will do you," he said to Majaw in his own language, now goading him, "since I do not know how to use it, and have no intention of helping you or anyone else." Arck's pupils grew wide. "Oh, I move, yes. The devil himself chases me, and if he did not, you could go to the underworld with the rest of them." He swallowed, with flushed cheeks, and whirled around to look for his boots. His voice was shrill and full of spite. "It will be an irony if I strike up with the Betrayer and leave you all weaponless. One less pawn to fondle."

"Shut up, you unlicked cub!" Majaw shouted, unsheathing his kryteblade and raising it to Arck's neck in one swift lightening quick movement. "How dare you speak so treacherously." He was about to continue; but, from as if out of nowhere, Grey sprang to the bed with a growl that was far too ominous to ignore. Majaw withdrew the dagger, and before the confrontation could proceed further, a green panel at the side lit up, the door slid open, Majaw stepped back, and Strom walked in, dressed in pure white. She was lovely. The thought flitted across Arck's mind that he'd put his clothes on too soon. His hostility was forgotten, instantly. He watched the Angel smile at the Massap as if they were old friends, and he immediately regretted his behavior to Lord Dijve.

Majaw stomped out after a brisk bow in her direction and did not return her smile. Arck sat on the bed and fingered Grey's ear absently, his eyes on Strom. After some reflection, he knew that the small green ally would be his friend eventually, for warriors always love a battle, and rebellion is one kind of battle, but he hated to let himself think this way, and he didn't linger on it. He saw that Strom had noticed the friction and was waiting for him to explain, but he didn't, so there was a long, somewhat uncomfortable pause. Finally, Strom spoke.

"I've come to show you the ship," she said, "It's truly amazing."

His breathing quickened. He was drawn to her by a magnetism he found totally compelling. Just as the Witch's Fault had seemed deja vu, so the Wizard's ship had been instilled into a recess of his mind by the Druid's volscyl sama, but it was veiled and he could not picture it clearly. He did not have the key. Somehow, he thought, the Angel was the key. He would have to walk around the ship with her until he could sort it out. Anyway, he wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to be with her. He made a valiant effort to sound interested.

"Give me a minute," he said, "I feel hungry."

So, after eating a snack and juice which had been there all along, waiting for him, he started exploring the ship, with Strom as his guide, though he spent more time studying his guide than his surroundings. More and more, it seemed that everyone else was ready to grab at him; everyone except her. She led him to a space jungle where trees looked like giant pople-ferns, and bushes flowered with blooms like wisteria, all growing in meticulous arrangements around and between ponds. A bird, looking as though some sort of small predator, flew in and out of a bright solarium. Brilliantly colored equatorial sunfish swam in the ponds, and shell creatures crawled around the shallow water at the edges. Another bird looked like a rainbow-colored barn jade, and there were strange singing lypters, auburn artins, and many other animals, equally fantastic.

As he learned about Coldfire, he remembered what he already knew from volscyl dreams. Warriors whom they happened upon, he would suddenly recognize, even though he had never seen them before. He would know names, their children's, and even their lover's. Above him, continuously clouding his precognitive sense, in the far upper decks of the Pulsarite, a shrewd thinking machine buzzed with deep and complex thoughts. It was a world within a world; a mind which encompassed the whole of the colossal ship, and which was attached to a huge engine which acted as hands and feet for the monolithic being. This being had constructed within itself an inner corridor, really an immense stratified tube, around part of its circumference, to hold the Captain's Chambers and his troupe's quarters.

These in themselves were a wonder to Arck and Strom. As they roamed, they came to row upon row of barred, double-sealed doors which were well posted with warnings that they must not be used under any condition except as specifically directed. The chambers behind held quick death for any human-form–a dense fog of poisonous elements, it was an atmosphere perfectly developed from oils and chemicals for the life of the machine and its mind. The deadly mist was to the Pulsarite as oxygen was to human-forms. Strom shivered and turned away.

"This way," she shouted, and disappeared through a set of flashing green panels surmounted by a great golden star. He followed her into a grand arboretum with several large smoky glass portals tucked behind trees and undergrowth. He touched one of the portals; it slid open to reveal a brettiscreen. The Elder's image was sitting cross-legged in front of him. Arck felt gravity shift, and vertigo pulled blackly at him. He pushed at the darkness closing in, and managed to stay upright. The Elder rose and stepped towards him.

"Jeff," Arck said, smiling for the Native Chief.

The old man was baggy-eyed and weary, and sat back down immediately. His skin drooped over his face in folds, and the folds themselves were deeply wrinkled. He looked as if he had aged many years since Arck had last seen him.

"I see you fared no better than I did," Arck said. His words sounded as if they came from somewhere or someone else. The spell of his own voice and the expanse of space were pulling at him.

"Not so well, I'm afraid," the Elder said in Native Troanish, smiling kindly. He looked at Arck for a while, then waved him away towards Strom. "Go," he commanded softly. "It's all right." He shrugged as one who accepts the way of the world without question. Then even more softly, he said, "She's a vision, seeing everything, yet blaming nothing."

Arck did not recognize a criticism in Jeff's words, but the vertigo left him as he stepped back, trembling, from the huge brettiscreen. He turned to look at Strom, and while he watched her, Grey quietly came up beside him, and sat beneath a silvery tree. Some sort of devious illusion was behind it all, then he came up behind Strom, held her waist and pressed close to against her. He nuzzled the back of her neck, and this time he didn't feel gravity betray him, or guilt, or greed. He hugged her, in one rare moment of balance, and she did not even realize she was being truly loved. It lasted only a moment. She pointed into the vast nothing on the giant brettiscreen and there was something in that nothingness; it was there, in a wave of dispersed light or detained energy. He saw it; a silvery shadow at a distance, an eclipsed reflection like a silver seed of the universe.

"A Pulsarite from Spurlorn," Strom said, "Her name is Soulhawk. Fern says she carries the High Lord of the ZoraCouncil; High Lady Maye Stynn of the Spurl. This is unbelievable."

He moaned, and released his breath through clenched teeth. He knew that this signaled danger for him.

"The Spurl were completely conquered by the evil Mij Trinity," he told her. "Many on Spurlorn believe that the Great Betrayer is a god, and from those, Dread and his sister and brother take and possess bodies, so they could live eternally."

"Oh, Arck," said Strom, shaking her head.

Though Coldfire had a light springy gravity, for some reason it oppressed Arck. Electricity seemed to sizzle in the air. This was Taff's ship, and therefore he should trust it; but he knew Grey was anxious. This Pulsarite was a full member of the Council. He must be on guard. Perhaps Coldfire could even read minds, he thought, as he looked out at Soulhawk.

"It's beautiful," Strom said. "It's so fantastic that it can't be real."

He saw that she stood on the edge of a dream, torn between wonder and distress. He knew that because it was so absurd she was beginning to believe it.

"The Council has only a few dozen Pulsarites on its side," Arck said. "But the Great Betrayer has hundreds of dozens, and some much bigger, some much faster, and some much more beautiful." He looked at her and wondered how he had this information. "Forget for a moment that the other Mij Lords and the Overseer have hundreds and hundreds more still."

"Fern says that the Chrisarma ships aren't really Pulsarites," she answered. A willful tone came to her voice. "They don't think independently and aren't effective against our ships."

He could see that they were educating her quickly. He grunted, still holding a naive hope, but he knew it was juvenile, and that no real expectation existed. It was just as the Great Betrayer had said, and a primitive logic told him that there was only one life to live, and it was being thrown away on this conflict which had killed most of his family and promised to destroy him and the rest.

"I just wish we could finally spend some time together," he whispered.

"Yes," she answered, and the sincerity of her answer startled him. It was a small thing, an almost-promise, but it shot deep inside his being. He felt faint.

"Go now, Arck," Grey whispered in his mind as Strom moved close to him. "Do not show open affection here. Go back to your quarters."

With Strom and Grey beside him, he turned a deliberately casual glance in the direction of a dozen strangers who covertly watched him, and he was sure that their thoughts were disapproving. He looked about, smiling. A faint, misty glow came to his eyes, and his fists were clenched. Once he had a way to dream, but that was in a dream on a planet so far away. He thought that a lonely insanity sat about him–all was delusion. Strom and he spent the next hours in his room. He burned blue, she, purple, and the fire they created seemed like all the love available in the universe and it filled their hearts and minds with joy.

––

While Soulhawk transported the High Lord of the ZoraCouncil to one corner of the universe, Sphange's Pulsar ship, Tramas, set out on its way to the Mer Star System. Once the Betrayer's sister's craft was no longer within the light radius of a strong sun, it flashed one final, brilliant flourish of light against the blackness of deep space, and vanished, as if to everlasting oblivion. The magnificent craft had set its Tau jump destination — a spot not nearly close enough to the Mer Star System to satisfy the Soul Slayer — and in minutes, Tramas materialized out of deep space. The alarms soon stopped, and Sphange's stomach settled back down, but her ears were still ringing.

She hit a switch. "Pincser," she called, as she scanned the monitors. She stood and stretched trying to shake off the after-effect of the jump.

An elegant female giant Spurl entered her office, neatly dressed in the Soul Slayer's colors.

"Forty three days to Troan, I am afraid," she said, anticipating her Master's first query.

"Any problems?" Sphange asked, disappointed.

The Commander shook her head. "Tau was fine, Milady."

The Slayer looked at Pincser approvingly, though at the same time she was toying with thoughts of what she would do to Boormun if Troan proved to be a complete waste. Her suspicions returned, and grew by the moment. Millions of miles spent on such a long Tau line, and all the while her brother got closer to readying his trap for the crippled Taja Proudhon. "Bah!" she thought.

"Carry on Pincser," she said, looking up. Pincser bowed and left quickly.

Sphange knew of no finer Grey Spurl than Pincser, on board Tramas or out in her fleet command. Then she heard Brotine's laughter, and as suddenly as if he knew she listened, he raised his beautiful voice, and sang soulfully, delightfully, and with great pride. The Soul Slayer's expression changed to an uncharacteristic look of indulgence. She moved to the door and listened for a while.

### The Great Betrayer 22

Days later, in a time that was night by Coldfire's decree, and while others still slept, Arck woke, restored and refreshed. Alone, he walked the corridors of the spaceship, past tangles of vines perhaps miles long. Flowering ivy covered the walls abundantly; bushes offered large clusters of berries, and small trees were festooned with fruit. Water seeped from hidden openings to ensure the lush growth. The light had a soft intensity, and narrow runnels beside the walls coursed with some pleasant burgundy-colored substance.

"It's a zoo," Arck said quietly to himself, "but there are no cages."

Was he really safe here? Had he missed a warning to stay out? Where was Grey? Eventually, a large Mauller passed by him, cloaked, a hungry look about him, and walking with a long gait. Arck was then assured that he was safe. The Mauller was accompanied by a shadowy, shapeless sort of creature, whose edges didn't seem to stay constant. It was surrounded by lengths of slithering dark silk, its body was more or less caged in a structure of stiffened net, like crinoline. The bolts of silk draped and folded themselves into a loose hood that obscured the creature's head. Under the deep, flowing cowl, a faint hint of red luminescence emanated from two hidden but obviously parallel sources. From their configuration, including the separating distance, Arck concluded they were eyes; two bright crimson eyes. The Proudhon now saw his first Mantar, and the sight made him shiver. All Arck knew about this race, from his dream knowledge, was that the Ariste didn't bother with them, and they didn't bother with the Ariste. The pair nodded to him, but he ignored them, holding his chest tight, and closed his eyes. He sensed them disappear around a corner and cursed to realize he could be caught off guard by something that was simply unknown and unexpected.

He continued down the passage, increasingly absorbed into his surroundings. The hum of the ship, its majestic beauty and its seductive warmth held him, fascinated, for hours. Trees burst with colorful blossoms in lonely turns and roundabouts filled with scents like pople, or sweet fruit trees, or silk-wood spice, and others he hadn't encountered before, even in DreamGarden. Yet, in some areas, the trees were bare, and not all the trees were green–some were gold and some were saffron, some a dusty silver, and at one location where the lighting was a dim liquid-looking red, the plants and trees were a startling, bright lemon, from trunk to leaf tip. Even stranger, the trees were adorned with clusters of small, sapphire blue blossoms, some of them already turning into fruit the color of blue fruit, dusted with gold.

In one roundabout, he came upon a circular mural aglow with a holographic map of the Circle Cluster. Hundreds of stars were depicted in a glass-fronted, three-dimensional atlas covering a ninety light-year diameter. There in the middle glowed the great neutron eddy that held it all together. A translucent misty spiral of solar particles hung in a funnel-shape towards the center of the mobile picture; it obstructed the view of many of the stars. A tiny geometric icon flashed the present position of Coldfire. Arck spotted the bright Geehreels star system, home of the Tutans, and Tilly. And he found the binary sun system of Circle, where the planets of the CentreRule were, but he could not find the Mer sun system.

He thought about the great power of Coldfire and wondered why, with these vast resources, didn't the Zoraselmains just escape the Chrisarma? Why stand and fight? What was the point of dying for a cause they would never win? Besides, what did the Freeguard owe these other people of the Cluster? Why not just set up a society away from here?

"The Liebrent Heir would never run away from such a chance at fame and glory," a voice inside his head growled, but it wasn't his own voice.

He touched the glass encasement with a thin finger, throwing a shadow near the Torvil solar system. It was the nearest system, and the one that held Stolern, the Ariste's home planet. Surely, he thought, among all these stars, there was a safe place away from the CentreRule; there might even be a perfect society.

"Why must there be constant turmoil?" he asked himself. The slavery of the Massaps, the pillage of Stolern, and the embargo against the interstellar Mantar traders were only a small part of the huge machine of oppression. The death warrant for the valiant Freeguard, and the control of certain Races by religious tinkering were the most evident symptoms. In a galaxy of ideas, this would be a world of idiocy. And in a universe of complexities, his was a simplistic ideology. He wondered, was there peace anywhere? Would there ever be? Or was it as he dreaded, that all the imperfect races futilely seek the perfect?

In that day — which was night by decree — he passed hundreds of Freeguard but took notice of no more than a dozen. Deep inside of him, there was a simple dream: to be alone on a quiet, sunny beach with Strom. He would be a golden boy, strong and tanned. He would be so happy, and he would appear to be vain, but, underneath, he would be frightening to behold. And he would be a hero; maybe even a saint. Grey brushed against him. He didn't realize he had been in actiniform, radiating blue fire, and walking in a blue glowing light. He dropped one hand to Grey's thick fur, without thinking, and static electricity shot through him. He moved through the halls, hearing songs drifting through the Pulsarite. He wondered at the sound of the choir; it was so tender that it must be the voices of children. He should stop and see them, but as he neared the vicinity of Strom's room he hurried off in that direction, hearing only his own longing.

––

When a third Zora-Pulsarite, Mantisairie, joined smoothly into rotation around the gravity swirlpoint of Soulhawk and Coldfire, bright dapples of light reflected from the three craft, like the sun on dancing waves. No cold wind stirred their rambling hearts or autonomous minds, and though their bidding was often done by the Races, so, in turn, they often obliged the Races. They were the epitome of brute beauty, and sheer valor and honesty attended their every thought, which is not meant to suggest, as Tob had stated, that they were paradise. They were imperfect, and unavoidably so, for the imperfect hand of the Races and the sterile hand of science had created them. Still, no thinking being had ever come so close to eradicating the great gap between act and thought; that is, other than the Beginning One Himself.

To those who gave the Pulsarites life — the Zoras — they were like the bird in the cage, which, though the gate is always open, stays to sing its heart's true colors. In the world of the vast void, which was after all their backyard, the battles between the Chrisarmains and the Zoraselmains were their adventure, and their society. Every Zora-Pulsarite crafted, every Chriso-Pulsar ship converted to a Pulsarite, was like a birth added to their numbers. And many words were recorded under their roofs, and to spy against them was virtually impossible. When they met, they gossiped with one another and in their own mysterious gleaming they were like a new Race of children.

The Mantar Captain of MantisAirie looked front and side in the smallest hold of Soulhawk, stepping out of his Pulsarite's ceptor into the still large landing bay. He stood inside the domain of his atmosphere shields, where a red spray, so fine it was no more than mist, flowed continually around him. It softened his harsh features to some extent. A single giant Black Spurl stood waiting to greet him.

"Forgive the lack of ceremony, Milord," the Spurl said to Er-Ti with a fleet bow. "This way, please."

"How are you, Starstat?" Er-Ti asked wryly.

The Spurl, who towered well above the Mantar, half smiled and nodded. Inside the ZoraMovement, he and Er-Ti were far a field but there was mutual respect between them. He considered Er-Ti, perhaps the single most powerful member of the Mantar Race inside the Alliance, a strange and harsh man. Starstat was dressed without title, strapped into a black leather pouch and numerous large and small weapons. One in particular, a great broad sword, baliwax, hooked across his back, probably weighed as much as the Mantar Lord. His black, muscular body was perpetually amazing, for it was at once huge, metallic, and graceful. He turned a corner and walked into a small but stately room.

Here, where there were no activated brettiscreens, stood a giant gray Spurl wrapped in flowing silks. Her name was Stynn Maye, and she captained Soulhawk. As well, she was the chief administrator of the ZoraMovement. On Ninjus, where both she and Starstat had been born, she was a legend among her own giant Race, and not only for her beauty. Behind her stood Taff Hart, and beside him was the leader of the single largest army anywhere in the Circle Cluster, Warlord Majaw Dijve. In this room, as everywhere on Soulhawk, there were trees from the planet Ninjus, not the giant green mamaral or thorgornair types where the pilgan hunt, but the smaller yellow norlay and soumber kinds where the shoge range.

"We are all here, I see," Er-Ti said in Murr. His voice was hard and as he spoke there was no discernible movement of his mouth through the reddish fog. Turning his back to them, he walked to a black marble table in the middle of the room, where food and drink of all sorts were arranged. "Am I late?" he asked.

"No, Er-Ti," Maye Stynn assured him. "Thank you for coming, and welcome aboard Soulhawk." She looked inquisitively at Starstat, who was now talking to Taff.

"It is good to see you," Starstat said to the Wizard. He turned, swept his large black eyes around the room at all these senior ministers and warriors of the ZoraCouncil, then smiled and bowed before Stynn. "Goodbye, Your Grace."

Maye Stynn saw him to the door, and squeezed his hand gently as he left. She moved back to her guests as the door closed.

"Er-Ti," she said, "we would like to discuss our positions before the general gathering in the days to follow."

"I'm not sure what you mean," he said, settling into a small chair next to Taff, with a golden colored juice in his hand.

"We have some difficulty with the Proudhon," Taff admitted. "You see, the Liebrent Heir is just a boy." Taff had heard of the insult visited upon Majaw Dijve by Arck. "I was just recounting to Majaw our escape from Troan."

"Durakerk has informed me of the attack and the slaughter of his foster family," the Mantar Lord acknowledged.

"Which of us could match such sorrow at that age? The horror, violence, bereavement? And all in front of his eyes." Taff tried to read Er-Ti's reaction. "They say, Er-Ti, 'He mourns in his own way also, who mourns without ceremony.'"

To this Majaw, not Er-Ti, nodded slowly. He rose for another drink. "I see we're extenuating his behavior," he said in Rass. "But we must not forget, Taff, that he was constructed with less than adequate means." He poured his drink, and looked at the Wizard. "What now?"

Taff, taking the criticism in stride, looked to Stynn who towered above him. Her silk robes of bright gold and dark silver moved softly, like the play of sun and shadow on water.

"We had the most powerful Druid in the Circle protecting him," Maye said in Naja. "He is alive and well, even if not quite so precisely-tailored as we would like."

"Greywheter has been able to project some sort of volscyl keep inside of his mind," Taff added, "Hmm, how should I say it? He might not altogether be his own man, or ours, for that matter.

"Do you mean he might not hold to the Freeguard position?" Er-Ti asked flatly in Murr, his natural language.

"That at the least," Majaw interrupted, "When I welcomed him, during his convalescence, he made it clear that he had no feeling of duty or obligation to us. He said, in fact, that we could all go to hell."

"What?" Er-Ti said.

"Don't put much stock in that, Er-Ti," Taff responded quickly. "As I have just told Majaw, the Great Betrayer nearly took him down, on Troan. He is shaken."

"Yes, I smell betrayal there."

"I agree," Taff said. "Or manipulation."

The four exchanged looks. "Surely she could not walk down that road?" Maye asked Taff.

Taff shrugged. "I am only saying we do not know."

"What are our options?" Majaw asked.

"The Rewel Witch thinks we should recall the disc," Taff answered, "and bring forth another Proudhon. A resolution to that end will be filed. Indeed, it is already filed."

"Oh, a female Proudhon this time, I suppose," Er-Ti said annoyed. "What point does this motion serve? The boy will get his back up. If he has fallen under the Druid's wing, it's too late. I will bet none of this volscyl thing was known to you until the disc fell into the Proudhon's hands. How the devil did we ever agree to Greywheter as his protector?"

"Yes, if I had only waited with the disc," Taff said. "Perhaps I was influenced." Taff sensed Er-Ti's expanding resentment against the Liebrent Heir and all who surrounded him.

"What if the motion carries?" Maye said. "Will he obey, and return the disc?"

"Yes, I believe so," Taff responded, though not as confident as he sounded. Somehow he knew that would not happen, but perhaps it was worth a try. The truth was, his faith in Arck Bolkant was not completely spent.

Their conversation continued far into the day, and at the last they talked of many possibilities, such as initiating force to retrieve the Taja, bargaining with whatever it took, even outright pleading with the Proudhon, but in the end they knew that Grey would have the last word. Neither did the meeting end in accord, for Taff and Er-Ti did not see eye to eye at the best of times, and where the Proudhon was concerned, they could find no common ground.

Grey herself was well aware of the discreet gathering of Taff, Maye Stynn, Majaw, and Er-Ti. During that time she conjured as much privacy as she could on board Coldfire, and opened communications with her allies, to learn if fate had put any of their Pulsarites in reasonable proximity.

She was disappointed in this, for the ship LotusEater was with Latenrenz and they were both on the other side of the Circle, some thirty five light-years away, while Zilianrel was nowhere to be found, which, considering that her Captain was an Ariste Druid known as the Recluse, was not unusual.

Now, the Ariste Captains were not publicly obliged to Grey, but they were secretly somewhere between being her apostles and a cabal, and deferred to her. They all adhered to the Ariste Druids' eternal mission to bring about rational anarchy. The Greywheter Druid did raise two other such Pulsarites — Latenrenz and Gyrpol — and of these two, one was close enough to meet her at their next destination, Lorlett. It was Gyrpol, captained by the Druid, Saand Greyrune. The other Pulsarite helmed by Comus Creak was to send a message to Rorth Myrh of the Pulsarite LotusEater, to head for the Milroy Stardance System where Lorlett resided.

Grey knew that if she could not rid herself of the Freeguard immediately, she might at least do so at Lorlett. "Besides," she told herself, "Taff Hart is still useful for the Proudhon's well being.'

### The Great Betrayer 23

Arck had a nervous smile on his face two days later as he trailed behind Taff into a great hall on board Coldfire. Its high, cathedral-shaped ceiling was made of porous green stone; and hung with huge, polished but uncut chunks of silver-black augite and gleaming black jade, like stalactites, in between clusters of hanging lights. Around the dull red feldspar walls, many-edged and carved, there were more of the slender, delicately chiming trees Arck had seen in the roundabouts. Each tree sat in its own pool of light; yellow or silver, gold or green, or even white.

He saw Strom sitting at an enormous table of transparent porphyry, carved into intricate filigree right up to its polished top. The astonishing surroundings, and even the beauty of his Angel, held his attention for only a second, in face of the tableau of fabulous creatures in front of him. His breath stopped, and he rubbed his eyes. Even his dreams and the brettiscreens had not prepared him for such a sight. Most striking of all were the giant Spurl; and it was like setting his eyes on clones of Dread. The Betrayer had possessed members of this giant race, after he learned that he must have willing sacrifices whose bodies he could use, to enable him to live on. When the Maullers turned out to be less than cooperative in giving up their bodies, he found the Spurl much more easily persuaded. Arck knew this from his volscyl dreams.

The High Lady Maye Stynn was now robed in rich velvet, the color of silvered, blue-green lichen. Paler lace draped becomingly from a simple band around her smooth, hairless, and elegant head. Her husband was at her side. She was not as black as he, nor as light, but a darker gray, and her skin was more rugged in texture. In contrast to her majestic draperies, her husband was naked, except for a coarse leather-like pouch strapped at his waist which covered his loins. A samaweapon at his neck looked too large for annujet, and he wore anklets, and a nakus-dagger strapped to his leg. His broad back carried a huge black sword which curved down to his bare buttocks. When he smiled, Arck felt distinctly uncomfortable.

Arck stopped where he was, fused to the floor by amazement. The Spurl were dressed strangely enough to his eyes, and he knew even at his young age that custom could be a strange master, but the Mantars outdid even the Spurl in their effect on him. They each seemed contained within a translucent, hooded robe, and covered completely by a red shadow. One of them was moving towards him now, with an intent gaze from red misty eyes. A small entourage followed him. The Mantar bowed.

Arck stepped back automatically, and bumped into the Elder, who had approached unseen. They both laughed, but as Arck looked up, he encountered the Mantar's ill-hidden disdain at this less than cultivated clumsiness.

"I see that the Hittite prince is young," Er-Ti said. He spoke with a hollow, echoing sound. "Has no one shown you that civility goes far, yet costs nothing?" Behind him, his attendants nodded agreement. Then Jeff stepped forward, in front of Er-Ti. He nodded his head in respectful greeting.

"He fights a war inside, as fierce as any war outside," the Elder said, in Troanish, "I could see at once when I met him that he is that compromise between the gods and the beasts." This had to be repeated after Er-Ti produced a translator modine.

"Obviously there are times when the agreement breaks down," Er-Ti quipped when he had made sense of it.

Arck stared him in the eye, seeing a need to fight, but not knowing the weapons chosen. "Where would you be without my noloyd?" he said hastily.

Taff and Tob moved to Arck's side.

"Perhaps without the Evil Trinity of the Coll family," Er-Ti returned. "But wait, let us not bicker further." The ridicule disappeared from his voice as he looked up at Taff. "It's true, without the noloyds and the annujets, the Council's hope to destroy CentreRule would be futile. But consider this, Proudhon, many believe — and I am among them — that the Overseer himself is the product of an earlier samascience."

"You don't know that for a fact Lord Ti, hmm?" Taff said as he stepped closer to Arck. "That's speculation."

For the first time, Arck realized that among the other leaders, Taff might be considered untested and that this confrontation with Lord Ti might be called an incident.

"He's a mere boy," Er-Ti said. "With your help, he has laid a claim to the One Noloyd. I, for one, am not persuaded by the heredity argument. It's a magnificent power, and others with more suitable qualifications could bring down the Overseer, and not run frightened from one of His servants."

"You prattle, Er-Ti." Taff was grinning wickedly. "He's the proper recipient. It responds and verifies this; furthermore, the Great Betrayer is hardly to be scoffed at."

A crowd was beginning to form around them and the hall had become ominously quiet.

"And you, Taff Hart, are blinded by being too close to him," Er-Ti interjected. "He's crippled inside; goodness, I can see it at a glance. The Hittiteans are too young, and the Aristes are too old to be training him. He's caught in the Druid's net, isn't he? Can we expect him to defeat as much as a single Vilemarc? Look, he quakes to his bones even at the sight of allies!"

Er-Ti sounded as if he might take matters into his own hands, and Arck edged a step back, watching Grey come closer. She hunched close to the Proudhon's side, facing the Mantars with undisguised anger. It was impossible to read the Mantar's expression anywhere but in his eyes. His skin seemed to be a brilliant color, though the constant crimson mist created by his breathing equipment hid his face. Grey's silvery fur was puffed out, and her eyes were venomous, the eyes of a killer, and her mouth began to draw back into a snarl.

Er-Ti stared down, shivering with fury. He regained self-control immediately, and turned away. He went to his seat at the Council table, in three or four elegant, rhythmic sweeps of motion, where he was absorbed into his large cloudy contingent.

"Please be seated," a voice announced, at Maye's cue. Naja was the tongue used. The room was airy and open, but Arck was vexed and uncomfortable. He couldn't help but feel oppressed. As fate or chance would have it, he sat opposite Lord Er-Ti.

On one side of the Mantar dignitary, a small creature sat, wearing an environment suit, dark-looking under its hood. Arck knew that it was a Yerite from Solan. On the other side of Er-Ti there was another creature even smaller than the Yerite, a Daxz from the Scol. He was richly furred, pure white with all appendages retracted into a neat ball, adorned by two black orbs of vision. Each of these two singular beings was a lone representative of its Race. He was drawn to them for reasons he could not have put into words.

Arck was positioned away from Fern and Taff, who were nearer the High Lady, Stynn Maye, and Lord Starstat. In all, he counted twenty-two places filled at this massive conference table, with many vacant seats now filling quickly. Grey sat next to him on a luxurious, four-legged hepplechair furnished with a thick, velvety white cushion. Tob was at his other side; he had been provided with a low footstool.

Jeff was there, and the Mauller was at Tob's left. Strom sat to the left of Fern. The Elder looked tired; he was leaning slightly in Durakerk's direction and seemed to be whispering to the inattentive Mauller, who was leaning back in his seat. Then Arck decided that he must be praying. His eyes were closed and Durakerk was now ignoring him entirely. Despite the overt solemnity of the occasion, and the introspection of some, there seemed to be a cheerful spirit, even gaiety, gradually prevailing.

Lord Starstat rose again to check with an attendant. He was a beautiful image of intrepid strength, but Arck watched his gleaming physique with suspicious eyes. The hall fell silent. Feeling a slight vertigo, Arck withdrew into a state of dissociation, as attendants rustled back and forth and latecomers took their seats.

The attendants began presenting food and drink around the table, and several stately platters, shaped like pagodas and filled with vast varieties of hot foods were set down the center, within reach of each guest. The pungency of strong cheeses and foreign spices mixed with fruit and melon scents from dazzling yield, and the aromas of mulled wine and tall, exotic drinks smelling of berries and herbs.

Arck found one of the drinks which contained something similar to Troanean spirit, and drank it all at once. It burned all the way down his throat and tasted good. He looked at the Ariste for a minute as he sat back, light-headed, while the mist which rose before his eyes cleared. Then he had another one of the same drinks. Then another. They were strong, and he was soon dizzy.

As always Grey did not deviate from her eating habits or the general custom of Druids. On Troan she had eaten only uncooked fish and bread, but here the variety was much better, and an assortment of food, called Condalese, was brought to her. The Elder too seemed not particularly impressed by the display of foods. Arck ignored them both, and he neither asked nor even thought about what he was eating or drinking.

As he became drunk, he noticed three sets of octagonal prisms, spear-shaped crystals, standing at the middle of the enormous table. They were attached to encircling multicolored cubes. Something about them prodded at his memory.

Inside the translucent prisms was a viscous liquid. He felt potential life there, and kept one eye on the shimmering colors as he ate, but this did not last either. The four flowerholders' symbols were radiant in this light, and they were the center of much pleasant attention. But, inevitably, all eyes would fall upon Arck. He was drunk and he knew they were disappointed. He could almost hear the whispers, 'He was just an immature kid who didn't have the power to lead them.'

Few eyes were friendly, but all left him to his solitude–all except one pair, old eyes, like the Elder's, but older still by far. These were eyes buried in knots of folded porous skin and they belonged to a Black Spurl, though not to Starstat or any other male in his entourage.

Arck was still half in a stupor when he noticed this Spurl, and wondered how he had overlooked him. He was aged, angry-looking, smaller than Lord Starstat and not quite as black. He looked almost wizened, yet he was still a giant. He stared steadily at Arck. He had a look not easily deciphered; it could have been greed, anticipation, or some other emotion.

At first, the Proudhon stirred fully awake, as though challenged into a battle of wills. He smiled, assured of his superior internal power, but he quickly grew alarmed. He felt the old Spurl reach into the deepest labyrinths of his heart, and he was unable to ward it off. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he couldn't breathe; but then a familiar brilliant white light appeared in his mind. It was at first a point of light, then a harsh summons, struggling for supremacy, then abruptly it turned itself into a startling command that broke the strange trance-like hold, immediately and completely. The old Spurl turned away.

Arck breathed with difficulty, nearly in tears.

"That's Hornblende, " Grey said to his mind. "Stay clear of him and do not anger him. He's Huntuu–he was once possessed by Dread, and that's something few have been strong enough to survive. Only Taff has any influence upon him, and little at that."

The High Lady Maye Stynn rose and there was silence. Her eyes shone with a hint of asceticism. On the table in front of her, the yellow liquid at the hearts of the three elevated prisms began to bubble wildly and grow radiant.

"The Pulsarites are ready," she said to her guests. She paused as a stir of excitement, mixed with anticipation, went around the table; then she continued in a voice filled with calm strength. "By living beyond their years, the evil Mij Trinity increase the impression among their disciples that they are gods from an unseen dimension, who offer an afterlife for the faithful. And this is why the Betrayer sits in the body of a Spurl, rather than one of the Maullers they originally possessed. Maullers were not easy to control by religion; they were full of the wonder of life and stood proudly independent. They were proud, coarsened by toil, and blessed by thinking. And though the dark Trinity had swindled them and stolen their wealth accumulated by centuries of labor, the Maullers fought back. Now, if Spurls raise suspicion among themselves, they are butchered by their own Race. What a sad epilogue: to be conquered, and not to have opposed."

Maye's voice came near breaking, and she closed her eyes for a moment while she regained her composure. Her eyes glistened, perhaps with tears, or perhaps it was only a trick of the light, but she did not hesitate to continue. "It's true that there is resistance growing now from the forest dwellers, the Guild, but this was seeded by the Freeguard-Wizards and did not come from within. We are the butterfly in the mouth of the dragon. The ancient Betrayer comes in the form of the once noble Spurl; however, he is the primeval essence of Power." She paused now, for a moment, and her eyes swept around the table. No one stirred, not even Arck, who was scared into sobriety and rapt attention by the terrible urgency of her speech. She looked at him and he stared back, slightly blurry, afraid, but with a trace of friendliness.

"We offer something of much greater worth." The High Lady Maye Stynn looked around the table again, this time slowly, looking directly at each guest in turn. She was no less then majestic. "We offer truth a home. We offer the way to truth — reason — and the fuel for thought, which is logic, science, and selma. We offer freedom for each to be their own judge. We are here to address the Taja Proudhon in these matters."

Arck looked up, quite startled.

"Look about you," she said, "we too have power, even if it is diffused and voluntary. Truth can never be absolute, in a final sense, and thinkers and scientists are not infallible. But still, this fragile truth, this honest and simple methodology, is what we offer you, Arck Bolkant. This is our power. Our purpose is to undermine faith in the Overseer by the light of reason, even as you undermined Him with the Taja Noloyd."

Arck looked less than certain. What were truth and logic, matched against Power, Order, and Authority? Lord Er-Ti rose from his seat even as the High-Lady Maye Stynn sat. He nodded to the assembly with a sweeping gesture of his hand. Arck saw Grey's fur puff out again, though her expression did not change.

"We know the High Lady wishes us all to state our case plainly," the Mantar said in Mur. He spoke in an uneven, echoing voice as if from the center of a cloud. "We do not see truth from the same perspective as the High Lady. The Mantar view is simply stated, so I shall be brief. A Wizard of the Freeguard brings us a babe from a distant world, a category blue H, below sama, planet that isn't even within the boundaries of the Cluster, and we are begged to be patient while he sorts out his confused logic, his weak commitment, and his budding samapower. On MantisMurken, he's called the Chosen One, and in these halls of the Zora-Rebels, he's spoken as our hope for freedom.

"It was claimed he could take down the Beginning One and thus start a new age, but now that I've seen him, I can see that he is esteemed well beyond his due. Though I understand he has ill-treated the noble War Lord Majaw with the casual commonness of a barbarian, I wish it understood that I mean no disrespect to what he represents. I am the voice of dissension among you, so many of whom are yourselves dissenters, and I raise my objections in plain language. Our belief that the boy will lead us nowhere, except into the hands of the Overseer Himself, is supported both by his behavior and by the stern reserve of the Ariste Druid."

He looked at Arck from the residual fog which still seemed to offer him some protection. The Mantar's challenge was unmistakable. "If the Star of Aarona were to be placed at the disposal of the Council," he continued, "I could demonstrate easily that many within our midst would have the ability to drive it! With the One Noloyd, the Council could unite its forces with the Freeguard Noloyds, and release the three Mauller noloyds from the dark Trinity, one by one, if not all together."

Arck jumped to his feet almost before Er-Ti's words ended. His hands twitched convulsively, and he wrung them together in irritation. He tore off the Taja amulet and threw it roughly across the table towards the Mantar Lord. It hit the tabletop with a cold ring and bounced directly in front of Er-Ti. A murmur rose all around.

The Mantar Lord placed his cloudy palms over it, and applied all his skill to raise it from the table. His form grew translucent, his eyes dulled and his breath lulled to nothing. The Taja Noloyd began to glow dimly and tremble, then it rose heavily a few inches, as Er-Ti strained with effort. At that instant, a sharp blue bolt leaped from Arck and struck the Mantar Lord directly. It knocked him hard against his chair and threw him over its back.

Instantly, three of Er-Ti's colleagues were on their feet; two of them bent over their Lord, who appeared to be injured, while the Mantar facing Arck drew out a crystal spindle that started to glow. It was an annujet projectile. The Taja Noloyd slid over the table, back into Arck's hands, as though by its own power. His actiniform glowed at once, dark blue. The Druid leaped from her white cushion. By the time she landed on the table in front of Arck, she had turned the same color as the cushion, emanated a bright matching glow, and knocked over three or four glasses. Guests gasped in surprise, and shielded their eyes from the glare.

Then Taff was on his feet. "Wait!" he shouted at the Mantar Warrior who had activated the annujet disc. "The boy meant no harm to Lord Er-Ti!"

Arck stepped back while the Warrior lowered the disc then reluctantly deactivated it. The Proudhon looked nervously at Taff; he wasn't as sure as him that he was guiltless. Still, Taff had shown faith in him, and that was at least something–to have faith.

"Greywheter," Taff sounded extremely irritated. "What do you seek to accomplish here, hmm? The demise of the Council? Would you please hear us out, as a small courtesy?"

The Druid's glow faded, but she seemed rather bitter; her fur remained standing on end, and Arck knew she was almost hissing, and he even thought she was about to speak. However, she decided to withdraw haughtily to her seat, where she sat with a scornful expression and her nose in the air. Arck replaced the Taja Noloyd around his neck. It lay there heavily. He was forced to acknowledge that it was indeed his to bear. As soon as the Mantar Lord was revived, he stood and formally apologized. Though Er-Ti took his place with exaggerated gruffness, Arck felt a hint of respect, albeit begrudged, from him. It seemed to come, as well, from a considerable number of the others.

The High Lady rose and called the meeting back to order. The Mantars' dissent was registered by some peculiar system which Arck didn't understand. Some great commotion began in the hall, and the three prism devices on the table bubbled rapidly, as if in anticipation. A tonal sound came from a quartz disc at the top of the crystals. He felt an electrical sort of pressure fill the room, and he held his breath. The prism crystals were glimmering, boiling with iridescence, and everyone in the hall stood at full attention. A voice bellowed in perfect acoustic tone, shaking the room with its vibrations.

"A life is born out with mystery

And ignorance is the parent of fear;

Yet, from inside a storm, deeper still,

From the heart of Dread, itself,

Our strange savior awakes:

Laughing life creates well formed wholes

And flows with a river of sapphire.

His hands have no taste for blood; but,

His constant frown whispers the will of life,

He is thirsty and will drink from blue skies.

He is hungry and will fast for fearless feasts.

He is lonely and will live or die on streets of Center."

Everything was silent: the guests, the Druid, the bubbling prisms, even the faint chimes of the magical trees stilled. Strom's eyes were opened wide. Tob held his breath, and he wasn't alone in that, Arck did too. Seconds ticked by. The melodic words began again.

"Thus the Pulsarites cast our vote to the wind. To the Liebrent. So says Coldfire on behalf of Mantisairie, Soulhawk, Swirlwall . . ." and here, Coldfire went on to list over twenty other Pulsarites but not including any of the Ariste's Grey Cabal.

The impact of the esoteric recitation, and the announcement of the Pulsarites' decision was astounding. Arck realized this wasn't something to be underestimated, and it made him happy. As quickly as it had come, the presence of Coldfire was gone. The Proudhon had not understood the heavy monologue; but, he understood that the Pulsarites had startled everyone by casting their vote with him. Mostly he knew this was good. He felt Grey relax, and he imagined he heard even, a faint purring sound from her.

Grey looked at him and mindsaid, "This does not mean we are out of the woods, but it is a good sign."

Arck shrugged as if he didn't care one way of the other, but inside his anxiety returned. The High Lady Maye Stynn stood and asked if the Ariste Druid would address the Council. There was instant silence at this request, but Grey was obstinate, flicking her head in a negative motion.

"I decline," she said aloud. The sound pierced through the hall and seemed to exceed even the depth and mystery of Coldfire's uncannily beautiful voice.

With a resigned but polite air of disappointment, the High Lady turned to Durakerk Laiver who was to speak for the Maullers. Arck realized that the Races each had a certain time limit or number priority. When Durakerk rose, the whole room became oddly subdued, and Arck couldn't avoid noticing that the High Lady had spoken to him as an equal. The Mauller's dark brooding aspect was all the more foreboding because of his vibrant yellow eyes, but to Arck's surprise, something like a light smile played over his lips.

"My friends," he said, in a soft, full baritone that added to music to the Naja language, "I represent no populous group. The Maullers are scattered beings. A good number serve the Evil Trinity as Vilemarcs or Bonelve Masters." His tone grew now serious. "In Lorlett, our once great homeland, mere hundreds remain from the millions of centuries past. I hear that word is growing among them that the Proudhon has at last appeared. This should be a joyous and hopeful occasion, but a forewarning accompanies the news–the Proudhon is self-indulgent and broken by despair."

He paused to sweep the hall with a steady gaze, as though gauging the reaction of his audience. "In truth, the rumors are spreading rapidly; by what means and by whom, we do not know. Some Mauller Druids, upon hearing the news, have cast their falchions down, cursed the annujet, and fallen into despondency. For some reason, no amount of assurance revives their spirit. Perhaps we have lived on hope too long."

Durakerk's eyes flashed gold. "I've seen the Proudhon face Dread. It is true that he is stricken with a certain despair, and I regret that I must say this."

Some had missed what he had said, including Tob, who was still trying vainly to sort out the translators. An ominous hush fell over the room. "Arck Bolkant is a mere boy, and for us there will be no opportunity for retraction–we are well aware that one mistake will be the end of us! That is our fear, and I feel compelled to vote with the motion of Fern Rewel, to hold back, and try again. But, for two reasons, I free my vote to the High Lady."

A sudden indignation came from some around the table; many looked at Fern, and tried to guess the outcome of the Mauller's decision. Durakerk flashed a glare at Fern, then as quickly dropped his eyes to the carved table.

At this, Grey mindsaid to Arck, "This might clinch it for us. I came here thinking we would lose paws-down, and now I am startled to see that we might not have to fight this battle at all."

"First," Durakerk continued, "the Proudhon's Flowerholders possess, above everything else, great strength of character. As I've come to know them, their strengths and weaknesses are balanced in an inexplicable harmony. Their lives are entwined with Arck's. They lend him their strengths, and there is love among them." He glanced at Arck's reddened eyes and embarrassed face. "And, second, I have some reason to believe that the Greywheter Druid could not be diverted from her own path even if the Proudhon agreed to our plan, as I'm sure he would. There has been no assurance by the Druid of her cooperation, and I'm sure Taff can attest her capability to often override the boy's will. The High Lady Maye Stynn has studied long and hard the intricacies of the noloyds; it is she who will decide, not the Maullers. I free our block vote to High Lady Maye Stynn!"

He bowed formally to all present, sat down with dignity, and wrapped his old familiar cloak around his shoulders. Fern stood and gave a sly smile to Taff. She gave a sweeping half bow to the Lords and Council members, and a token salute of her hand in the High Lady's direction. Lord Hornblende was to her right, and one seat away on her left, Lord Starstat. The aged, shrunken face and form of Lord Hornblende on her right, and the gigantic, nearly-naked black Spurl to her left, provided astonishing contrasts to her beauty and elegant dark robes. She was dressed in black, and a luminous white pearl hung from a pendant at her throat. Her dark, violet-blue eyes flashed, and the wisteria was bright red. Wordlessly, she looked at Arck, and the thought flitted through his mind that everybody expected him to do something extraordinary, but he'd no idea what it might be.

"The Freeguard," she said, "are saddened by Durakerk's choice. It surprises us. We believe The High Lady Maye Stynn will vote with the Druid." She turned to Grey, her face hard. "The power and courage of the Greywheter Druid are legend. But we feel that her plan is foolhardy and goes well beyond what the Zoraselma desire. The risks are colossal, and those bits and pieces of information the Druid tosses to us from her dark unruly labyrinth, gives us great concern for Arck, for the flowerholders, and for the Druid herself."

An ironic smile passed over her lips; she couldn't avoid counting herself among those in Arck's retinue. "Somehow the Proudhon and the Ariste have become of one mind, and whether by deliberate design or misguidance, they are set in a mad scheme. She seeks to build a temple of power; a living Keep. The chosen menhirs are the innocent young and the feeble old; she now manipulates them as she has manipulated this boy's mind for all of his sixteen Troanean years. She gambles with the Taja, our only hope! Shall she be allowed to continue in this fashion, with impunity?"

"You too are a chosen, a Flower Holder," Arck said, jumping to his feet. "What about that?"

"Don't speak to me for the Druid," she said firmly. "Let Grey's voice be her own." She glared at the Ariste with contempt. She seemed angry at Arck, too, for interrupting her speech.

The Proudhon stood, angry too.

"Arck, please sit down. Let Grey speak. You know little of the debate."

He turned crimson, but that had nothing to do with actiniform; it was from sheer mortification. He had never expected to be treated this way by Fern, and especially in public. Strom somehow was the cause of it. He folded his arms and stayed on his feet, with a haughty smile. However, only a split second later a brilliant white light crashed into his brain, and he sat down. He gave Grey a venomous look, but didn't say anything further.

"Hold fast," Grey mindsaid to him, "we are not in the clear yet. The High Lady could still vote against us!"

"For years," Fern went on, "the Druid has misled you, by enmeshing you in dreams she has created!" Fern was looking at Arck as she spoke, but he'd the distinct impression that she was actually addressing the voters. "Arck, the Freeguard can't vote in favor of your keeping the Taja. Grey has fashioned you into an image that we can't approve. But we wish you to know that, at a word, we would take you to the ends of the galaxy, to keep you safe. Never would we knowingly endanger your life."

Arck watched her sit, and while he accepted the sincerity of her words, a flicker of bitterness intervened and threw his thoughts into a tangle. In his eyes, she was both powerful and wondrous, a magic being beyond his ordinary trust and love; so now that she denied him, he was struck to the quick about something he felt he never had deserved anyway. His head was starting to ache.

Now it was the Massap War Lord's turn. "I too have seen the Liebrent Heir," he said. He did not speak in the High tongue, but used Rass, the Massap's own language. "He's no warrior. He's no prince. He does not recognize his friends when they bow before him. Said he to me, this very other day, 'It will be great irony if I strike up with the Betrayer and leave you weaponless.' Is this the ultimate enemy of the Great Betrayer? Is this the destroyer of CentreRule and the Overseer?" He looked around the table as if he expected an answer, but he didn't wait for one. He turned to the High Lady.

"No!" he continued, "I say not. And for the Massaps, oppressed and enslaved as we are, I too dissent strongly. We should wait. We have waited so long, what do a few more decades matter, compared to the centuries our patient forefathers endured? I support Rewel's motion, and I support it strongly."

Before Lord Majaw could sit or the High Lady stand, Arck rose and pointed nervously at the assembly. The leg he had broken was bothering him, and his headache was now full blown.

"You ask me to sacrifice," he shouted to them, still a bit drunk, "and then abandon me as soon as you feel like it. You would wait and shop around for better! Well, the amulet is not yours to claim any more."

He gleamed with a fiery blue flame, lost to his anger. He knew that this was what they had feared. His voice grew stronger, exalted, lost to everything except his feelings of resentment. "Please yourself. I owe this Council nothing–and if that is how I feel inclined, then that is what you shall get from me!" He stepped back from the table, his fists clenched. "Leave me alone," he shouted, "and get away!" He was suffering now as if one undiscovered individual were trying to denounce him, or trying to subdue him. His furies were back and his angry blue flame threatened to expand in the hall.

Taff moved toward him with a sigh of resignation but also with a look of genuine compassion. "Head to your room, Arck," he whispered in his ear, "and Strom will join you directly."

Arck needed no prompting. He spun around and left the hall in a seething fury.

### The Great Betrayer 24

The underground passageways of the Fault were not as cool as they usually were in the evening. Di slipped into the hot springs and smiled happily, for the sensation was pleasant. Her tall, sometimes severe-looking bodyguard smiled back at her. Her name was Adolphine, and her green swimsuit carried Taff's Freeguard emblem, a naked female and male Freeguard, facing each other with their arms reaching upward into the sky. She was a Freeguard warrior under the Mane Wizard's Command. Kryce Mane was a Wizard who, Di had learned, had been captured by the Chrisarmain forces and was being held in some foul prison, on some distant giant planet.

"Is it always so peaceful here?" Di asked.

"We are late tonight," Adolphine replied, slyly. "Taff's rowdies will be coming soon. If they see us here, they will curse us up and down. And then I'll not have anything to do after work."

Di laughed nervously, not sure what Adolphine meant. She had heard some gossip from the SelmaKeatra troops about Freeguard behavior; but knew it couldn't be true.

After they had settled in, that first day, Di found that she and Larska were given more and more special attention. There were high expectations of them by Sheila and Tilly, as well as Pom, but the two girls were constantly fussed over. Di was sure this was how princesses were treated. Nevertheless, she still thought often about her mother. No question existed now that Di knew suffering; but here and now, in the Sanctuary, time passed quite wonderfully. As they climbed out into the cool air, Adolphine wrapped a soft blanket over Di's flowered swimsuit.

"Let us go back by way of the thoroughfare," Adolphine urged. It was their nickname for the fastest route to the inner Sanctuary.

Di nodded, shivering. Larska had been asleep when she left. Both girls had soon settled into a certain routine here. Almost every morning, Tilly would take them on a hike through the underground rockscape, pointing out the various vegetation, or certain layers of granite, or veins of crystal, and he showed them the machinery of the complex, the trees of its forests, the stored grain, the farm stock, the wine cellars, and whatever else he thought would interest them.

In this way, she and Larska learned, from Tilly's stories and comments, about the history of the SelmaKeatra, the Freeguard, and the whole ZoraMovement.

At noon every day, Pom would serve them lunch and sit with them, and in the afternoon they buckled down to more formal lessons from Sheila, who would school Di in the hard sciences and mathematics of the Cluster, and try to give Larska a head start at reading. As well, Sheila related stories, simple enough that Larska could understand a considerable portion of their meaning, about the histories and arts of the Races.

Most difficult for Di, however, was learning Naja–though it had fewer alphabet symbols than Troanish, it had ten or even twenty times the number of words. And as the days passed by, this one task of learning the interracial language became increasingly important, for their stay was nearing half its projected time.

On the thoroughfare, Di and Adolphine passed grinding mills and generators, where the water leaped furiously, and they passed the Freeguard carousers whom Adolphine had referred to as "Taff's rowdies," themselves heading for the hot springs Di and her bodyguard had just left. As they passed, Adolphine teased them, scoffing at their hoots and promising to meet them afterwards.

"It seems so wonderful to be a Freeguard soldier," Di said.

"More work than fun, my dear," Adolphine returned.

When Di was settled into her room for the night, Adolphine smiled and winked at her like a big sister. "See you tomorrow, Di," she said as she left.

"Good night," Di said.

As soon as the door had closed, she got back out of bed and slipped into the darkest clothing she could lay her hands on. She'd made up her mind that tonight she was going to follow Adolphine back to the hot springs.

The Fault was too confined a place for Di not to suspect what the Freeguard did there; she had heard rumors that late at night Taff's young warriors gathered to do more than discuss the day's events, and she was determined to find out for herself. The sauna and the baths had been built around the Fault's natural hot springs which rose into an immense cavern. When she got near, Di took a side path leading to a bridge overlooking the pools of hot water. As she climbed up the path and onto the bridge in the darkness, nothing in her life — nothing on Troan, nothing in her imagination — had prepared her for what was coming. It was black sin, right in front of her eyes.

A dozen or so young Freeguard were below, in and out of the water, and not one shirt or pant or pouch, one blouse, or lace or ribbon, or thread or stitch covered one single inch of firm, gleaming, unwrinkled, Freeguard flesh. Young as they were, they were old by Di's standards, and no matter how fair they might be, to her they were foul in their open wickedness.

Many of the males flaunted themselves invitingly at the females with gestures like handstands, muscular-flexes, or perfect poses, and they in turn were touching them wherever, whenever and however they pleased. Even then, two couples were quite openly engaged in ecstatic wrestling, laughing and screaming, Adolphine herself was grappling with a man as naked as she.

Di's eyes were wide in amazement. Disgusted, yet completely fascinated, both repelled and compelled at the same time, Di was so absorbed she did not hear someone approach her from behind.

"What the hell are you doing here!" the voice hissed.

Di spun. "Hush!" she said, shame turning her cheeks scarlet in the darkness. She saw that it was a Freeguard warrior whom she recognized, called Buena, and that, unlike her compatriots, she had all of her clothes on. She also had every weapon imaginable strapped to them.

"Nothing," Di said and stepped back, steadying herself. She couldn't think of anything to add.

"That is a private matter down there," Buena said. "To spy upon them is wrong!"

It didn't seem so private to Di, but she nodded. Next, she managed to regain some shred of composure, then she stood as tall as she could, lifted her head, and turned haughtily to walk away. More or less satisfied with her performance, she whipped around to take one more look, then spun on her heels and raced like a scared artin back to her own room. A golden, shadowy vision came to Di as she lay upon her bed, trying to sleep. She did not know it, but Troan's air would never again appeal to her.

––

Days later, Sphange Coll forced herself to master impatience. Troan grew on her brett-system with rapidly increasing detail as her ceptor descended to the planet's surface. They had shaved two days off their sublight travel, and launched their battle ceptors even before orbit sync. Near Troan's most northern polarity, her personal ceptor swayed slightly, then it touched ice. Two others touched down several minutes after them. The Soul Slayer had enough power and technology in these three huge craft to take control of the whole planet, or to even destroy it.

Most Spurl-Greys were already in the holds when she reached her lanier. Near it, dozens of larger avionjets were grouped into formations, in case an air strike was needed to get inside the Fault, which she doubted. Her personal escort would fly near her in a specially-armed avion. Some of these smaller jets were driven by Vilemarcs, for though very few were in her armies, there were quite a number in her personal entourage. The truth of it was that the Vilemarcs were more suited to subterfuge and surprise, especially when savagery and slaughter were required, but her Spurl-Greys, who formed the bulk of her vast armies, bitterly resented the Vilemarcs; and the Greys were far superior soldiers. The Vilemarcs with her on Troan were equipped with annujets; they were from her brother's camps, and each had brought a shard of naked Bonelves, unadorned except by their protective black grease, and rough cloaks, ynklets, to protect them from the most extreme cold.

The Soul Slayer glanced at these blackish dwarves and gave a shudder of disgust. "Vile creatures," she murmured.

She nodded to her high lieutenant, a Grey called Contii, to begin. Her craft was piloted by a Black known as Vreen, an homely male Spurl whom the Slayer secretly despised, but who was a good pilot in a pinch, even if she believed his commitment to her was less than sufficient. To Sphange Coll, there was no greater crime than that one of her subjects should have an opinion which was not also hers. That conviction alone could explain why every trooper in the hold felt the suspicion and fear that her presence spread. But for Vreen, she had plans, that is, if they captured the Proudhon's surrogate mother and female siblings.

Within two hours, they had landed just ten miles of north the Fault. Snow was falling lightly. A tall, pale Centrite male, covered by thick layers of clothing, walked beside the Soul Slayer. The snow underfoot was soft, and the sun was going down as they moved forward on foot. A deep frown on the Centrite's half-muffled face told how cold he found Troan.

"The fusion is off at the Sanctuary," he said in an affected voice. "We could have landed directly." The statement was an obvious complaint.

The Slayer looked at him with a certain impatience. This Centrite, a Redace Hanrahan, who had been lent to her by her younger brother, the Harrower, was nothing short of an annoying headache.

"No, Jade, no," she said to the tall effete Redace Hanrahan. "There is a Witch there. Maybe some SelmaKeatra, not just Hittitean fighters. The Freeguard fall like puppies before the Greys, but the Keatra can kill them. We must achieve total surprise. I do not tolerate the useless slaughter of my troops, as is allowed in some quarters. That is why my armies remain so large, so strong."

"As you wish, Sphange." Jade shrugged, but he wasn't quite ready to concede. "It is hard to believe the Zoras would waste Keatra in this forsaken place," he added.

"They would if the Proudhon's family needed protecting."

After this exchange, they walked in silence for quite some distance, though still side by side, ahead of the host of troops. Within an hour, the sun was at the horizon, then it grew dark quickly. Soon, the stars were out and the snow was becoming deep, even for the giant Spurl, as they moved quickly up the mountainside to the borders of the Fault. The Slayer halted to assess the condition of her troops. It was clear that they needed warmth and some rest before any engagement with the enemy. The gravity of Troan was devastating to the Greys, and the Spurl's home planet, Ninjus, was tropically warm from nearly one pole to the other.

Without much difficulty, a seldom-used underground entrance was found. From the fact that there was only an old Witch's ward on the place, she knew was ideal for them. She disposed of the ward in an instant, and her troopers huddled into a dark cave which she warmed with little effort–it was not large, not particularly open, and not very high.

Tilly's newfound love for Sheila was exhausting his physical resources, and he had gone to bed early tonight If not blissful, his dreams were peaceful enough as he slept in Fern's old quarters — in her bed, in fact — until ancient fears crawled over him, terrifying him as if he were a child. Primitive grey and black forms towered out of the cold shadows of his nightmares; they drew closer and closer until their stench invaded his nose and mouth, and he dreamed the sounds of weapons and pain, but the forms shifted every time he tried to grasp one, and he could not overcome them in his sleep. Instead, he had to wake himself at the beginning of a good night's rest. He sat up and looked around the room to prove nothing was there, and felt foolish for doing so. He shook his head, and then it came–something was wrong! He took no time to clothe himself, but went straight for his wrentsword, his annujet, and his jaye pistols.

"Alarms on!" he shouted into the dark hall corridors. No response came.

"Sheila!" he cried out as he ran, knowing that his first duty was to the Proudhon's sisters. "I should have known," he said, as cold sweat broke out over his bare skin. "I should have known."

"On, lights!" he ordered, and panels of bright lights immediately flickered on. "On alarms!" he tried again. Still nothing, as he advanced. He raced down the hallway which led to the girls' room, cursing out of fear for them, and struggling to find within himself the Keatra fighting trance, bewa. Then he felt the Larlstone activated somewhere behind him. He smelled sulfur when he slowed to look over his shoulder. Sheila came running through the doors he had just passed. She was bleeding slightly from one shoulder and there seemed to be a cut on her forehead as well. She was out of breath.

"Oh Tilly," she gasped, "Thank goodness you're all right." She stopped, bent over and leaned against the wall, while she caught her breath. "The girls! Hurry!"

But as he passed through the second set of doors, so many annujet discs activated towards him that he dove to the floor, raising his own two discs at the same time, but he felt that death was certain. His heart slowed and complete calm came over him.

"One step, and the girls will die," a tall Centrite said to him.

But he saw nothing of the girls, and knew it was a bluff. He sent his discs at the two Vilemarcs who blocked his access to the back room. They wore the Betrayer's symbols, but Tilly could not feel the evil presence of Dread. He emptied his jaye pistols as he rose listing towards the doors, as if he had stumbled, planning to kill at least the Centrite who, he was pretty certain, was a full Redace Hanrahan disguised as a Fakir's teenage effete protégé. The maneuver caught the closest Vilemarc off guard; the creature turned too sharply and lost his balance for a second. The Tutan's fist drove his falchion into the belly of the Vilemarc. Then two of the enemy's discs knocked one of his out of the air, with a bright, fiery explosion. The Redace Hanrahan had disappeared and he felt the protection of Sheila's Larlstone even as more annujet came into contact with him, for without his shield, he was more naked than any amount of clothing could correct. He released both jaye pistols repeatedly, until they were empty. The Vilemarcs all had protective clothing or devices, so the only contribution by the pistols was confusion; yet, added to the smoke and fire, it was enough to let another one feel the bite of the wrentsword. The Vilemarc screamed and grabbed the blade with both hands, trying to wrench it out of his abdomen. The deep cuts in his hands had barely begun to run with dark, thick blood when he fell dead, and left Tilly an opening to hurl himself through. He raced through the doors of Di's bedroom, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Pom, holding Larska and Di to her, stood in front of a huge, beautiful Grey. Greys and Vilemarcs barreled into the room after the Tutan, but immediately halted and stood where they were, quietly. Tilly let his hands drop to his side and recalled his disc, relinquishing the bewatrance.

The Soul Slayer was aglow with red fire. He knew who she was, and that she drove the Mij Noloyd. He sighed, his last disc was useless against it, and unfortunately, he had no way of killing himself.

"Well, Tilly Croft," the Slayer said, smiling victoriously. "How nice. I see that the Wizard has left you with only six Keatra and some rather useless Freeguard." Tilly felt the Redace Hanrahan coming up behind him with Sheila in tow. "Your men died bravely," she continued, "I must say, and they took some Greys down, too. Of course, the Freeguard died like babes, and the Bonelves are probably feasting on them now." She stepped towards him. "Now, shall you live or die?"

A blast of red fire struck him so hard he was flung back against the wall and knocked unconscious. "Restrict him with a redot," she ordered, "Be careful. He will have implanted sama devices. Don't go near him with annujet!"

Two Greys put a metal electronic helmet over Tilly's head and the Slayer pressed some number codes into the panel at its side, while the SelmaKeatra Captain lay passed out on the carpet. "Be sure to put manacles to the legs and arms."

She looked at Di, Larska, and Pom. They were like three zombies, powerless under her spell. "Would the Taja Proudhon really negotiate for these useless creatures?" she wondered. "He is mad they say — mad — but what does that mean?' She was still skeptical. When she moved from the bedroom to the common room, she saw the dead Vilemarcs and another dead Grey. She looked down in disgust.

"How many dead?" she asked Contii.

"Seven Grey, Milady," he said. "Two by the Witch's hand alone. Four Vilemarc."

Sheila's head was jerked back by the Centrite, Jade, who had her by her long black hair. He struck her across the throat with the edge of his hand. As Sphange came near, she could feel the life rushing out of the young Witch.

"What have you done, Jade? I wanted her alive."

"Sorry, Milady. Apparently, I hit her too hard, and she has an implanted device which prevents mind scans. It was masked, and I did not see it until too late. Perhaps I can still save her, though some damage is inevitable. Their skin is certainly thin."

"Bah!" she exclaimed, thinking a less than grateful thought about the Centrite's Hanrahan. "There's little I can do about it now. Yes, try. But if you fail, keep the blood alive; I may want it for later." A pool of blood widened around Sheila's head even as Jade and Grey Healers moved to stop it.

"Check that these three have no internal samadevices," the Slayer added, referring to Larska, Pom, and Di. "Let us go!"

Sphange stayed behind for a moment, as if checking Sheila's condition. She bent to Jade's ear and whispered privately, "If you save the Witch, keep the fact hidden from our three new friends."

He nodded.

In an hour, they were in the ceptors.

The Soul Slayer immediately contacted Pincser, on Tramas. She smiled at his image, a smile which could wilt a soul. "Captain, we have been successful," she announced. "Find Commander Praasalle; he boards out of Rezimment or Frollix. Under my seal, order the fleet to Milroy Stardance. This is effective immediately. On arrival in Milroy, go to Lorlett. As soon as you reach there, tell Praasalle to detect and destroy all Zora Pulsar ships. On the planet itself, help Eft eliminate any Zora troops."

––

Arck saw an object moving through batten wire along the outer wall of the green and misty passageways of Coldfire. The creature was coiled and shy when he drew near. It was a shiny ball the same grass-color as the wall, and it looked at him out of lovely shining eyes like those of the Daxz, only this gentle animal was much smaller. He stared at it until it scurried away. Then an olive-green, parrot-like bird shook a pair of stubby wings over its fat body. Arck couldn't imagine it flying, and it didn't, but it did caw and complain noisily. There were other beasts with different natures and different forms, unlike anything he had imagined in DreamWorld. This was a zoo in the halls of space.

Often he came back with Tob and Strom, and often he came back alone. Sometimes he looked with microscopic concentration; sometimes it was all a hazy blur. The voice of the Betrayer was still buried deep inside of him, but it faded. He saw Strom often, although their physical contact lessened with each passing week. He blamed Fern for this, but uncritically, because his own fierce desire had diminished.

For days after the public gathering, he saw no more of Er-Ti, and heard only later that the Mantars had left on Mantisairie, immediately following Maye Stynn's departure. It had been weeks since the Spurls left, but when Lord Hornblende showed his face, Arck guessed the worst: his coterie had acquired a new member.

After jumping through Tau, which to Arck was a torturous physical ordeal, he grew anxious again. In his heart he knew that Coldfire steered toward the Milroy Stardance sun system, where Lorlett maintained its orbit as the third of nineteen major planets. He was well aware of Grey's plans to go straight to Lorlett, but he had kept his mind away from that eventuality. Now, he was forced to face the fact that he was headed towards Dread.

During the weeks after the tau line jump, while they traveled at sublight speeds into the Milroy system, Greywheter remained completely secluded, only occasionally coming from her quarters to check that Arck hadn't gone entirely out of control–hers, or his own, for that matter. As the Pulsarite entered the far outer regions swept by the heliospheric forces of the three Stardance suns, Lorlett became more and more prominent on Coldfire's brettiscreens.

The gravity on Lorlett was precariously light, for Aristes, but Grey had no intention of spending much time on the surface. Her intention was to race into Barkel Mountain, burn through to the ancient Keeps of Lorlett, which had been destroyed and were held now by Barkel's Bonelves. And there, somewhere, she would find the Tij Noloyds, for it was written, For the Ariste, two tarnished Tij, found in stone, best left latent, deep in Barkel's throne.

Aarona Raker had not destroyed them, Grey was certain. The greatest of all Mauller Druids had hidden them, buried them in stone in some clever place in Barkel. Grey had to have them for victory over the Overseer–if there was to be one. With the power of the Taja at her beck and call, she knew she could discover the two hidden discs without delay, and bring them forth from the stone. With the help of Arck's fire . . ..

But, there were difficulties in her path: Dread would be there. For that matter, he might already be there, so time would be limited; they must get in and find them within a few days, before the Betrayer could organize an attack. Second, she had been informed that a Mauller Druid, the mother of Durakerk Laiver, had been summoned to Barkel Mountain by her son, at the request of Taff Hart. She lived on Lorlett and was a powerful and respected Druid. Her presence would undoubtedly restrict Grey's liberty and decrease her power to influence events. Grey knew that she must act quickly on all fronts and not give away her plans to friend or enemy. She must find the buried Tij Noloyds quickly, and strike the Great Betrayer even as he pounced, before he learned she had recovered them. This way, he would be lulled into false confidence when he attacked the Proudhon. On her side she would have Taff's Kiji, Arck's Taja, and her recovered Tij discs. The Betrayer's Mij Noloyd could be easily overthrown with this much power.

If it had been a game of chess, Grey would have fully expected certain moves from Dread, and been ready to retaliate; but this was not a game, and she would stifle his breath by catching it in his throat before he had a chance to move rook or pawn. She would take his noloyd from his neck before his dying breath had escaped. For the moment, she contented herself with the thought that Druids are entitled to trophies, too.

The planet Lorlett was not often monitored by CentreRule, because the Mauller's numbers were sparse and the Bonelve's almost countless, but this was not the whole of it. The principal reason it was given cursory attention was that CentreRule deemed Lorlett of second-rate significance. Arck and his companions dropped towards the substratosphere, all in one ceptor, while other ceptors followed them down from Coldfire. Arck was glued to a brettiscope, and though he was drugged again, he was alert enough to look for signs of life as they entered the swirling stratosphere. He was searching for Barkel Mountain, but he could not get used to the sight of three suns in the sky. His eyes watered in the glare, while his mind started to focus on the bright blue planet.

He knew the Great Betrayer had once roamed freely through the corridors and caverns of the Keeps of Lorlett, under the planet's greatest mountain peak. He flicked a switch and the blur of Lorlett's continental mass resolved into millions of small, closely-packed islands. Around him, he heard murmurs of ominous foreboding.

Thick clouds swirled in above them, though even at their densest conformations, they could not block the three distinct auroras. The light was incredibly clear and bright as the ceptor slowed, pulling up well below the stratosphere. As they dropped lower, he saw rain falling in torrents over a dark woodland, but still the light was barely muted. He felt nausea for a moment. Below the ceptor, a forest reached up to swallow them with gargantuan trees. At last he saw Barkel Mountain, but he had difficulty comprehending its size. A sickening sensation enveloped him as the screen closed in on the enormous ruins of an ancient city laying at its feet, crumbled and cracked by suns and overgrown by trees. Sweeping natural canals were dotted here and there by ponds and small lakes. Everywhere there was water. A haze of dust and fog hid details, but he could detect no sign of any remaining civilization. Besides, Arck knew that the Maullers had been hunted, until they were no more than scattered nomads, so depleted in numbers that the Chrisarma kept no bases here. There was no culex crystal to command, no other pulsar fuels to produce. Decayed antique columns and ruined structures were all that was left. He had been told that the Keeps of Barkel Mountain were filled with Bonelves who thrived in the underground labyrinths.

As they slowed to land, he sighted the ruins of the Freeguard Ackumen on a crest of Barkel Mountain, well away from the destroyed city. The mountain forest had closed in around it over the centuries, but it still stood out, a large seven-sided structure, almost whole. He knew the Keeps lay waiting for him under the ackumen–an endless circuit of stone caves and caverns, with a vast hollow core, once home to a Druid-crafted cataract which fell for miles into a subterranean reservoir.

The ceptor slowed by half again, preparing to land beside the counterscarp of Freeguard Ackumen. Long ago it had been a fortress that housed the Freeguard and prevented surveillance or attack from space. He saw Taff's troops massed in a courtyard. He could not judge their numbers, but knew they must be in the hundreds. He glanced at a newly-turned garden beside the Ackumen, and wondered how anyone could hope to grow anything in a place where the rain and wind had worn the stone smooth, and there were only shallow indentations where soil turned to clay, barely deep enough to dig.

The craft settled to its rocky landing spot, he undid his harnesses and swung to his feet, stretching. While the ceptor doors were lifting, Arck sensed a strange intensity in Durakerk. As they disembarked, the change of atmosphere and gravity was startling. Arck almost lost his balance with his first step, but his body righted itself like a cork bobbing upright in water. The distant trees were gargantuan. He could see their long thin branches whipped by the alien wind, and he heard a crack that must have been a loud bang directly underneath, while rain began to pour down over their thrashing tops. Within seconds, the rain was so heavy the trees were obscured from his view.

He descended to noticeable confusion among the contingent of Freeguard who met them, and dismay on the face of the Wizard, which did not resemble Taff's usual calm demeanor by any stretch of the imagination. Arck listened for clues, feeling odd and foreign. However, his confidence was well bolstered, to the point of self-importance. Still, the Keeps were there, below the mountain, and they seemed to be pulling at him. Through the haze he felt the suns, he felt the different gravity, and he felt the heat. One after the other, each reaction hit him, receded, then hit and receded again. He felt every physical sensation twice as though his double-vision was a tool of a mystic or a madman, and he, a little of both.

Sheets of rain swept down from the treed crest; they struck as he started to make his groggy way over broken stone walkways to the main gates. He was soaked and wind-whipped before he got half way. If he had not been drugged, he would have been able to sense that Lorlett held much heavier burdens in store for him.

Grey was at his side. "What is it?" Arck asked. "What's wrong?"

"The Freeguard have been unable to recover more than a section of the Ackumen from the Bonelves," she mindsaid. "Neither have they gained so much as a foothold in the Keeps. There are many Bonelves, they are armed, and they are ready to fight."

Arck felt no fear in the Ariste though. He was near the gates when Taff called to him to stand by. Resentfully, he waited there in the pelting rain. He did not understand the meaning of the delay.

"I have heard that there are Bonelves still in the Ackumen, on the surface," he said to Tob who had come to wait beside him. Arck looked at his brother, who turned pale.

"Bonelves?" Tob asked nervously.

"Bonelves!" Arck answered contemptuously. Angered, he stalked directly to Durakerk, in front of the smashed gates. The water was driving at him.

"Bonelves are holding us up?" he demanded.

"Wait!" said Durakerk, hearing Arck's venomous tone. "These are not the Bonelves of the Chrisarma. They are their own masters. The Keep has been theirs for a long time." The rain and wind overcame his words.

"Bonelves!" Arck shouted, as if all his hate crystallized in that one word. "Show me!" He stepped forward. "Grey!" he shouted into the wind, and struck off rapidly towards the main body of the Ackumen without a further word.

"Arck!" Strom shouted to him, but he ignored her. A scramble took place to stop him, but he was determined not to tolerate Bonelves. Tob grabbed his arm, but he pulled away and strode a dozen paces inside the fortress. He was determined to make an immediate fight of it, for he did understand that Grey had to move quickly on Lorlett. Behind him, he felt the Freeguard war-mode of consciousness focusing, but he also felt confusion in the troops ahead of him.

A large SelmaKeatra warrior, well-armed and fearless, approached quickly from his post in front of the Ackumen. The soldier's interference brought a look of pure annoyance to Arck's face, which stopped the warrior in his tracks. The Proudhon heard many Freeguard racing up from behind him. He marched angrily into the hall, with the Wizard right behind him, waving the SelmaKeatra soldier off. The guard glared in disbelief.

"Grey!" Arck shouted again. A deep blue glow rose over him. "Rayta. Grey! Ka mourne kuKii parra."

Abruptly Grey flung herself ahead of him, burning brilliant white light. Seeing them together, prepared for war, was a fearful sight to Taff. He knew they must move quickly to find the Tij Noloyds and get out of Barkel Mountain before Dread, or his sister, or even his younger brother, could get here, but this unplanned assault was sheer insanity. Now he understood that neither Grey nor Arck had spent their time on board Coldfire so idly as he had assumed. They had been preparing and practicing for battle.

Behind the Wizard was his stō, Ruby Obiss, her scraggly hair and lean-taut frame making her look like some half-mad warrior.

The entrance of the Ackumen was a scattered ruin and Arck could see that it acted as a no man's land between the Freeguard and the Bonelves. Though deprived of part of the Ackumen, the Bonelves were not about to give up any of the underground without a fight. Grey roared at a few vagrant Bonelve scouts who had been caught off guard in front of her. She leaped and killed one of them with a bone-crushing bite to the neck, while another of them shot at her with some pistol device which seemed to have no effect. She charged at it, it gave a horrifying screech, scrambled backwards, and slammed against a gate behind it. The Greywheter Druid raised five or six annujet, and Arck saw her as he had always dreamed–in war she was magnificent to behold.

He smelled the miasma rising from the mass of stinking Bonelves and their cavernous homes below. There was litter everywhere. Loud whines came from the caverns below, and the mountain rumbled with the rapid movement of so many creatures. Aware of some extraordinary threat to their territory, the Bonelves began to mass together in the openings to the caverns and caves just below the ackumen.

The speed of their defense was amazing. The large, black groups below swelled until they seemed to bring on a river of night. Harsh barks of alarm rose to a wild crescendo. One group, on the point of emerging from a large stone egress near Arck, stopped to chatter and sway in some sort of ritual of solidarity. Another throng was forming further back, in the main gateway to the caverns. Arck reached the middle of the hall and stopped. More of the black demons swarmed out from a passage at the opposite side, and only now did the Bonelves realize there was something more than a small army of Freeguard in their midst. Such shrieking howls of anger and fear were thrown from the whorls of their black mouths that the walls vibrated.

Arck spit scornfully in their direction, and cursed as an icy feeling grabbed his heart. He hit his chest with his hand, and the blue flame widened its radius around him. Yet he hesitated, not sure how to manage the amount of power he now wanted to unleash. He only stood there and glared with venomous eyes at the leaders of the closest pack of Bonelves. The Wizard rushed forward, waving to the Proudhon to withdraw, but Grey took matters out of Taff's hands.

She took a few slow, menacing steps towards the Bonelves and hissed at them, while she sent mental probes into the ancient Druid Keeps. If only enough of the Sama-Volscyl energy remained alive to respond to her simplest commands . . ..

A rumble shook through the mountain as the noise from some machine stopped, replaced immediately by a different sound from another. Between the unexpected sounds of machinery, here in this place where they had lived for countless generations, and the terrifying sight of the snarling, hissing cat-creature threatening them, the Bonelves' resolve wavered. Their eyes dulled, and they were confused.

Suddenly, the first level of the Keep came alive. A grinding noise moaned to life, then grew to a deafening metallic screech. For the first time in centuries, heavy granite doors rolled closed, cutting off the group of Bonelves in the Ackumen from the millions of their reinforcements below. The Keep had betrayed them, and their panic was uncontrolled. They scattered, gibbering and screeching, not knowing which way to go.

Strom was behind Fern, watching. She stepped back in fear. Since the night she had first seen the Great Betrayer, life had become more and more an unreal spectacle.

The Proudhon watched the Bonelves run. His appetite for revenge diminished, but only slightly. Suddenly, some of them raced blindly in the direction of Strom and Tob. Arck's mind flashed back to the nightmare memories of the Charblind slaughter. His anger returned in full, and he did not see the defiance on the Bonelves' faces.

Seeing that the Bonelves in the ackumen were trapped, and sensing the easy slaughter of their dreaded enemies, Freeguard warriors began pouring into the hall, breaking their own ranks. They burst ahead of Taff and past the Proudhon, who watched, horrified, as two Bonelves tackled the feet of the closest attacker, in some practiced tactic, and knocked her off balance while a third Bonelve caught her by the head and slashed her jugular. It was all so fast it hardly seemed possible, but a silver-tipped half saber dripped with the same blood that flowed into a pool around her head. Now, Arck could see that the Bonelves were not as stupefied as he had guessed, and neither would they be so easy to overcome. They were not hacking at their victims' limbs or eyes as they usually did. Instead, they darted towards the Troaneans. He realized that in battle they were clever beyond their intelligence.

"Stop!" Arck shouted, and sent a weak string of fire onto their path. Though they started, he was wide of his mark, flushing. The sudden killing of the female Freeguard had destroyed his purpose for coming into this place. He froze.

By some mysterious collective agreement, Bonelves began clustering around knots of leaders, and hooting and barking in unison. It seemed to bring the rest of the creatures under control; they began to organize, and fight more effectively against the undisciplined Freeguard rush.

From the main entrance, confusion had spread word of easy victory to the remaining Freeguard. Many troopers, poorly prepared, wedged through the large gates into the throngs of Bonelves, to the creatures' surprised advantage.

The Angel seemed to be a prime target. Several Bonelves were trying to get through to her, in the hope she could be used to stand off their most-hated enemies. The others united in a wave and struck with shocking speed, before the Freeguard could mount an effective countermove. Many Freeguard fell, throwing themselves uselessly in front of the wedges.

"Move back!" Taff shouted, trying to ward off a disaster. Their initial bravado was costing the Freeguard dearly now.

Ruby Obiss was directly behind him and the stō had raised two annujet discs and glowed a dull yellow actiniform. This astounded Arck.

Three of the Bonelves in front scrambled for Strom, but they were felt the sudden swoop of Durakerk's baliwax sword. The Witch seized her by the arm and pulled her away from the maelstrom. Arck could see she was in shock.

One Bonelve leader who was quick on his feet decided to dash for an easy kill. With his black lieutenants fast by his side, he drove his squat legs hard towards the Elder. Jeff spotted him, and slipped his awkward old gun from his shoulder, but the black creature paid no heed. Before he could fire, Jeff was propelled in the Witch's direction by a crush of soldiers being pushed to the side, and the Bonelve leader was knocked back behind a new line of defense, with his sword raised to strike another foe.

"Jeff, not here!" the Witch cried referring to the gun.

The Elder did not seem to understand that the Freeguard troops were wearing tzz force fields that bullets would lose direction and increase force, and therefore randomly wound. Arck was pushed away by the crush and lost sight of the Elder, who seemed to have fallen. The press of soldiers was frightening. A sulfuric stench stung his nostrils. It rose from a Bonelve slain almost at his feet. The horror of Charblind again blazed through his mind.

Tob yelled from behind him, and Arck turned to see Taff leading Freeguard troopers into the heart of the black mass. Green fire flashed from his fists, and Arck was shamed by his own impotence. Then his eyes caught Tob. The Bonelve who had attacked Jeff had been swept within striking distance of the boy, and the creature delayed not an instant in raising his broadsword. Arck was frantic, pushing out all his power blindly in every direction.

"Rayta!" he cried desperately, exploding into violent flames. "Help me, Grey!" Blue fire exploded outwards. A soldier at his side screamed with pain, but Ruby Obiss somehow took him under her actiniform protection.

A short broadsword fell toward the neck of the Innocent, but at that precise instant, a rainbow actinishell shone around Tob, and he was safe within his dragon-flower's protection. At the same time, the sword was shattered by a terrific force. Four clear points glowed in Arck's mind with such sudden splendor that he was aware of nothing else. They were a prism of color for Tob, a gentle purple fire moving to surround Strom; close to it, a deep red spire flickered and wavered up to the Witch's wisteria, and, further off, the yellow dtorr fire protected the Elder. He thought this was effected by the Witch in some way, though he was not sure how.

Brilliant swirls of color burst between these radiant points. Suddenly in his DreamGarden, Arck saw shadows of spots like tiny, beveled black stars bouncing outward. He knew that every spot was a Bonelve, and he sent the cleansing blue fire to burn them away as if they were mere illusion, perhaps points of pressure on his ocular nerve. At first, many reappeared, but as he continued to blast them into oblivion, they too were rapidly consumed. Arck searched voraciously for more.

In the hall itself, the Bonelve forces overwhelming the Troanean and Freeguard company were thrown back, startled by the light and fire of the Proudhon. At first the massive display was more beautiful than harmful, but soon a shower of actual fire began to fall on the closest Bonelves. Then the shower became a torrent where even Freeguard were in danger. The Wizard felt the inferno growing. Its power was immense and beyond any possibility of control by Arck.

But already Grey was turning her attention from the Keep to Arck, and Taff, inside his green actiniform, watched his troops with great concern. Some were already falling in the heat, others huddled in Ruby Obiss' dull protective shell. The air was thin, acrid and torrid, and the destruction of the Bonelves was nearly entirely accomplished. Taff realized that Freeguard near Arck were being burned. Within a few seconds, the Wizard could not see one Bonelve remaining alive in the swirling fire and smoke of the inner hall. Even to Taff, Arck's enormous power was almost beyond belief. Arck fell to his knees, lost even to his own danger. Inky acid from the Bonelves formed a burning flood on the floor; many bodies were still aflame. The fire began to spread.

"Get out!" Taff yelled to his troops. "Save yourselves!" He spun around, waving furiously. "Ray jii Greywheter!" He shouted irreverently, "Stop him!"

Lord Hornblende was holding back a wide circle of the flame.

Like Taff's stō, he used two annujet discs and other sama devices, and many came into his circle of protection as he backed out of the inferno. As the last of the Freeguard fled the hall with him, the giant doors rolled closed behind them.

Only the flowerholders remained, glowing within the glow.

Soon the heat became so intolerable it could not be survived without actiniform protection. Feeling the heat even through his shields, Taff rushed back against the wall. The Kiji Noloyd on his chest was glowing hot and he prayed the flower menhirs held out.

Ever receptive to an advantage, the Druid reopened the back doors to the waiting Bonelves, but they had felt the supernatural power surge and had retreated in tremendous hordes into the deepest recesses of the Keep.

The cold damp wind, steamed and hissed on contact with the scorching air, and created instant fog.

Grey sent her telepathic brilliant white light into Arck's mind. She saw that he was on the brink of losing reality, and from more than ten steps away, she sprang at Arck and hit him so hard that they flew together into a column straight across the hall, with an explosion of blue-streaked white light.

They fell to the floor with a thud, and wild electric sparks rippled between them for several seconds. The Proudhon's mind held to the One Noloyd, but the Druid lay lifelessly beside him.

Arck suddenly raised his head to see the whole hall enveloped in light and fog.

The fire was rapidly losing its heat and radiant glow. He released the flowerholders from his grip and, with complete abandon, dropped back into the volscyl garden of flowers as though he had never left it. Thus the Ariste Druid and the Proudhon lay in the pallid fog, half defeated, half victorious.

### The Great Betrayer 25

Taff had Arck taken to a room aboard his personal ceptor. Under the watchful eyes of the healer Matsy, Arck was sedated and left to sleep. His body had sustained no burns. After the battle in the ackumen, Taff summoned reinforcements from Coldfire before it left to hide in the shadow of one of the smaller planets of Milroy. He called Fern, Hornblende, and Durakerk to his office aboard his personal ceptor. The remains of the ackumen's old ceptorport now held four Freeguard ceptors; two of them, large battle ships.

"The Druid is going for her prize immediately," Taff said, when they were all gathered. "Her unusual impatience indicates that the Betrayer is here or on his way and she knows it. If this proves true, then there is no second guessing or intuition at work–someone is giving him our locations, either Greywheter herself, or someone mindreading her."

"Dread may have guessed," Hornblende said. "Given that the Taja Proudhon has surfaced, and with a Kiji Wizard, it is a simple enough conclusion that you would come to Lorlett Keeps with the Greywheter Druid.

Resting on its perch, Bloodbird ruffled its feathers. "Dread speaks even now," the Mockingbird screeched.

"Sorry, Milord," Fern said to Hornblende. She rose from her seat to fit a netted leather muzzle over her familiar's beak.

Just then there was a panel indication at the entrance. Taff rose from his chair, turning off the shields to his office. His lieutenant, Down Stard, who was in charge of ground operations on Barkel Mountain, stood in the door way.

"Forgive me," he said bowing, "The Mauller Druid Staff Slager has arrived."

"Ask her to come in," he said, smiling at Durakerk. All rose as two Maullers, one of them a stout female, in a bright-blue overcoat, a cloop-cloak, which hid all samaweapons, entered the room. Her face was heavy with life as though gravity weighted her down but her eyes were bright and intelligent.

"This is Tuvver Tol," Staff said preemptively, with a most elegant gesture, and the male Mauller bowed with great civility. His face was symmetrical, like that of Durakerk, and he had a small nose. He wasn't as muscular as Durakerk, but he wore the same look of intensity. The new arrivals were both dressed in pale, airy clothing with the texture of light tough textured cloth behind their outer cloaks. Durakerk embraced both his mother and her husband.

"You have heard about the Proudhon's battle here?" Taff asked, with no further salutation.

"Yes, our son has told us," Staff said, still holding Durakerk's hand. "The Greywheter Druid is after the Tij Noloyds, of course. Has she told you that Dread is in the system?" She turned to the Wizard and smiled affectionately. "How are you, Taff?" she asked.

The Wizard returned her smile, stealing a glance at the Witch. "The most important questions for us here, are, Can she do it quickly, and Are the discs in fact in the Keeps?"

"They are here, no doubt," Staff returned. "And I am sure she can get them, even within a day or two, but the most important question is, should she have them?"

When Arck awoke he was alone in his room aboard Taff's ceptor. He washed up and went out to the hold, past his guards. The largest receiver door in the main hold was open, and Durakerk Laiver stood in front of it, watching the comings and goings outside. Golden rays shone on him from every angle, and the three faint shadows behind him were trying to erase each other, so that they became no more than shadows of shadows.

"Hello," Arck said, rather shyly.

Durakerk pointed to a lone, giant tree, not far away, where two large birds braced themselves on opposite branches, as if in a showdown. They looked quite like huge predator birds.

"The phinjii," he said.

"The trees are so tall," Arck said. "Majestic, I guess. Are they old?"

"Some are almost as old as the Races of Maullers," Durakerk answered. "The forest is primeval. It still stands against the insects who appear increasingly to be Lorlett's newest conquerors. There's no other forest of this magnitude on the planet. As you will see, it still harbors many species of birds who are insect eaters. Only the birds remain in any numbers now, but of course they are threatened also." A subtle expression of despair shaded his face. "Even the Jetblack has been transplanted to Lorlett. For this, the Betrayer's brother, the Heart Harrower, is responsible. So far, they have remained within the forests, but even the Bonelves do not wander much from their caves now. You see, once again, the Chrisarmains prefer destruction to dissent. They would leave all the worlds to the insect, if they felt the need. They leave nothing to chance."

The Proudhon turned his head away and fought back tears at the memory of the jetblack, and their vicious destruction of the snow artins.

"Once," Durakerk continued, "the Keeps of Lorlett were powerful enough to have withstood even a direct attack from CentreRule. Now the Maullers are almost entirely gone. The Bonelves and the insects spread like a plague." He looked hard at Arck, but the Proudhon couldn't read his expression. It was growing warm in the direct sunlight. Troops below them came and went from ceptor to ceptor. "You know that my mother is a greatly respected Mauller Druid."

"Oh," Arck said, trying to remember if he knew that.

Durakerk gave a slight smile. "In any event, she has joined us here, with her partner, who is quite handy with a sword. His name is Tuvver and she is called Staff. She may be able to assist you to retrieve the Tij discs, since that is what you seem intent on doing."

Arck wasn't sure how he should answer, and decided not to until he could consult Taff.

"Oh, there's Strom," he said. The Angel was approaching the ceptor. She was dressed briefly in light clothing that left a considerable amount of her skin for the suns to play upon. An inexplicable, cold fear reached inside him, and he stepped away from the Mauller. Lorlett's light gravity allowed him to drop lightly to the ground–about two Mauller's height.

His moment of fear was forgotten as his familiar surge of lust returned. He knew he must make her his–but how?

His mind whispered, 'She's already yours.'

He was hurting again with raw desire. No! Even as I win, I lose.

He knew the witches had gotten their clutches into her. As he left the ceptor, Freeguard bodyguards rustled behind him. He took note of a fierce tall blonde female warrior trying to remember her name, but he frowned at the rest and walked up to Strom.

"Hi," he said, suddenly tongue-tied and perplexed at the way her angry eyes assessed him.

"You were wonderful," she said. He caught a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Next you will surely kill all of us."

"Thanks," he said, smiling, but embarrassed at her anger.

"I will see you at dinner," she said. "I have to go."

"Of course," he said taken aback by her coldness.

As she walked briskly away, he watched a group of Freeguard warriors run hot eyes over her figure. They were dressed in strips of coarse net fabric strapped around their groins and torsos. Engraved daggers hung loosely from their protective garments, and soke-thrusters and fusion devices clung to their legs, over leather greaves. Some had jaye pistols and others, long ranged fueled projectiles strapped to the waist with sling belts, and half hidden underneath the loose covering of cloth, as were the tzz force fields.

Some of the warriors were capless, some shirtless, some even wore baggy pants over their net garments. A number of them wore thick boots with something like puttees, though Arck suspected that these had some definite use in battle. Two or three wore cloop cloaks to hide their sama-weapons and others had clipper shields or tzz protection. Women and men both were built with stone-hard muscles, and full of the energy of youth and sexuality. They seemed a dangerous lot, and they showed him little courtesy. He knew they secretly felt contempt for him–these were call Taff's Wild Ones.

––

Many miles below Barkel Mountain, Dread's beautiful black Spurl body sat in absolute darkness in his hidden Keep, and petted his two black blazsers. The Betrayer had come to MilroyStardance, then to Lorlett, and disappeared as soon as he landed. Now he waited deep in his vaults of stone. And where he waited was down in the uttermost heart of Barkel, in a secret Keep so far below the surface that it was miles below the last burrowing of the ancient Mauller Druids' deepest Keep. No one would have guessed such a place had been created, let alone preserved in the excellence of its first design. Even though all the Druid Keeps above it had fallen into ruin at the hands of Bonelves, this one was always protected by Dread's power, which held back not only the wild packs of Bonelves and demondogs, but rodents, roaches, and even dust.

The Betrayer waved his hand across a porphyry device and the lights flashed into a brilliant glow. He waved his hand again, and only a quick afterglow escaped the absolute darkness. He repeated this feat: brilliant light followed by complete darkness.

His blazsers didn't move a muscle. Eft rubbed his eyes and rewarded the two huge canine creatures with meat pellets. His naked body glistened like a god's, which he was; a god of the Spurls. He smiled to himself almost ruefully, as he concentrated on preparing every minute detail in advance.

"Now if I can only entice him inside," he said aloud, "Then that will be enough to get him. He'll bow to me as my servant for all his life, perhaps for eternity!"

––

Inside Taff's ceptor, Arck sat with Strom, watching the brettiscreens around them. Supper with his growing entourage was over, though Taff and Fern, Staff and her partner, Tuvver Tol, and Durakerk, as well as Lord Hornblende, still sat at the large table, chatting quietly. The brief night was approaching, tentatively, as Lorlett turned its back to its suns.

"Look," Strom said. On the screen directly in front of her, orange aureoles danced over the surface of Korrdam's Tarn, a mountainside lake a few miles down Barkel's side.

"And there," Arck pointed to one screen where the mirror of the lake appeared on fire, and another, where the sky seemed filled with smoke.

Behind them, Taff dimmed the lights. Arck sat back in his seat and mused as he looked at the changing colors reflected on the surface of the Tarn. Soon he lost track of everyone's comings and goings, except Strom. His main goal for the night was unchanged; worse than ever, he needed to have her

On a distant cliff, a rock fell with a dull thump. Arck thought about the Keeps. There was an abyss in the core of Barkel which held a Falling River, created to generate power for the ancient Druids. He knew Grey intended to search for the two white Tij Noloyds among territory controlled by the Bonelves.

In the Core, the Bonelves would stand and fight–not run, as before. He had already killed so many. He shivered at the thought of their ugly little black bodies exploding in fire. Suddenly he felt tension in the air, and looked up. Grey and Staff must have been mindspeaking in disagreement. Durakerk's mother rose abruptly, gathered her son and her partner about her, and swept to the doorway where she stopped and turned her eyes back to Grey.

"You can't stop the Betrayer alone." Her voice was adamant. "I agree that in the codes there is the One/Alone, as the Aristes have taught; but they have also taught the Many/Together, and the I/Thou. You, and your boy, must remain faithful to the principle of the Selma. You are not a power unto yourself, Grey, even though you are a leader. And in my eyes, you are quickly falling." She left majestically, with the two Mauller males in her wake.

Arck turned, as if nothing had occurred, and looked at a screen which reflected the pale eclipses of Lorlett's evening. The plump female SelmaKeatra chef who had made and served breakfast and supper, arrived with sweets. She insisted Arck eat one, and she would not be denied. Then she forced him to have another, before she would yield. She watched with a sly look, counting each calculated calorie. The Proudhon knew he was surrounded by such schemers. This one's name was Jissy.

"You eat like a Massap," she said, teasing him with good humor. "Two small bites of a cake and you are filled!" She and her partner had long been in Taff's service, and they knew how to achieve a peaceful setting for meals. However, Fern had let loose Bloodbird, and now the bird flew in, and perching on a climbing plant branch. Arck touched Grey lightly as she passed. He laughed nervously and eyed the bird suspiciously, his emotions contracting and expanding without apparent reason.

"The gnome has the evil eye, Wise One!" screeched the red-feathered bird, as if deliberately starting a fight. "The gnome is filled with lust!"

"Shut up, you devil!" Arck hissed angrily, rather startled at his own venom.

"Illusion is the essence of ignorance," Mockingbird taunted, zooming at him.

Arck ducked and fell out of his seat. "This is my purpose; my purpose is this!" it screeched in withering scorn.

"Come along, demon bird," Fern said, displaying her usual patience where her Familiar was concerned. She excused herself and said goodnight.

Arck was certain of victory now, in attaining his goal tonight, but the Angel stood, looking somewhat confused, as if to follow Fern out. Arck rose quickly and knocked over a small stand. Fern stopped. Strom and Arck stared at one another.

"Please stay," he said to Strom, his voice cracking with his desire. "Wait, please."

She flushed and looked at Fern, as if for direction. She felt her head swirling with pressure, and her eyes showed her confusion. But she knew she hated him because he could make her become a willing victim. Fern shrugged and left. Arck swallowed hard in the silence, watching Strom. Taff shook his head and rose to leave, assisting the Elder, who seemed especially tired now. Here Jeff saw no fight. In his world, the woman must give way in these matters. He said nothing, and waved as he left, feeling sorry for Arck, having to fight battles on so many fronts.

"You sure know how to clear a room," Tob said to his brother with a tap on his shoulders. "Good night," he called over his shoulder, walking cautiously past the silent black figure of Lord Hornblende.

The Spurl Lord sat mute and statue-still, watching everything with ominous eyes.

Arck wondered if Hornblende ever relaxed. Would he ever seem real? His mind swerved back to present matters, and he stared at Strom. It was an oppressive stare, not all that different from Hornblende's stare at him. It was obvious that each desired something.

Suddenly the Greywheter Druid drew close to the Proudhon, growling. Startled, Arck looked around. He felt the Spurl Lord locked into a mental struggle with the Ariste, and the tension was building.

"What is it Grey?" he hissed, giving the Zoraselma Lord a hateful stare. Abruptly Lord Hornblende turned to Strom.

"You may go," he said gently.

"No!" Arck said, flushing. He understood at once what was to come. He rose his hands to stop Strom; but then he felt Hornblende's mind reaching for the noloyd disc. The amulet at Arck's chest trembled and he saw that the force was great. He felt helpless and fell to his knees, choking and gasping for air. His forehead was wet and his hands were clammy. He felt Strom's hand on his shoulder and this somehow gave him courage. He pulled at the noloyd disc and it released into his palm, where swirled and glowed with rich color.

"Rajaii," the Spurl Lord hissed, "Greywheter Kikii mu." It was hardly audible, but the Druid cowered, for the words held magic. Fear filled the room, perhaps the whole ceptor. Grey stepped back against a railing and her throat rumbled with a savage growl. Arck sensed her retreating from the confrontation.

"Is this the extent of your resistance?" he barked to Arck, his eyes cold. He'd forced himself to his utmost concentration, trying to touch the Proudhon's apex of power. At the same time, he had not really believed in Arck's madness–or his murky inner world.

Warm tears came to Arck's eyes. Deep shame came over him.

"You are wandering a dark, obscure path," Hornblende said quietly. "You've the power of the Taja, yet you can not drive the noloyd. You have not mustered enough inner strength and purpose to control even your own needs. Because your body craves, your mind conjures mirages. You wish to delude yourself and call it love. Do you not see the girl's reticence? Even I felt it just now. You have applied your will against her, with the help of the Druid. This is an evil trade that you practice–so much like the enemy." He stared down with stern black eyes. "Has your Druid told you, Proudhon, how intimately I know the enemy?" He looked at Grey. "I see she has not." He paused, as if waiting for some sign.

"You may leave us, Strom," he said again.

"No!" Arck shouted, beginning to struggle feebly against the Lord's great force. His labored breathing broke the silence. "I say, stay."

A pause followed. Suddenly the Druid's brilliant white light touched Arck's thoughts. An arrow of flame sparked the Star of Aarona and reached slowly towards Hornblende, by stops and starts. It seemed suspended and cautious, but it flickered slowly closer. Now the room looked on fire. Arck's forehead was covered with tiny beads of sweat that shimmered in the eerie iridescence. His face was infused with fear. He heard bustling movement outside the room.

"If you do not master the noloyd," Hornblende declared, "Dread will destroy you easily. The Chrisarma kills the brave and honest first, but in time they will kill even the likes of you. You may delude yourself, but the Mij Trinity will see you just as dead. Your body will go to the grave, a slave to your needs, your soul a slave to theirs."

Sirens were sounding throughout the corridors, and Arck felt himself under the gaze of centuries of experience in power; the pressure of it was great. Grey's brilliant white light gave him false courage and he made one more effort to pull away from the Lord of his own accord. He threw an angry blue flame at Hornblende, a sudden crack exploded into the air, and the fire was ripped apart into a thousand sparks of sapphire. A fire started in the corner and went out at once. Arck felt his body pushed toward the table before he was released from the tremendous hold. He crashed against the largest brettiscreen. The giant looked down at him, full of sarcasm, if not ill intent as well. Arck closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths.

When he looked up, Hornblende was gone. But Strom had stayed; he knew he had won. To hell with Hornblende. She was studying him silently. For some time he sat with her whispering to her and kissing her neck. Something new had grown in her appraisal, he decided, maybe something compassionate. His love was urgent though, and he took her arm and began kissing her on the mouth–he yearned for her. She was his reward for this awful sentence. "Not here!" Her voice was full of alarm.

Arck was hard on her heels as they walked out. Freeguard soldiers parted for them. Confusion on what had just happened seemed to ripple through the ranks. Arck knew Strom was remembering his fire inside of her and its warm burning pleasure. She both hated it and loved it. They reached his room – he looked into her warm green eyes –he'd overcome her by cunning and deceit, but he felt justified in his actions. He knew that he would have gladly die for her in minute. Silently and quickly, he undressed her, avoiding her eyes, but watching her body. He caught his breath, lost his composure, and started to radiate blue actiniform. She was enveloped with purple light from the larkspur around her neck. Shining as if on fire, they were fueled by pure energy. He started kissing and fondling her, then she moaned. The blue and purple flames burned and danced with each other for hours, in varying rhythmic patterns.

### The Great Betrayer 26

Later, Arck rose, unable to find rest, leaving Strom asleep in his bed. When he saw the light on in Taff's office, he headed in that direction. He let himself in.

"What are you doing?" he said to Taff, drawing up a chair casually and sitting.

"Administrative work," Taff said. "The sun is coming up soon. Can't you sleep?" All the brettiscreens were on and their scientific magic was beautiful. The Proudhon stared into one screen where the view looked down from the sky at the mountain, wreathed in light fog.

Arck suddenly caught the image of Ruby Obiss, Taff's stō, sitting in the corner. He caught his breath–she was totally gruesome to look on, especially in this muted light. Her eyes were closed, but he sensed she wasn't asleep. She wore the Freeguard uniform with Taff's colors and his official insignia and the counter-insignia.

"What is it, hmm?" Taff asked, and glanced at the Taja disc resting on Arck's chest.

On one live brett, the immense trees reached above the mountain fissures. Further off, they accumulated into a canopy of deep forest. The fine mist hung above them, and the three morning suns began to rise above the horizon, in a line. An optical illusion made the suns appear to touch one another. Arck' eyes could barely stand the brightness.

"You'd think that if the Betrayer saw all of this beauty," Arck said with a whisper, " his heart would soften."

"Yes, you would think so, and I would think so. Yet this and more were his. Beauty alone does not counter evil."

"In past dreams she seemed lovely, Aarona Raker."

"So legend has it," Taff replied, trying to follow Arck's logic. "Perhaps Eft Coll was possessed against his will, as some say. It is you who must deliver his retribution and recover the noloyds from the Dark Trinity."

"For you, courage is easy," Arck said, "For me, the Betrayer's crimes are just history. Surely one mere youth cannot be accountable for so much." Taff did not reply. "I will fight him. You might say that I am possessed against my will. In any case, I would be elsewhere if I were free. I hate this fight. Am I to be crucified for the Races' salvation?"

The Wizard frowned. "Arck," he said patiently, "how can you be free in the world of CentreRule? You are free in an tyranny only by fighting against it. Progress is slow but all victory springs from strength, and that elusive quality is something that must be striven for." No response came from Arck. Taff paused, becoming exasperated by Arck's lack of enthusiasm. "What can I say to make you understand? Self-autonomy is an end in itself. The individual must be politically free, and as it stands now, your life cannot be separated from ours, no matter how much you would wish it."

Behind the Wizard on the walls on both sides of the his ceptor's office, Arck saw one of Taff's several carved, wooden calumet pipes hanging there, and recognized it from the Continental Towers. It was feathered and had Freeguard cuneiform-like markings down its stem. Arck was impressed that the Wizard had taken the time to grab this as he escaped from the burning building–it must be important to him. Beside it, there was a round sundial from Troan, and another one which looked much older, but he didn't remember seeing them before.

Ruby pretended to wake, her form as though an expression of warrior-ethics gone mad. She rose and stepped into the center of the room, waiting for routine morning instructions. While Taff spoke with her, Arck noticed one of Fern's small zodiac orreries in a corner; he realized it was the one that she had received from Reed at the Fault. He went to it and touched it. He was surprised to find that it was operating.

"How can it work on this planet?" Arck asked, curious, interrupting.

"We have ways," Taff said smiling, nodding to Ruby who left. "Besides, there are certain natural physical laws that generally apply to all the planets and the witches are skilled with them."

Taff's collection included compasses and azimuth cards, antiquated calipers, a number of primitive instruments and ancient devices Arck could not name, but he did recognize two Mauller scimitars crossed on the wall, and a whole rack of cutlasses and halberds. Sextants of crystal and gold hung from silver hooks, and signs of the zodiac for a number of systems.

"It looks like a museum," he said.

"We once fought with swords," the Wizard said lightheartedly. "We still fight with swords."

"Never mind, Taff," Arck answered, turning quickly to leave. "See you later."

He was gone and Taff shook his head.

Arck left the ceptor altogether, his bodyguards trailing him at a distance — the fierce tall blond female warrior among them — and headed to the fortress, and the area where the Freeguard had fought the Bonelves. On his way to the ackumen, the Freeguard and SelmaKeatra warriors he passed stopped to watch him, but none saluted or bowed, and he was thankful for that.

"It is time," Grey mindsaid to him.

Arck saw what he had missed yesterday. Age-old etchings and chisels of famous Druids who had occupied Lorlett Keeps were on the walls and ceilings, and there were carvings of a grand past when Barkel Mountain filled with life, commerce, and art. A bas-relief of the three suns of Stardance were badly damaged and hardly discernible. Troops were posted everywhere, and they watched him as he sauntered here and there, so that he felt self-conscious at first.

When he came upon a carved and colored portrait of Aarona Raker, high on one of the walls, he did not realize who he was studying so closely: the steely, deep-set eyes and velvet gray skin. Standing in front of the picture he wondered how anyone could have mustered the courage to betray such a fierce looking woman. But the Betrayer had more than one secret Arck knew nothing of.

On the ceiling, hewn into granite-like stone, a relief showed three ancestral Aristes. The head of one was missing at the neck.

Arck heard sounds like a piccolo coming from the front hall. A young female SelmaKeatra standing guard was playing a touch flute. A few Freeguard Warriors had gathered about her to listen.

The notes floated high and low in lonely echoes. Soon, he became lost in his musings, and the halls became progressively shadowy and bare.

He wandered the halls for hours, staring at nothing in particular. When he finally focused and turned back, he was surprised to see Taff, with Tob and Strom.

Time had flowed away from him again.

Sinking fear hit the pit of his stomach as Jeff entered the hall, his yellow flower hanging from his chest.

Something was wrong. He realized now that it was no accident he was at the entrance of the Keeps. Grey had taken over his consciousness for some reason of her own. He moved to the huge back gates, and down into the subterranean smell.

Underground, metal seemed shorn from the sides of the passage which led to the Keeps.

Behind him, he felt Taff's troops preparing for battle in the chaos. The path was full of rocks, some especially sharp ones were glued with mud into positions like standing knife blades, ready to impale the very air.

Everything had been gouged and hacked by the endless throngs of Bonelves. Only the carvings on the ceiling remained whole enough to decipher, though even here, great chunks of crystal and stone were missing.

"I can hardly breathe," Strom complained, close beside him now. The reek of acid clung still closer. She touched the wall and then jerked her hand away, almost slipping on the floor, which had been worn to a satiny polish in the center. A sticky substance covered the surface of everything. She wiped her hand on her pretty white dress.

"Arck," she gasped. "It's so ugly!"

"Wait," he whispered in command, reddening and letting go of Strom's hand. "Stay here a minute."

The Proudhon sensed that Grey was ready to proceed against any Bonelve forces which might be in the first Keep. The callousness of her ambition scared him, but he just wanted to get it over with and get away from here. He approached slowly. To his left, a thick metal door suddenly rolled open as if by a supernatural force, revealing a dark cavern of the mountain which disappeared into the blackness, and then a larger door further down the same wall began to creak apart. He sensed Taff near with the stō, Ruby Obis. No wonder Taff had never taken her to Troan with him. More than any other, this current reality seemed like a nightmare.

Stale air shot out. Arck spotted a Freeguard behind him, and then another. In the dim and murky light ahead of him, soldiers were emerging from another tunnel; there were many of them, but he recognized one: the fierce blond warrior; she was tall and young and she turned toward him momentarily, scrutinized him carefully and spoke into a device. Distrust came to her eyes that he could sense in the dimness. She was fair-haired and beautiful, and he stared at her now openly. Her wild body was strapped with many weapons. She nodded curtly.

He turned away, sensing the pending apocalypse. He also moaned quietly, filled with regret. Still, though he had allowed the wool to be pulled over his eyes, perhaps they would not have to fight for the Keeps, maybe the Bonelves would retreat under threat of his fire. Grey glanced back at him and growled. He felt stupid and blind, and tricked cruelly by fate.

Suddenly Durakerk moved up to him, fast, with another Mauller he hadn't seen before. This surprised him, and for some inexplicable reason he thought then of his Mom and Dad. Loneliness washed over him; it strangled his resolve. All he could think of was the place back on Troan that he had never liked, and that had never liked him; he longed for it.

He looked over at Grey. The coincidence that made him think of the Bolkant home at this exact time did not escape him. He was becoming aware of Grey's manipulation, and this thought freed him a little, but he knew he was still a slave who must be weaned from his master's ideas before he is weaned from his master.

He breathed the stale air in, and fell in behind Grey's steps. He prayed there would be no more Bonelves for him to fry. Though he had the power, he hoped they'd been scared deep into the center of the mountain.

Taff touched his arm.

The Freeguard soldiers welled around and behind him, and stood back to let him pass. He did not realize he was in blue actiniform. They marched from the no man's land of the outer Keep, in the light of Arck's radiating glow, until the passageways became large and high, and they moved into the first Keep, where a light responded, limping and sputtering, from small squares in the ceiling. Great piles of debris and dirt had accumulated in corners, and hanging metal pipes dripped purplish muck. Rust manifested everywhere, slashes and ruts were gouged and hammered into grotesque markings. A few seemed to be crude crosses, and one looked recent. The sulfur smell was now becoming noxious and Arck fought with his stomach, covering his mouth with his shirt and pinching his nostrils closed. He looked behind him at Tob and Strom, who were coughing and teary-eyed, and sharing Tob's shirt tail for a mask.

"Go back," he called to them. "Go back and wait!" Choking and forcing himself not to vomit.

They turned a corner. The passageway narrowed into a tunnel that was reddish brown from fungus and moss. The flickering light along the walls turned to a glaring stark white against the slag and filth.. "So far no Bonelves," Arck said. "This is the way I always thought an insect's nest would be, except without the filth."

Grey kept steadfastly mute, staring ahead, her fur puffed out, ready. From upper tunnels joining the main passageway, a squad of well-armed Freeguard emerged. They looked impatient and nervous. Muffled voices drifted to him from further ahead. Channels leading from the first Keep down into the mountain were apparently secured, but not those leading from the main hall to the second Keep. They stopped again while Grey activated devices, dormant for many centuries, which would warn her if Dread tried to overthrow them with his own spells. By now a considerable group of Freeguard were in the main tunnel, or heading to it, and they seemed to be expecting trouble. Arck felt something strange and ugly, though he wasn't sure what. He spotted the large SelmaKeatra whom he had slighted on his arrival, but suddenly forgot about him when he heard Tob's voice behind him. He spun around angrily.

"I told you to wait back up at the passageway!" he barked into the gloom. His voice bounced into a babble of echoes. Anxiety distorted his pale face, and he clenched his teeth.

"Shut up, Arck," Strom retorted. "We choose to be here!" Her voice was loud enough for the Freeguard in the vicinity to hear clearly. Many of them exchanged glances. The rumors of a mad Proudhon and the stories of his vagaries weren't disputed, but now that they had witnessed his power, they were less quick to judge him harshly, although Arck didn't realize this. He knew it was too late to send his brother and the Angel back safely, and he didn't want to test his authority with Strom in public, either. However, Taff came to his aid as usual, this time by assigning three bodyguards to Strom and Tob.

They watched with the rest as Grey went ahead to the fallen gates, then jumped sprightly up to the top of a jutting petrified stump, and stared from her perch out into the darkness beyond. Her form was slightly arched, and she looked like the most dangerous of predators. But then Grey did something extraordinary, even for her. She stood and lifted her head in a howl that could have shocked the very stone. And then she sat down on the stump and waited patiently. The Freeguard stayed back from her.

A dull stubborn thudding began, not so deep within the dark oblong they faced. Arck felt the stirring of a virulent storm as the thump grew, steadily and annoying. At first it seemed disembodied, which gave it an aspect of horror, then the pounding drew closer. Grey recoiled from the stump with a wild screech. She landed straight back, on two feet. It was terrifying to behold, an Ariste Druid upright in fear on her two hinds. Shock rippled through her body.

Arck edged back, tensing and drawing instinctively closer to the others. He almost tripped in the rubble. A wild, gruesome howl ripped into the hall, as a single gray canine beast with yellow acid eyes and a great tusked mouth lunged out of the black cavern of the Keep. It was bulk-grisly, yet it was all cuspid, and it exuded hate and viciousness, and fear, as if it were the primordial enemy of the Ariste.

Grey growled, electric, and snarled, baring her fangs and glowing instantly with stark white actiniform. The light was blinding at first. She swelled to her fullest dimension, and released a lightning arrow of flame. The fire bolt hit the beast full in the side; it screamed in bloodcurdling agony, and burst into a burning torch. Smoke whorled from the burning animal as it disintegrated into a haze, which descended to the floor, leaving an ugly clump of tiny, sticky ashes. Grey hissed wildly, for more of these huge dog-beasts hurled out of the blackness, with wild barks and hateful eyes. She scurried back, and the flowerholders began to glow. Still more of the beasts flung themselves out of the Keep, and their deadly bloodlust jumped into Arck's consciousness. He sensed that there were hundreds and hundreds, and they were mindless and bloodthirsty. The Freeguard took Grey's lead and backed off, but Taff came forward to Arck's side. The Wizard was burning bright green. His brilliant green light bounced off the slimy rock walls.

"My God, what are they?" Arck cried out.

"Demondogs, Lord," answered the Freeguard closest to him. "We have never heard of ones so close to the surface."

"Damn!" Arck gasped. "Let's get out of here, Grey!"

A white light entered his mental apex, and he burst into deeper blue fire. "Be calm," she said into his mind. "It is only that I was startled; I was expecting another creature; it was one of the Betrayer's tricks. These creatures be easily defeated."

From the hall behind Grey, hammer strokes of fire struck the beasts who had come closest, and they were taken down by surprise. Barking in confusion, the monsters were forced back, where they quickly regrouped into an organized wedge. But they had already allowed Grey a foothold from which to act, and a moment to begin a spell.

The hall started to glow; and soon it was lit by flickering lights a thousand years old, dormant for half that time, and this sent the demondogs into chaotic retreat. The massive doors at the back began to rumble, as ages of disuse ended. Their sputtering and grinding drowned out the demondogs' frantic howls and, in fear of being trapped and unable to escape below, they fled the hall at full speed. Arck could see that Grey had defeated them brilliantly, and he laughed with relief. Smoke whorls hung over the remains of four demondogs that she and the Freeguard had destroyed.

Grey lifted her head, as if listening, and then moved quickly toward the Keep's doorway. The doors closed under her power, although she seemed reluctant and hesitant. The foreboding that had come to Arck from within the Keep dissipated, and he felt his heart returning to normal.

At the entrance on the lower side of the Keep, a kind of rotunda remained standing, but it was badly mangled, and not one of its lighting devices flickered. Arck watched Grey disappear into its smoky dimness and followed her as far as the smashed walls at its front. The Angel and Tob stayed close behind him. Something caught his eye. A large, circular base-relief of flowers and magical symbols had been carved into a side wall, then covered by a resilient, crystal material, to form a round panel. At its center, twelve flowers had been carved in a flowing circle. The Proudhon stepped over piles of rubble and dirt to reach it. It was undamaged, after centuries of abandonment.

"Preserved by some mysterious force," he said with a whisper. He touched one of the twelve flowers and started — the giant disc trembled almost imperceptibly.

"What could that be?" he said.

"What?" asked Tob. He and Strom had noticed nothing. Arck still did not trust his samasense, but he knew he had felt the disc move. Deep inside the mountain, something called to him.

"What is it?" the Angel asked, disconcerted by the puzzled look on his face.

"I don't know," he answered. "I mean, perhaps these flowers are the same flowers as the ones in my Garden. But how could that be?"

He did not have time to develop the thought. All at once, even in this part of the hall, the light from the ceiling surged into brightness. The stark light left no doubt of the destruction visited upon the whole of the defaced, decayed cavern. It sent eerie, indefinable sensations pulsing through him. The Liebrent Heir squinted through the dust and stench

"Only stone and garbage," he said, disappointed. He knew that the Keeps below this one must be in even worse state, with everything buried under the waste of reeking black demondogs and Bonelves, or whatever else lived here.

"Could it ever be reclaimed or restored?" he wondered. He walked over to Grey and watched her secure all downward passages against enemies that only days ago had owned the whole of Barkel mountain.

"No, no!" he said, impatient and resenting all the sacrifice Grey would demand from him.

She set twelve wards, but he wondered if they would hold against so many Bonelves and demondogs. He watched Strom and Tob start to wander about, nosing into curious openings and ducts.

Though fresher air was already descending into the cavern, his head began throbbing, and he sent a badly disguised glare of ill intent at Grey.

The first Keep was retaken.

Certainly that was enough for the moment.

He sat on a rock, trying not to lean against anything.

Entering the Keeps, but well back of Taff's troops, Staff Slager touched Tuvver Tol's arm in sudden desperation, stumbling, as a tempest of despair hit her.

"What is it?" he asked in concern.

"Oh, there's no worse!" Her voice swelled with grief, "There is no worse, Tol. Quicksand. Let me breathe a while." She leaned against the stone with more pangs from the horrible vision which had just overcome her.

"Dread is under the mountain! Dread is here, my love. Oh, I see sorrow in this damned endeavor. I sense, too, that Grey is caught up in her own ambition and believes no extreme too great for the promise of victory. She must know. She knows!"

"We cannot stop her?" he asked. She shook her head, mournfully, with closed eyes. He put a supporting arm around her shoulders.

"Then let us leave this wicked mountain," he said.

She tried to breathe evenly now.

"Who, who?" she murmured. "Are we all to die?" Aloud, she said, "Tuvver, I am so sorry, my love, but for my son's sake I mustn't be deterred; though death, horrible death, rings in my ears even as I speak."

"Yes," he said, accepting her words without question. Tuvver drew his huge baliwax sword and raised his annujet, and he stood tall in his own glow. "Let us stay close to the Freeguard. After all, there are hundreds of Dread's demons here?" He looked into her face and he was worried for her sake. "And Grey knows of his presence?"

Staff stood without support now. "Yes. Maybe. Yes, she must. Yes. No, Dread is here! Let us tell Taff; but I'm not sure about the Proudhon, he is completely enmeshed in her wiles. How could Taff have allowed such a thing to occur? They're all gone mad. And, my dear, it seems that we are mad, too, to let ourselves be strangled by duty and love.

Similarly drawn together in horror, Fern and Taff stood side by side, as he kept the Proudhon in his sights. Fern felt the tattletale signs of black augury; but vaguely. How she missed Sheila and the Fault. There was good power there; and space, and time, and reassuring stone. Not like here under Barkel Mountain. Maybe it had been so once upon a time, but even so, its present was bitter and violent.

"I am Troan's decree," she thought, "So why must it end now, before my time?"

"Arise Master, rise," screeched the Bloodbird. "Something evil stirs!" The swoosh of feathers sent her senses off balance. The Familiar was her scourge; she should never have vested it with so much power. But, then, she had expected to live long and die peacefully at the Sanctuary she had spent her life building. Now she wondered why she had left it. Had she sensed some hidden restlessness in Sheila? Had Mockingbird's prophesy so frightened her?

"To die, yet to live!" she sighed, following Taff as he moved ahead. The lights had dulled again, and the gloom seeped into her heart.

### The Great Betrayer 27

Soon again Arck was lost in the trance of that horrible downward march. Time. Time was out of hand. Arck had lost his place in Time, or Time had shifted out of his dimension. Its passage was a bookmark in the waking world belonging to these others, but not to him. Years had passed in minutes, but they were still in the first Keep, the one called Korrdam's Layer.

As they started downward into the dark passages, wands of clear light, the size and shape of baseball bats, were held up by Freeguard troopers or attached to the walls here and there. The troops were ominously quiet, expectant. At first they moved quickly for such a large force, but debris cluttered the path, and the refuse and stench made progress a galling effort. There seemed to be some kind of deliberate, malicious intent signified by the foul display.

Once, Arck looked back and saw Taff and Ruby shepherding their troops carefully. The Wizard smiled at him and gave a wave, but soon disappeared down a different passageway. Arck saw the blonde female warrior again; she was watching him. Suddenly he remembered her name from volscyl dreams, Deng Frest, one of Taff's long-standing bewa-warriors. He moved in that direction, strangely attracted to her, but he heard a swish and something dark zinged by him, then Mockingbird, a blacker shadow among the shadows of moving figures, was upon him.

"Awake, false one!" it shrieked. "Awake! Great numbers come, the Master says. Awk! Great numbers. Awwwk! I am the master's voice!"

"Get away," he shouted, flailing his hands at the bird. He slipped to one knee, and recoiled angrily from it. "Don't come near me!"

The Familiar was already down another passageway. So was the female warrior. Nearby Freeguard spread out in a fan around him. Metallic clangs and clicks accompanied the drawing of their weapons, which glinted dully in the lights. They gained the second Keep, and the odor grew even more noxious. The slope angled down steps which were almost erased by wear. Arck struggled to breathe as sparingly as possible. Only the need to be wary compelled him to look at the psychopathic leavings. He was fighting for freedom, but that freedom existed in violence and fear. He felt trapped in dark lonely places and he hated it all. It would be so easy to give his power up to Dread, secreted miles below, undetected by the others. Then he himself might have freedom.

"Arck?" Strom's voice broke into his thoughts. "Are you okay?" He nodded. Her green eyes were flashing with fear.

They stopped again. The slimy walls seemed to suck up the light. Arck stood in the fetid tunnel and fought back tears. Everyone seemed determined for war.

The two high Druids, Staff and Grey, were somehow uniting, but he could not appreciate the symmetry of that combination. The light seemed bright and harsh now. Everyone near him looked tense and nervous, and they gathered around the two Druids. A young Freeguard next to him held her nose and looked at the floor to avoid his glance. He drew a breath reluctantly.

Then Staff began a chant, and her voice rose with a soft lilt.

"There are words in wisdom that are many fountains;

The key is in the stone of Barkel mountain:

They woo the Keepers like water on shore,

They open the fortresses with secret lore:

Taja Selma; Zoraselma

Science of Logic and Light.

Under this weight of water and stone,

Find the highest laws written in rune:

A lasting Kingdom of Freedoms enclosed,

The potential power to your peril expose:

Taja Selma; Zoraselma

Science of Will and Truth."

The Druids had spoken in unison though no words were seen to leave Grey's lips. The words drove the air itself into rebellion against the stench, passages groaned as if awakening after centuries, and a faint current of clean air penetrated the miasma. The Proudhon wondered how many other incantations had filled this place when it was home to the Druids. Staff and Grey opened a passage long locked by spells. Some of the doors had been unopened since the Raker era, and they creaked open tortuously amid heavy falls of dust which filled the air as it was disturbed. Back and forth, power was transferred from the Keep to the Druids. At first there was no sound but the rustling of Freeguard, then dead silence. Grey snarled, and Arck sensed something terribly wrong.

Tuvver Tol was only steps away from Staff. He gave a sudden gasp, and his sturdy body shook as a flying silver fenderlance shot through his chest. The Mauller fell back to the stone wall with shocked eyes, while blood bubbled from his mouth. He died standing pinned against stone by the searing metal spear. His lover rushed to him, but she had no spell to help him now. Without a sound, she pressed close to him, her eyes closed; when she opened them, tears ran down her face. More fenderlances flew, and each one drove through its target. Some, like Tuvver, died without a scream.

The lights dimmed almost to extinction. Arck jumped back, and a hand stopped him from falling. It was the blonde Freeguard he had seen earlier; Deng Frest, she looked even more fierce and angry. A fenderlance lashed into stone where he had been standing a second earlier.

Staff returned to Grey's side, and the two Druids glowed like a lodestar.

Dozens more of the silver-colored spears slashed the air, but now they were being deflected by some invisible force. Hot, foul air clamped over Arck's face like a muzzle; he spun in panic, but there was nothing to be seen. He decided it must be hallucination; still, it was a stinking breath of hatred exhaled from the depths of Barkel Mountain.

An unseen door in the rock wall pulled inwards, black shadows started to pour out of the darkness behind, then more hidden doors opened. Masses of Bonelves emerged and moved forward, undeterred by the Druids' presence, while demondogs flooded past them, howling like a thousand banshees. Their bloodcurdling wails transcended imagination. Taff burned bright green, and tried to reach the Proudhon. Every hair on Grey's body stood straight up and she was a ball of white fluorescence. Confusion broke the ranks protecting Arck, but their enemy was prepared and organized, and they sent fear into the hearts of the human-forms who beheld them. Dread directed them, and Arck knew it.

Images from his sixteen years started flashing in his brain, until he saw his own death, still in youth. Something struck him and blood ran from his forehead as he fell back. Dazed, he raised his fist at a pouncing demondog, but the clean, violent slice of a wrentsword severed the beast's head in midair even as it leaped for the Proudhon's throat. Deng Frest had stuck by his side. She stood in front of him, holding her dripping sword ready to defend him from the monstrous pack coming at them with hateful yellow eyes and bared fangs. It was madness–madness and filth and stench and unending death. He could not see his brother or Strom though the darkness. He lay there in the dirt and felt terror; he succumbed to Dread.

Great silver flames blazed from Staff and Grey, then joined, and split into a thousand arrows of white fire darting into the solid black mass of Bonelves moving rapidly towards them. The creatures howled with pain and fright as they were pierced and burned by the light and fire, but there were so many that others came forward in a wave, and died at the hands of the Freeguard. Through the confusion, a laugh reached Arck's ears; it was a deep, rich sound, yet it was horrible because it seeped evil and hidden power. Dread was waiting for him.

"Vilemarcs," the Freeguard shouted in discord. "Vilemarcs!"

A group of them, well-armed and carrying the silver lances, had appeared quietly from the underground tunnels. They wore the crests and insignia of the Great Betrayer; they were his lieutenants, and all prodigiously skilled in annujet. Arck thought of cobalt blue flame, and he tried to make contact with the Star of Aarona but he failed. The Freeguard were being pushed back by Bonelves and Vilemarcs, and even a few demondogs still alive, but Arck could not move. Again, he heard, or felt, Dread's laugh; it sounded even deeper now, and miles away.

Arck's forehead was still bleeding. He wiped his face with his hands, and wondered what underhanded scheme had brought him to this abyss. Why was he constantly being driven to Dread? The Great Betrayer was both perfidious and implacable, but was there no escape? No hope? A small resolute group of Freeguard were joined around to him, and Deng Frest stood directly in front of him. He realized she was as brave as she was beautiful.

Taff fought in the face of the main onslaught, holding back the rabble of Bonelves with bolts of green fire. He looked quickly to check the Proudhon's safety. There was a purpose in the enemy's hearts that the Wizard realized only now. Ruby Obis was beside him with her two annujet discs raised, any enemies who came too close to Taff were sliced to death without mercy.

The Bonelves were armed with deadly stiletto blades and fenderdarts, and they clambered wildly towards Arck, many meeting a horrible death in Taff's fire. Swords clashed to the Wizard's right as his personal guards held formation, some dying for it. Cries of agony came from both sides. Taff saw Fern's Larlstone blaze, but then a great blood-red flame rolled at her from deeper inside the Keep, and a monstrous Vilemarc appeared at its source. The creature was more yellow than grey; it grinned and hissed, and sent out another throng of Bonelves from the darkness behind. The red flame came slowly, scattering here and there. The Vilemarc became a center of attack and its forces rallied around him, even as the Freeguard rallied around Taff.

Then the Vilemarc sent its sluggish power at the ceiling, where it recoiled in a tubular spiral that crashed down upon Fern and snapped her delicate ring of fire. Her robes smoldered as her larlstone failed. Anguish and horror distorted her face. Taff sent Ruby Obis to her. Arck tried to pour power into her wisteria flower but failed. Why had she come? Horrible cries from unchecked slaughter pierced him. He lost all volition, and stood motionless, thinking only of release. But a pinpoint of pure effervescent white-light touched his center of power, and open blue flame spun up around him.

Fern pulled away from the Vilemarc's electromagnetic fire to safety, stumbling into Ruby's arms. Arck's thoughts were in a tumult. He had an urgent sense of the Betrayer's presence, far below in Barkel mountain. Dread was hidden in some unknown corner; waiting, organizing, and laughing, always laughing. Arck could see Grey in the throng of slippery black creatures. Bonelves burst into flames and were reduced to thick smoke. The passages were a swirl of wrentswords and nakus-daggers, and the Bonelves scattered before Grey, but they did not run far enough or fast enough to escape her wrath. A howl ripped through the clamor and a giant demondog sprang in front of her. Her back arched, she snarled viciously, then they leaped at each other's throat. It was over in seconds; the demondog lay dead. The Bonelves seemed to lose heart, and milled about aimlessly.

Durakerk leaped towards the large yellow Vilemarc. Its face filled with fear, and fiery discs began flying, but the Proudhon could not tell who drove them. Neither could he see what had happened to Grey; he dashed past his guards into the confusion, trying to find her. He saw the Witch glowing vibrant red, but he knew she had been hurt. The blonde warrior plunged after him, but couldn't get through.

Durakerk was driven to his knees by the Vilemarc's red flame. The creature laughed maliciously; and a small disc appeared in its outstretched hand. It was the most primitive annujet.

Arck had seen them in dreams. The Vilemarc launched it and Taff shouted, a green flame coursed from his fists, and he withdrew to his Kiji Noloyd, all in a split second. He drove the noloyd with lightning speed; it sliced into the Vilemarc in an instant and its scream shook against the stone.

The Freeguard rushed forward with shouts of hatred and victory. The Kiji Noloyd returned to Taff's body, but his guards were swept up in exuberance and ignored his unprotected body for several seconds–Ruby Obis, his stō, was with Fern.

A Bonelve lying in pretended death sprung up behind the Freeguard lines and stabbed Taff in the side with a deep thrust of its black stiletto.

Returning to his body from the Kiji disc at that exact instant, the startled Wizard swung on his heels, sliced the creature's head to the floor with fire, and then crumpled into the mud and blood around him. His green flame died at once.

"Oh no!" Strom screamed above the din.

At once a Freeguard lieutenant lifted him in her arms. She called to her compatriots and backed towards the Witch; but, Arck, who had seen it all, reacted angrily. Rage filled his thoughts and brought with it uncontrolled power. His blue fire exploded in all directions. He heard in his mind Dread's malicious laughter from deep within Barkel mountain, and a stinging flame flew horizontally through the hall.

A Freeguard warrior to Arck's right cried out in pain, accidentally caught in his fire. She fell back with a gasp of agony.

Madness was all around. He took a staggering, slow step. His blue flame flared, a glorious sapphire. At first he hardly noticed that the Taja Noloyd was drawing him on of its own accord.

As he moved faster, in his blue inferno, the Vilemarcs drove their Bonelve shards into retreat. Grey appeared by the Proudhon's side, guessing an opportunity to uncover the Tij Noloyds, and ready to risk everything for that possibility.

––

As the Pulsar ship Tramas prepared for tau-jump, some thirty seven standard days had drifted by since it left Troan and the Mer Sun System. The strong solar wind from this point of the universe continued the Soul Slayer's good luck. From the brettiscreens, she watched the shining dust which had, at least in part, created the nebula, which in turn held the Circle Cluster in constant movement as if a galaxy within a galaxy.

The Soul Slayer expected Tramas to reach the thin radius of ecosphere of MilroyStardance in approximately three weeks. The trigonometric stellar calculations needed to take Tau lines from one point in deep space to another were incredible, and were more of an art than a science.

The rebel Zora-Pulsar spacecraft, the independent Pulsarites, performed better in the Tau jumps than the Chrisarmains' lesser Pulsar ships, but the idea of being at the mercy of silicon-based life was totally absurd to the Chrisarmains–and rightly so, she thought. However, Sphange gave Tramas more freedom than any other of her ships, and though its behavior was somewhat erratic, its performance in Tau was excellent. The time online was minuscule, and to her this was good. The jumps were unsettling to every crew member; but the sublight travel needed to precede and follow the Tau jump was as tedious to her as anything she could imagine.

In the meantime, under her instructions, Jade, the effete Centrite Hanrahan who had been with her at the Fault on Troan, worked on Tilly Croft. With his skill as a truth reader and mind bender, Jade was one of the best. But the Slayer, out of fear for the Proudhon's apparently delicate imbalance, had the Troanean girls spared his efforts for the moment. If the Proudhon was pushed over the edge of sanity because his siblings were tampered with, the results would more likely be battle than barter, and this would not serve her purposes. Thus, they had been left to their own devices, so far, though well tended in their regular needs, habits, and education. No attempt had been made to convert them through propaganda nor did the Soul Slayer have any sama device implanted inside them, or allow any alteration by chemical means, brainwashing, or snapping of their personalities. In a word, they were left unmolested.

Though paranoid and suspicious, as always, Sphange felt that if the Proudhon bargained with her, she would keep her part of whatever arrangement they made, and trade fairly, returning his family undamaged; this was her present thought.

––

Fern was attending to Taff's wound in the second Keep with Ruby. She relaxed her shield and deactivated her larlstone so that she could give her undivided attention to Taff; but, hidden in the smoke and confusion near the ingress, one Vilemarc was concealing himself, waiting. While she bent over the Wizard, the Vilemarc rose and darted at her in a suicidal move. He reached her with a few long, quick strides, unimpeded. He had been ordered by Dread himself to recover a Flower Menhir, and great reward hung in the balance.

The huge creature launched his annujet and grabbed the wisteria from her neck. Annujet pierced Fern's heart; it was too close for the Flower's actiniform to stop it. The Mockingbird screeched above her, flying blindly into the Vilemarc's face; its claws reached for the yellow eyes, but the Vilemarc instinctively covered them, and Bloodbird plucked the wisteria from its gray hands. Fern gasped, then painfully reached up and touched her Familiar. As soon as her fingers rested on Bloodbird's feathers, she drew to her full height and turned such cold eyes upon the startled Vilemarc that the shock drove it back against the wall, but Fern seized the Vilemarc even as she touched the Bloodbird. At that exact moment in time, Ruby's annujet flew into the Vilemarc's flesh. The huge creature, Fern, and her Familiar, exploded into a living pyre; in the consuming fire, a pure white light was born of the Proudhon's volscyl flower. Soon the translucent form of a bird spun upward in the white fire storm, a silver streak flew out of the brilliant flame and took the shape of the Familiar, but no more was it red with feathers tipped black, now its plumage was brilliant silver, and the tips of its feathers were palest gold. Its red fire had been burned into white heat and it radiated great power. Mockingbird seemed larger, as if physically expanded by Fern's transferred power. The Wisteria was at Bloodbird's neck. Fern was dead but her power still lived, just as Mockingbird had foretold.

"Strom!" the Familiar screeched, flying toward the Angel. "Strom. Run back! Dread comes for the Flowers."

No sense of anything amiss had reached Arck: the wisteria had remained intact, and samasense communicated nothing to him about the calamities behind him. He was unaware Taff was dying or that Fern was already dead. Nevertheless, his actiniform glowed brighter and brighter. Coldly and casually, he killed every Bonelve or demondog or anything else he noticed in his downward path, including a few Vilemarcs. He melted stone and tall forms that were mounds of stones or stalagmites, as if they were no different than his living targets. He began to move faster, walking trancelike to the next Keep, and it answered to his power with its own–old, crusted lights flickered, and doors opened and shut of their own accord. He was alone except for two tall, white spirals of brilliance that followed him.

The Druids, Grey and Staff, were protected by their annujet fires. However, there were no Freeguard warriors in search of the Proudhon. Some had been injured, some killed. The survivors were bitter and ashamed that they'd been unable to protect their leader, or the Witch. Any demondog or Bonelve left in the second Keep were soon discovered and ceremoniously hacked limb from limb by the Freeguard. Taff's troopers soon retreated with their dead and dying to the ceptors, and shut the entrances to the Keeps. Their mouths held the taste of betrayal and hatred, but it did not last long.

On the surface, what they took to be the Betrayer's troops were actually Bandor's, who caught them off guard and launched a surprise ground attack; the Freeguard came to the surface only to be with more war. Coldfire could not be reached. The phlofusion shields ran at maximum, and rumor came that the Soul Slayer's fleet had arrived in MilroyStardance. They would have been surprised to learn that the rumor had come from Grey, and horrified that it was true.

Arck's blue radiance lit his way deeper into the blackness of Barkel Mountain's stone world, and it was as if he walked inside the eye of a hurricane that whirled around him, trying to suck him up. But he would stay at its center, and he would destroy–destroy everything, even Barkel mountain itself if he thought it might end the nightmare. The Betrayer waited, laughing, always laughing, and it was evil, malignant laughter. Arck strode deeper and deeper into the core of Lorlett. His filthy little enemies scurried away as soon as he came near, but many, were hidden in secret passages with their Vilemarc masters. He was unaware that great numbers of them would soon be behind him, making it impossible for the Freeguard or anyone else to come to his aid. He hadn't a thought now for anyone–not for Taff, not even for his brother, not for the Angel. His only thought was to end this.

Further and further, Arck descended. Worn indentations that once had been stone steps led down through this once glorious structure created by nature, and built upon by Druid art, now little more than a deliberately fouled receptacle for filth and putrefaction.

The Proudhon was locked in a cell of thought, without the key, and literally in a maze without a map, but he no longer needed key or map. His cobalt fire grew, incandescent. He walked surrounded by bright blue fire.

The third Keep was ruined beyond any attempt at repair, and empty of life except for shadows that fled from sight. He kept on until he found the next Keep. Its condition was even worse than the last one. Only his actiniform kept him from suffocating in the toxic, stinking fumes. It was obvious that the defilement had been planned, and planned with contempt.

He continued undeterred, through mile after mile of rotting waste. His heart beat steadily. From every tunnel and fissure, the fumes became heavier, and his actiniform deepened in response until it was as though the ugly depths slowly swallowed a bright blue sun.

––

In the moments before the Tau jump, when Sphange, the Soul Slayer, sat contemplating the strategic worth of her three Troanean hostages, Di Bolkant slid into a familiar chair that held a hundred devices, placed in front of a modular computer that held a thousand more. She was determined to learn everything she could about whatever this was that she was caught up in, but she was still hardly able to translate the simplest command functions, even though Tramas now had some recent records of Troanish dialects and was helping her. Behind her, Larska fell off a stool and started to wail from fright.

"Larska," Di called lightly back over her shoulder as her little sister began to wail, "Larska, honey; don't cry."

Pom came out of the kitchenette of their modest quarters, picked Larska up and stood her on a bench while she checked for bumps and bruises. The three of them had been imprisoned within this space for over five weeks. Plenty of food was stored in containers and cupboards, and somehow fresh milk and produce from Troan appeared daily in a refrigerated cabinet set into the kitchenette wall. There was also a full bathroom, and a single brettiscreen.

After a minute's comforting, Larska was smiling and chattering, while Di, struggling with the undeciphered information, was making surprising headway in light of her limited experience.

Without warning, the door panel indicator lit up, and the door slid open. A giant Black stood godlike in their doorway; beside him was a brown-skinned, petite Centrite female with brown eyes and brown hair. She was young, and she was quite lovely. To Di, the girl didn't look old enough to be wandering about with such a dangerous looking companion. However, quite to the contrary, the Centrite strode with authority to the middle of the room.

"This is Vreen," she said in Ace, the official language of CentreRule, pointing to the homely Spurl male. Then she translated this into a heavily accented and broken Troanish, which obviously she herself was just learning, and added, "Vreen is with security and is sometimes a pilot for the High Priestess herself. I am Sevinn Suean, a Beta Kostel to our Lady."

Di nodded, showing that she partly understood. Pom had turned around from Larska, who was now whimpering in fear. "Why have you come?" Pom said slowly in Troan, suddenly fearful for their lives.

"Oh no," Sevinn answered in broken Troanish, smiling openly to allay Pom's concern. "Not to divine any secrets or to interfere." She spoke slowly, carefully articulating each syllable. "The Lady wishes us to be of service to you."

"Then release us," Pom said briskly.

"Yes, you will have ship privileges now, if you are accompanied by Vreen or myself."

"No, I mean, release us completely!"

"Oh, you do not understand maybe? We are in deep space, a half day before we go on line. I am afraid there is nowhere to go even if I could release you. You're being held for the safe delivery of your brother Arck, with whom the High Priestess must meet for the benefit of the whole Circle Cluster. You must in this way serve Milady, and as you do so, you serve all of society. Duty to the state is a great privilege, and sometimes the only choice one has." She spoke as if she truly believed her words.

––

Arck's single purpose – and it was certainly not duty to the state – had not wavered. As he moved on, he reached the front of the Fifth Keep. The two high Druids still followed.

Staff Slager was gripped by bitterness and hatred. Everything was turning against a great purpose, and her partner Tuvver Tol, her strong, loving companion for so much of their lives, was gone; murdered by evil. She would die, too, she promised herself; give her life for Tuvver as he had for her. Her white fire burned as pure and clear as the heart of a diamond.

Grey was slightly behind Staff. She knew the Betrayer had been here in Barkel Mountain for two days. She held to her belief that mastery was still within her reach, although the magnitude of this trap staggered her mind, and now there was more–she sensed the Slayer's fleet approaching the outskirts of Milroy, some perhaps within striking distance. It was not the Soul Slayer herself who came, not yet anyway, but in the forefront of her fleet would be Fakirs and Tewks enough to take on Wizards and Druids. Enemy troops, either the Slayer's or those of her brother, were already attacking on the surface and she believed many more Chrisarmain Pulsar ships were slated to arrive in the next weeks. Nevertheless, she had one advantage–the Betrayer's greed. If she found the Tij Noloyds now, here in the dark Keeps of Barkel Mountain, she was sure she could kill Eft Coll easily, and his alter ego, the Great Betrayer who possessed his body.

Though Sphange Coll was not yet in MilroyStardance, Grey knew that the Soul Slayer's hands would be itching; she was brutal, and her greed matched that of her brother. The Slayer was also a Mij warrior and would willingly take chances to outdo her brother. The Soul Slayer's wealth was inestimable and her power was great, but Grey had a trump card: Grey's most trusted ally was hidden in the MilroyStardance System; hidden within the greatest of Aristean Pulsarites, LotusEater.

But why was the Betrayer so confident? Was it because the Proudhon had consistently drawn the rebels' efforts to failure? And where was the aloof Lord Hornblende? He too must have felt his old enemy hiding in the dark caverns where not even demondogs dared prowl. He who'd known Dread so intimately should be down here fighting alongside them. The Zoraselma Rebels had begun the quest for freedom, and Grey was sure all hope would vanish with her if she should die; therefore she had taken the gamble with Arck. She had shaped him so that no being could be more potent, and she could only hope he was ready. Even so, the risks were too high to battle Dread in his old haunts unless she retrieved the Tij Noloyds. She could take him, but she must have the Tij first.

This was where Raker had been slaughtered on the altar of Dread's glory. His lust for power was undying. He had few weaknesses and many great skills, but the Druid had long trained herself to face him, and held on to her hope. It would be just and fitting if Dread should die here. Aarona Raker would be revenged, and maybe this very day!

The missing white Tij Noloyds were here to be found, of this she was positive. Grey held on to an intuition of their location, but she needed more time. Arck was moving too fast. Time. Still, she had annujet and discipline, and she followed the Proudhon with hope, just as Staff Slager followed him with none.

Arck drove himself forward. His movements were mechanical and his heart and mind were concentrated on the present, the time of culmination. The Great Betrayer would have the Taja freely–or he would be fought to the end. Either way, it was immaterial to the Proudhon. Would it really matter who won this deadly prize which hung around his neck? Then a look of pain flashed over his face. He whirled around to face Staff Slager and Grey and their fierce fires.

Their courage was hard for him to comprehend. To face death so willingly in a cause so undecided; at least in his own view. He turned back to his path and resumed his pace. He tried to clear his mind, but it filled with dread; dull and pointless dread.

The sixth Keep was dark and malignant, and empty. He walked straight into it, without feeling or caring. Of the twelve Keeps of Barkel mountain, it was the smallest, and it reeked of must and poisonous decay, but it was less defaced than the others. At least there were no vile creatures here to be slaughtered.

Through the Keep, lights flickered weakly, showing oozing walls and more filth. Huge bug-like creatures scurried out of his way, and sparks scattered out at his every step. Determination drove him on through fatigue, through smashed marble remnants and thick muck, but even exhaustion would not take him to his FlowerGarden. The two brilliant white lights radiated strongly at him.

The seventh Keep was connected to the eighth by a great hallway at the back. Both were defaced and everything in them destroyed, but there was lingering power here.

Arck's own power, weakening from his exhaustion, was minutely revitalized by the Keeps' old samapower. He felt some life left here; it was secret, hidden from the Bonelves and Vilemarcs, even from Dread who laughed far below as he drew the Proudhon in. The samapower here was trying to help him, but he had not mastered the Taja Noloyd and could not take the secret gifts. He lacked the key.

He moved on, riddled with doubt and abandoned by reason, except for one thing: he now truly found fear in the thought that Dread, the Darkest of Lords, would come to reign over the Circle Cluster in the Overseer's stead. He bent his head and walked toward the ninth Keep. His circle of fire was symmetrical; sometimes constant, sometimes erratic.

### The Great Betrayer 28

The Proudhon recognized the ninth Keep, he had seen it in dreams. It had been Aarona Raker's own. No systems of tunnels or caverns remained here, but it was the largest of the Keeps–large enough to hold a sizable army. The walls seemed to move with him and time was frozen. His heart was cold with fear, and he felt no hope. Dread was drawing him, pulling him forward, and the Great Betrayer was smiling, smiling deep inside the mountain, and waiting, lusting for the challenge of the Taja. Again, Arck thought of turning around, but it was too late. His determination to finish everything here and now was stronger than the terror that gripped him.

He stepped further into the Keep, but no lights flickered and no power came of its own accord. He moved forward and his blue aura reflected from a wet, dripping wall. The Keep had been completely destroyed, worse than any of the others, but when he looked at the ceiling his mouth opened in amazement; spikes had been fixed into the high upper walls of the entire enclosure like thorns, and monstrous gargoyles were randomly attached to many. Their gaping mouths dripped black ooze, and the floor was a pool of black vitriol and sulfuric fumes. The gargoyles were a hundred manacled stone monsters spewing their disgust. He stepped closer, breathless.

As his blue radiation neared them, the closest ones caught fire and began to spit flame. One by one, then dozen by dozen, the stone gargoyles exploded into smoke and fire. All at once the whole Keep exploded into an inferno and though the Proudhon felt nothing but a dull heat, the flame expanded and whipped up a wind seeking oxygen to fuel itself. Soon it poured from the hall, past Slager and Grey, as it spiraled towards the next keep. He felt its power pushing against his. The passages behind them roared with fire, and he realized that, if not before, now they were trapped. He realized something else, too–another force besides Dread was at work.

The fire's velocity increased inside the Keep. He didn't notice at first, but the disc gathered strength from the rising inferno and so did he. Soon a consuming jet of fire, about twenty strides long and a length of his arm through, poured into one part of the wall. He felt it pulling gently at him, as if it beckoned. He deliberately steered his power directly into it, and took great pleasure in doing so. The laughter below disappeared from his mind; he sensed Dread holding his breath. Stubbornly, Arck increased his effort. He was dazed, but new strength was gathering in him. The heat was escalating rapidly.

The two Druids came to his side, and Grey put all her strength into his fire. She was glowing brighter and brighter with excitement, for her hopes were fulfilled; she had detected the Tij Noloyds.

"You've found them, Arck," she mindsaid. "Now we will kill him!"

Matter melted and ran down the walls in liquid fire that burned along the floor, cleaning away piles of filth that had been building for centuries. As it exhausted its fuel at one point, the fire poured on in search of more, creating a howling wind in its wake. When it cleared from the area ahead of them, an object protruded from a patch of white-hot packed sand. It looked like some kind of sculpture, buried in the floor. Sand flew away from it and power surged from the buried object.

"The Tij!" Grey mindcalled. She was ecstatic.

Now Arck was able to identify a section of frieze that showed the life-sized figure of Aarona Raker. But it did not seem lifeless; somehow it looked at him with two bright white eyes that held a fire of their own. It was not by accident that he had discovered the two failed Tij Noloyds in the very Keep that had been their creator's. He did not stop to think what a discovery of this magnitude could mean.

Two points of brilliant light beamed from the discs and bore through him; he felt them sear into his mind and heart with ruthless perception. Now he remembered that the two failed Tij had been considered so dangerous by Aarona Raker that she buried them deep in a sepulcher under a mass of sand and stone.

Arck pulled away from his center of power, he was too late to turn away from the fire of the Tij Noloyds. The Tij light penetrated his inner being and the presence of Aarona Raker was with him, entering his frozen inner self, in pulses of death. Suddenly he knew he was in immediate danger. The eyes of the lifelike sculpture were not in focus, but at odds, each with the other. It was as if they were possessed by different beings who warred between themselves, like his own divided self. Then deep below he felt Dread's laugh return and did not understand.

Arck pushed with his whole power, and the fires ahead of him blew apart. The Keep of Aarona Raker began to melt in quantum-atomic strafe. Smoke billowed, lava formed. But then an opposing force, a beam of brilliant white, entered his psyche. This one was familiar, but it was no gentle prod. Grey compelled him to turn his head.

"Avert your eyes from the Tij noloyds," Grey mindsaid to Arck in alarm.

He saw the Druid rush forward. The spell was broken and the two noloyd eyes dulled. The lost Tij discs had been found where Aarona Raker had hidden them centuries before, and Grey's hopes had been fulfilled, yet this discovery seemed to open more avenues to defeat. A blast of putrid air came at them from below. Fire clung everywhere, and Aarona Raker's once magnificent Keep was no more than a faded memory.

"But why me?" Arck whispered. "Why?"

Dread laughed again; laughed at the Proudhon's weakness, and urged him forward.

Arck moved on again, dizzy and tired. Grey leaped to his side and then disappeared into the hole Arck had burned in the wall, but he did not wait for her. Resignation filled his thoughts, so that he failed even to comprehend the importance of finding the Tij Noloyds. As he left the hell he had summoned up on his path to the hell that summoned him down, hundreds of Bonelves rushed wildly into the Keep, driven by fear of the Betrayer's lieutenants. Many perished in the rushing river of rolling lava.

––

"Now you're my pawn," Dread muttered as the Proudhon descended towards him. His hounds pricked up their ears. The Betrayer made an effort to control his joy. Though he could feel Arck marching blindly toward him, he knew that the Greywheter Druid was still fast on his heels. He did not want to make any mistake now. He must stay calm, calm and cold. This might well be his only chance. His sister was coming, with her entire fleet of Pulsar ships, and her enormous army, and he must have the Taja long before then.

"Now," he said. "Now! I will have the disc today." How could I not? he thought. The Proudhon approached closer and closer, and it was too late to turn back.

"Yes!" The Great Betrayer hissed. "And is not the Proudhon exquisitely mad?"

He took out a modine. The small screen focused on the face of a gruesome Vilemarc lieutenant called Bognoff, who was hiding in the dark shadows, well above Eft but still below Arck.

"Yes Lord?" Bognoff asked.

"Are you ready?" Dread asked impatiently. The Vilemarc nodded. "You must separate the Proudhon from the others, who must then be detained and destroyed. No cost is too great. Do not fail!"

––

As Arck headed toward the tenth Keep, Bognoff gave a secret signal, and a wedge formation was deployed to the right of the Proudhon, while Vilemarcs raced to attack his Druid protectors. Discs of ancient annujet flew at Staff Slager. The Mauller Druid was pushed back, and began fighting with all her might just to stay alive.

"Stop!" Staff yelled to Arck. "I cannot follow!"

But her words did not reach him, and as Arck pushed on down through black caverns, she fought alone. Grey had disappeared. Staff scorched whatever came near her, and they came, from behind stalagmites, from hidden entrances which suddenly creaked open; they came at her from all directions. Packs of demondogs and Bonelves surrounded her. They circled her fire warily, and then they lunged. She could see this attack had been planned. Hundreds upon hundreds came surging up, unaware that the ninth Keep was molten lava. They kept coming, to take part in the death of two despised Druids. But Staff Slager fought fiercely against them, and each Bonelve or demondog or Vilemarc she destroyed was an offering at the shrine of Tuvver Tol.

In the tenth Keep itself, rat-like creatures flew from cracks and crevices, avoiding the heat that spread around Arck. His actiniform burned bright, rich deep blue, and he looked invincible, but he was losing whatever anchors still held him to reality. The incomprehensible swirl of events buffeted his mind and mixed with his samasense. In the outer reaches of his perception, he became aware of the largest Vilemarc he had ever seen. Though the creature was well back in shadows, Arck could see that he was at least a foot higher than Durakerk. He was yellowish grey and flailed his arms jerkily, driving Bonelves out into the hall. The giant Vilemarc looked at Arck, and a guttural laugh shook him. Mocking him, Bognoff hurled a crimson flame at Arck. Then launching annujet, the Vilemarc sent a silvery disc shooting out. It struck, and a giant living claw in his stomach forced Arck out of his reverie. Instinctively, he caught the startled Vilemarc up in his fire almost before the red flame reached him, and Bognoff, caught totally off guard by the extent of the Proudhon's power, raised his hands to ward off the violent heat, but he was lifted off his feet and thrown back, twirling slightly, then the Vilemarc crashed to the floor in flames. The Bonelves swarmed into a confused mass. They fled or were burnt as Arck moved through them, paying attention to nothing but the laugh which called to him from the depths.

The tenth Keep widened out into a diamond-shape, strewn with rubble and pollution. In a corner, almost hidden by debris and slime, he found a narrow hallway carved down into the mountain. It was a long passageway, and at one point he trapped a group of surprised Bonelves, who had hidden from the Betrayer's lieutenants. They were consumed in seconds by his angry fire. Blinded by hate, he now believed that innocence and guilt were all the same, and he no longer cared which was which. When sending his fire into the eleventh Keep, his mind didn't reason, but burned what was there in the Keep nearly as small as the sixth. The twelfth Keep was nothing at all unusual by now. It was a long Keep, at least as filthy and polluted as any of the others, and as sickening. Every step he took was into a quagmire of stinking muck. Only Arck's actiniform kept the toxic fumes from overcoming him. Things like snaking mud-eels moved about in the sludge and he was almost happy to see the end of it, even though it was near the heart of Barkel mountain, and every step took him closer to Dread.

He was now four miles down from the ceptorpad. He felt as if he had descended straight down to hell; the surface of Lorlett was a long-ago dream about a sunlit planet being ravaged by insects. Gone. Everything was lost.

A thunderous roar reached his ears as he approached an opening from the Keeps into a mammoth, craggy fissure. Fear returned to him, he halted at the edge and looked into a vaulted gap–it was the Core, the very gates of hell's inner blackness. Here the ledge was so narrow and the abyss so great that he was dazed by it. The great cataract flowing out in the darkness could be felt and heard, more than seen.

Water which had gathered in tarns around the outer ridges of Barkel mountain had been brought through Druid channels and pipes, and plunged to a lake below. At his level, it was a series of waterfalls, but higher up it foamed and spilled off crevices and clutches of rocks into pools, or driven onto cliffs, before tumbling again.

He walked out along the ledge into this vast black hole. Where the falls were diverted by fissures or promontories, the water crashed with resounding noise into ruts worn into the stone. As his sight cleared, he made out old gigantic sluices and canals further over to his right, but they were long abandoned, and crumbling from disuse. Trembling, he struggled forward with a swagger almost undone by natural forces.

A blinding mist would not clear, and everything he saw was slimy and bubbling with sludge. As he moved, fog enveloped his fire. He stopped swaggering and edged forward until he saw a waterfall's violent crash upon a ledge only twenty paces directly below. He drew back, crushed as if by the weight of the water, but there was something else. He sensed forms beyond him, watching.

Nothing existed to hold onto along the ledge, and a dangerous precipice was at every turn. He spotted stone steps to his left, and he hesitated. They went dangerously down the cliff face, and they looked greasy and broken. His ears were filled with the cacophony of crashing waterfalls.

Then he saw that the stairs also led upwards; upwards away from Dread, but he could not turn and run. Sparks flew from Arck's hands as he touched the slippery stone. Though the rock was jagged, it was also slimy. His heart was skipping and uneven, and he stopped again, crouched over. Vertigo was overcoming him. He thought he was falling through the putrid air, crashing to the boiling black pool of water below him.

He stayed like this until he recovered from the dizziness. Fear that he could taste was immobilizing him, and the blackness beyond his circle of translucent blue light pressed in on him.

He pleaded with his inner voice for strength, but none came, and no cunning or cleverness crept into his mind. He couldn't move. But suddenly he stood erect, as if shot through with new energy. An image arose from lower down the steps, as if out of the abyss.

It was a gripping vision and it peeled away much of his armor of cowardice. It was a broken figure, though, a female and old, heavy with burden, and sad-eyed. The guilt for that sadness was his own. She was a figure so real he almost fell off the ledge trying to reach her. He called out.

"Fonny," he cried, "Fonny." He rose but she began to disappear. "No, mother, don't go," he begged. He scrambled down toward her, but her figure slowly receded into the sea of blackness. "Oh Fonny!" he pleaded. "Please stay."

But the vision left a gift, though he could not comprehend it then. Had he been able to name that gift, he would have called it duty–and he would have known that duty leads to the path of ideals.

Burning brighter now, stronger, he stood tall, no longer did concern for his own safety undermine his descent.

Spatters of water touched his actiniform as he made his way down, and they were thrown back in a rainbow of sparks. He walked faster now, drawing ever closer to Dread. A mile passed as he descended deeper into the black fissure. Wet sludge oozed to the right and to the left, and malignant eyes watched him, like knives at his back.

But ahead, the core widened and the cascades increased, but he did not lose his nerve now. A secret plan was fomenting somewhere. The figure of Fonny had rekindled his frozen heart with vengeance. Vengeance! Now either Dread or he must pay–someone must pay!

He sensed a steady change in his surroundings and looked beyond his own circle of light. Though the blackness did not retreat, he could make out a roiling lake only hundreds of strides below. It was foaming and restless, and added to his anxiety. As he got closer, fog circled more thickly around his actiniform.

Hoary mist was everywhere, obscuring his sight, and it was freezing cold–a crisp winter's wind from below. A sharp turn halted his descent, and as he moved into an open enclosure, another attack of vertigo dissolved back into fear. He tried to breathe deeply as the steps opened out to a level path and into a wide hallway. He heard renewed laughter from Dread, now much closer.

Mortification engulfed the Proudhon. Then he stood in front of enormous black doors, lighted by two horns of blazing fire fixed to the rock by ugly spikes. He stood a moment staring in horror, looking at the stone doors. He knew Dread was behind them.

### The Great Betrayer 29

Even as Arck reached the UnderKeep and stood before the Betrayer's doors, Tilly Croft stood naked before the Soul Slayer in a detention room on board the pulsar ship, Tramas. Drugged, tortured and dazed, he stared down with vacant eyes. He had lost much weight and was as pale as a Tutan could ever be.

"He is still defiant," Sphange said, "I sense it in his heart."

"Yes, of course," Jade, the Centrite, answered defensively in his high, nasal voice. "I do not have the equipment here, Milady, or the help. One on one, they wear you down as fast as you wear them down. We could break him physically, but you know perfectly well that many Wizards detach themselves from this sort of pain, and I cannot be sure he did not learn this trick from Taff Hart. But I can be sure he would kill himself in a minute, if he weren't watched closely. Even as it is, we must feed him intravenously." Jade glanced at Tilly with disdain.

Two blistered red scars swelled below the SelmaKeatra's ears. Tilly knew that, soon after Tau, the Slayer and Jade would undoubtedly escalate the torture. So far, their techniques had included sleep deprivation, constant truth readings by means of probes and drugs, and almost any humiliation of which Jade could think. Fortunately for Tilly, the Centrite's imagination was somewhat limited, but he knew that if he didn't die soon, they might indeed break him–but how to die, thought Tilly through his pain, when he was watched every second? It was made more difficult because SelmaKeatra were not trained to be captured alive. His eyes lifted heavily, but they did not turn towards the Centrite truth releaser.

"He is a friend of the Hart Wizard," Jade continued, "And anything too drastic we do to him will be difficult to hide, at least from that Wizard. If he becomes Huntuu . . .."

"Then break him, Jade," Sphange said. "I do not need him that badly."

––

As Tilly's fate was being decided, Arck touched the dividing seam at the center of the great black doors. He held his breath in the gloom, and thought the world stood still, until grinding sounded under the floor, the doors creaked and slowly began to shudder apart, then suddenly thundered back into their recesses. The Proudhon was almost blinded by bright light, while breathable air rushed over him. His eyes focused, and he looked at sunbeams playing here, in the deepest chasm hiding the darkest heart. Gloating laughter poured out in fountains.

Incredulous and shaking, Arck walked to the secret gallows of the Betrayer. The last Keep was twice the size of that of Aarona Raker's. It was as high as a Cathedral, appeared to stretch for miles, and it was as elaborate as a palace. It burgeoned with the power and majesty of the Great Betrayer. Neither filth nor smell existed here. It was Dread's lair, and it lay hidden in deep quiet solitude. Infinitely detailed replicas of two stupendous dogs sat near Arck. He would have been startled to learn that they were alive, even though no breath stirred from them, no eye blinked, no ear twitched. They seemed made of carved and carefully polished black stone.

Crystal-quartz replicas of natural forms hung from the vaulted roof like carved stalactites, catching and refracting the sunbeams, and they were interspersed with a galaxy of countless rainbow prisms. Every cluster of brettiscreens shone like a bouquet of soft light, so that the UnderKeep seemed made up of the shine of diamonds and the luster of pearls. Arck found its beauty shattering, after the Druids' Keeps. But he saw there was order there, too, and a grandeur almost ascetic in its simplicity.

Behind him, the doors slammed with a thud. He spun around as the sound resonated. Laughter boomed and vibrated in his ears. He turned back, shivering with foreboding, and froze, astonished. At his side, the two giant blazer-statues moved.

"Good god," he said. They were not stone, but living flesh. They moved to him, and he held his chest, afraid his heart would quit. The giant blazsers flanked him like sentinels. They did not attack; instead, they gazed at him with intelligent eyes. They kept their distance, waiting, and when he stepped forward, they moved with him, a pace behind. His actiniform, muted by the brilliance of the Keep or weakened by its prolonged use, or perhaps even by the Proudhon's own weakness, was now barely visible. Arck watched in fear for the monstrous form of the Betrayer, and listened for his laugh.

Something moved on a far wall. Arck saw what looked to be an etching on multicolored metal, but some strange movement caught his attention. He moved towards it, followed by the blazsers. It was a mural, but it swirled with motion. As he got closer, he saw its translucent exterior clear, and the swirling inside, start to take on dimensional images, like a hologram. As the images coalesced, he made out a teenage boy; tall and thin, with a shining amulet at his chest. He was otherwise unadorned and unclothed. It was a depiction of himself. What magic or technology accomplished this, he could not imagine. The boy-figure leaned over a pool of water, looking at his own likeness, which he seemed to be admiring. Another figure that of a young woman with braided hair and wearing a simple white dress, came up behind him. She was carrying a long, thin dagger, a kryteblade. It was the Angel, but she seemed in a trance, and her face was stern and full of hate. The boy in the moving mural turned, and the deadly knife in the girl's fist pierced into him. The boy drew back as if stunned by shock and pain, while his wound pumped blood into the picture. As the boy twisted in agony, the mural became a blaze of dark red clouds; soon it was a mass of swirling crimson where every detail was drowned in blood. Arck was aghast. It was then that the laugh came, deep and intolerably visceral.

"It is all true, boy," Dread laughed. "All true. She does not love you. In fact she hates you!"

The hair on the back of Arck's neck stood up, his face went white, and he forced himself to turn to face Dread, who was no more than ten steps away. He saw a giant black Spurl in his prime. He was larger than Lord Starstat and more muscular. He wore a fine, loose robe like a magnificent shining black cloop-cloak. The only weapon he carried was a great black sword strapped to his back. An amulet hung at his chest–the Mij Noloyd sparkled with life and power.

"Liebrent!" Dread's resonating voice buzzed through the Proudhon's head like a swarm of angry bees. "I was not here, when the Hart Wizard found the One Noloyd in these Keeps above us, but that has turned to my benefit. I would have destroyed your noloyd then, not knowing they would place it in the hands of such a one as you. But if I had done so, I would not have you here, now, and your service at my disposal." The Betrayer's smile of evil widened into a grin that reached from ear to ear and opened to emit his horrendous laugh. He took a step toward Arck, his towering body suddenly suffused by a red glow.

Around them the bright sunlit hall turned to crimson, muted by a dark force that was a power unto itself. Dread came another step closer. His smile was gone now, and his eyes were glazed with greed.

Swirling ideas, some of them stillborn, some wildly insane, popped in and out of Arck's mind. The dread personified by his opponent intensified in the Liebrent Heir, and he was crippled by it. No words would come and no thoughts, even half-formed ones. Only self pity and fear came, and it took all his energy just to breathe.

The Betrayer stared down at him with scorn, impatient for his long-coveted prize, yet cautious. He was cunning and clever, and he could not foretell everything that might lie ahead of him. Perhaps the evil Ariste might yet spring. And why had everything fallen so easily into place? Like Grey, he too knew that luck is a dangerous ally. He sensed that the Liebrent was irretrievably mad, and this might account for a great deal. Still, he trusted nothing–Suspicion was his sister, and Disbelief his brother, just as he was Dread.

"There was in the time of SelmaSarma Unity," his voice burred, quickening with anticipation, "a great purpose in the Overseer–the perfection of all moral ideals. Our Lord's thoughts were the law and the law covered all action, so that if something was not permitted, then it was outlawed. Everyone, as well as everything, had singular purpose, and technology did not exist so that some could become masters over others. All were equal, and freedom meant the condition of being free from need or from having to decide right and wrong. These were provided, life was secure, and the Overseer was loved on all sides. No rebellion existed. Only hard dedicated work." A look of hatred came to his eyes. He stepped closer.

"It was the Aristes who first brought disorder to the Cluster," he growled, full of old spite, "and the Maullers, who wrongly assessed them when Stolern was discovered. Well, the Maullers have paid dearly for that mistake. The irony was that the Mauller Druids were right along: the Aristes are merely sophisticated animals, which was true. They believe in nothing, no formality, and no law. Yes, Liebrent, I know you have no ears for these matters, but it's true: after their discovery, they infected the Maullers with this disease of liberty. They defamed the Overseer, and they taught sedition. They are anarchist; do you understand, you dullard? The very antithesis of Authority and Order. The Overseer did not spill their blood until it was too late. Then they became martyrs.

"But with spreading sedition and confusion, all creatures come to realize with distress that chaos and anarchy leave them unprotected against technology and the whims of the stronger. So, after Chaos has initial success, Order is renewed and disorder and anarchy returned to nothing, where it belongs. This time is at hand Liebrent! With your power in our hands, the last of the Selma rebellion will be ended, and with it, the Zoraselma Council. For your cooperation you may name anything you wish."

He stopped short while annoyance rippled across his face, but after a moment he returned his attention to Arck, who waited, resigned, perhaps not understanding why he was still alive. "I see these matters don't concern you at all; you are ready to give up your power, to escape. Oh, you shall be the best of all possible servants, more than I could hope. I could destroy you and be done with it; it is tempting, but without you alive, I too would always be a servant. A servant for eternity to the Overseer whom I despise for his weakness and vacillation, and because he withholds the devices that I need for the execution of the great ideal of Power, Order, and Authority. Do you understand now, Dotard?"

The Betrayer took another step towards him, the red fire of his power pressing like a wall against a terrified Arck, who backed away.

Now, the blazser dogs glowed with the same crimson, so that he was suddenly surrounded by flame.

The whole Keep seemed alight, and the Great Betrayer's simple flexing of power knocked Arck off his feet. Prostrate, he reached for the amulet at his chest.

The Great Betrayer smiled with contemptuous amusement. Arck tried to pour his panicked thoughts into the noloyd, but the red ugly flame shot out at his pallid actiniform and the force of the impact knocked him unconscious.

––

Loath to leave Staff to face the tremendous onslaught, Grey had tried to enter her thoughts. She knew Dread would send reinforcements from below.

"Staff!" she mindcalled, "Staff!"

But Grey had found herself banned from entering the Slager Druid's mind. Grief had locked Staff inside an impenetrable fortress. Thus, even as Arck reach Dread's Underkeep, Grey had turned away and raced swiftly up through black gloomy corridors but not the same way she had come down. Many a Barkel Bonelve screeched and jumped out of Grey's way as she bounded by. Her annujet burned fiercely and her speed, even on the most grimy set of steps, was startling. But she saw none of the Betrayer's lieutenants. When she reached the last of the Freeguard as they retreated, she was bitterly angry that the Proudhon was descending to Dread, while they made their escape to the surface. It was near outright mutiny. If he should live, if she could save him, the Proudhon would never be let to forget this. She would make sure!

"Hornblende!" she called aloud; it was an eerie piercing sound. She'd seen him near a group in rearguard action. "Lord Hornblende!"

The giant Black Spurl came towards her, his eyes holding some dark secret of his own.

"You knew he was here!" Grey said accusingly to his mind.

"Speak aloud," he said, looking down at her disdainfully. "What of it?"

"I have no time to discuss it," she snarled, with equal disdain, "but I have uncovered the Tij Noloyds. With your help, I can take down Dread!"

"The Tij. Yes, I'll take one of the discs as the price," he replied.

"No," she said, "One is wrong, and it cannot be touched with any mind except one turned to evil. But what greater service can you do for Taff Hart than to help destroy his single greatest enemy? And if you were to be there, what greater poetic justice? You, who were yourself possessed! Can you not see?" he hesitated. "I will give you a volscyl device from the Taja GardenWorld," she added, openly bribing him.

Durakerk pulled out of the shadows. "I will go," he said. "Grey, tell me, is my mother safe?"

Grey shook her head. "But she is still alive."

Hornblende regarded the Ariste Druid aloofly. "A volscyl device?" he asked. She nodded. "Lead the way, Greywheter," he grunted with disdain.

"Quickly then," she called back, already sprinting ahead. "To win, we must move quickly."

The three hurried, unimpeded, down through the passageways, until they were through the last Keep, and the Core's cool air embraced them.

Suddenly, Grey knew that Arck was at Dread's feet, completely unprotected. She felt Dread activate his annujet discs. His Mij Noloyd followed.

"Faster," she cried aloud. She rose the Tij Noloyd, the one which seemed undamaged. Of this she was not certain, but the other seemed evil. She was horrified to see that the second one also spun when she rose the first. But what choice did she have? Arck might be perishing even then. She reached out to Arck's mind and realized he was unconscious–in DreamGarden, and she could sense Dread breathing over him with foul greed.

––

When Arck awoke, he found himself in his DreamGarden, but something was wrong about it. No sunlight existed and his magnificent flowers shook in a wicked, cold wind. He stood up under a red sunset sky (stood up only in dreams). Somehow he had brought Dread into his Garden. He stood there helpless, and he was astonished when he felt a pinpoint of familiar white light descending from somewhere far away. Then, though it was weak, sunlight returned to his DreamGarden

Suddenly, he saw in front of him a tall, delicate white phlox quivering in the breeze. Unbidden, his right hand swooped to pluck it from the rich earth. Then his left hand followed, to pick yet another; a vibrant green crucifer, a lolling, four-petal led plant, powerful even of its own accord. When he held the two flowers in his hands, Grey's brilliant white light grew stronger. Arck raised his hands higher, holding up the phlox and the crucifer.

At this moment, in reality, he rose from the feet of the Betrayer, and drew to his full height. He faced his enemy with eyes dulled by dream, and fists full of green and white fire. The Betrayer's eyes widened in disbelief; he jumped back before the Proudhon's blue electricity touched him. At once Arck's blue actiniform radiated a deep rich glow. At that, Grey's brilliant white light of his DreamWorld burst through his mind, filling him with a single thought:

"Arck, burn through the doors!"

"Now I will destroy you!" Arck shouted aloud to Dread, swinging around, in both the waking world and DreamWorld at once. He drove a great blue flame out past the red fiery aura toward the doors behind him. Now, short laser lines of bright green and sparkling white accompanied the blue flame.

The Betrayer pulled forth his full might. He did not fully understand what was happening, and he threw his entire fire outward towards Arck. The blazsers turned vivid red and slammed viciously into the blue flame surrounding the Proudhon. They were clawing and barking viciously. As the red flames hit Arck's actiniform, the fires combined and were deflected, straight at the heavy black doors. The doors glowed a moment, burst into flame, then Arck watched them blow apart. He was carried forward into the smoke and conflagration in its wake.

Outside the demolished doors, a ghastly battle raged between dozens of the Betrayer's troops and Grey's force, which included Lord Hornblende, Durakerk, and the reborn Mockingbird. Arck did not recognize the shining, silver creature who had been Bloodbird. But now the Mockingbird's silver nimbus changed to the deep red glow of the Wisteria, and the bird flew above the Druid's brilliant white fire. Even Grey's brightness glowed tenfold, with the Tij Noloyd. She darted out here and there, dodging spears of fire and returning blows to a throng of huge, ugly Vilemarcs which had them backed to the doorway. Hornblende, with his arms outstretched, drove great gusts of power, confusing the Vilemarcs whose short flames began missing their marks. The battle eddied through the unhinged doors, and the white bird flew directly to Arck in a deep red helix, reaching out to him from it. Arck saw Fern's wisteria, and did not resist the approach. He now realized Fern was dead.

"The Flowers," the Mockingbird cried as it plummeted from above him. "The flowers!"

With its claws, it pulled the white phlox and the green crucifer from Arck's raised hands, entering into his actiniform without hesitation. Between sleep and wakefulness, Arck saw that the Betrayer raged against his dying forces, stirring renewed terror. The blazsers rushed repeatedly at Arck, and were thrown back. Finally, they drew Arck's attention. Still in a dreamlike state, he struck their red barrier of radiation and drove them back. The Familiar had flown through smoke and reached the disarray near the gaping hole where the doors had been. Then Lord Hornblende and Durakerk glowed with the power of the dreamflowers; the Lord, with the white of the Phlox, and the Mauller, the green of the Crucifer.

Arck suddenly felt them drawing away from his power, especially the Spurl Lord. Some presentiment of the future made Arck shudder at the knowledge that Lord Hornblende possessed one of his flowers. Arrow-like spirals of light surged; lines of red, white, and green were touching his blue center of power, and Arck felt significant force flow out of him. The last laughter of the Betrayer faded, and Arck felt only his hatred. Dread had suddenly withdrawn into the Mij Noloyd disc, it turned a raw red color, and flew with incredible velocity at Arck. In desperation, at last he threw his flame directly at Dread.

But, Arck was too late. The laughter returned, overpowering, paralyzing, and strangling his will. The disc had breached his outer ring of fire and the fire dissolved. He hurled his mind into his center of consciousness. Inside his mind, he flew headlong, swerving rapidly down obscure channels. He searched every memory of his mind, every possible clue, but no help came, and the pursuing red fire did not abate. "Arck," Grey mindsaid to him, "Run, run! The Betrayer intends to possess you. Fly for the Taja Noloyd! You can do it. In dreams I have shown you how."

Again the white light entered his mind, powerful beyond anything he had ever known. Further and further he raced. The Mij crimson and Tij white lights were adding to his confusion. All reality was slipping away from him. A path of his mind here, a narrow thought there, all was lost in the panic of flight, and still he raced faster. The battle around him raged, ever more violently. The destruction of Vilemarcs was gruesome and thorough. Some screamed loudly, others died silently as their heads were severed. Hornblende, Durakerk, and Mockingbird glowed brightly with the Proudhon's protection and attacked their enemies relentlessly, but all three could taste Arck's fear and sense his retreat.

Inside his brain, Arck reached the brink of life, and a warning pounded at his heart. The attacking lights of Mij and Tij were already upon him. Irresolute, he leaped away from his body. His mind was dizzy with death, but he did not fall and he did not die–instead, he was sucked into a twisted enclosure by a rapid gripping embrace; all normal perception left him; only samasense came to him now, but like pure tuition.

Time seemed to slow; all light was white. He realized he was in an enclosure which seemed clean, orderly, and geometrical. The warring lights did not follow, and this calmed him. Suddenly he knew that this was his own private place, made for him in such a way that nothing else could enter, not even the Overseer.

Aarona Raker called to him from a long distance away–he picture her face in his mind. Again the white light entered his mind, powerful beyond anything he had ever known. Further and further he raced. Aarona Raker's voice became clearer. Soon, he heard her voice distinctly,

"Leap thought upon thought,

And come clear to this truth,

All that you sought,

And all that you doth;

Bring me your ought;

And all of your couth."

As he reached the nucleus of this place or device, the memory of Aarona Raker flooded to him, followed by a sensation of floating, and he felt himself flying and spinning in the Taja Noloyd just above his body. At once, battle crashed around him, but it was not the battle of Bonelves, Vilemarcs, Spurls, or the rest–it was a war between angry, powerful fires of different colors, from different sources. At first he was amazed by it. A great red flame surrounded a deep small blue fire, and a powerful white light, stronger than both, wavered in and out of other colors of silver, green, and a deeper red that were attached to the blue flame, around the center of his place; this noloyd device.

Suddenly his awareness focused on the marred and evil Tij Noloyd which floated above the fires, yet held at a distance somehow by the powerful white light. Who held it? He could not tell. He felt the Taja Noloyd searching within itself for the answer to the question. Then an answer came, and Arck knew that this Tij Noloyd was evil, just as the other was good, and that Grey kept it at a distance. But abruptly the idea left him. A spurt of incredible energy passed through his spirit, bringing urgent knowledge with it–Dread, realizing the possibility of his own end, was trying to destroy the Proudhon's body, in one last attempt to defeat him. Though the white light was defending his body, a danger existed of its increasing the inferno and thereby assisting the Betrayer's design. Somehow the Taja Noloyd gave him direct information about his body's survival. He was awestruck. Spinning rapidly, Arck sent out a wild blue flame.

But the Taja disc did not obey his wish directly; it curved of its own will, and fought with the Betrayer for control of the Mij Noloyd. Again, Arck faced Dread, but this time from a chamber of safety. Now, he sensed bitterness shake the Dark Lord. The Taja Noloyd had forced the Betrayer away from his own Mij Noloyd, and it had fallen to the floor at the feet of a pillar of white fire. Staff Slager — who had only now reached the UnderKeep — placed her glowing foot on the Betrayer's Noloyd disc and ground it against the floor in fury and hatred, not caring in the slightest that it was indestructible.

The Proudhon saw victory within reach, and he sensed his own elation; that is, he knew that if he were in his body, he would certainly be elated.

He had defeated the Betrayer, and this was a wondrous thing; yet, in that instant, confusion overtook his mind once more. Brilliant sunlight returned to the Betrayer's Keep, blinding the hundreds of Bonelves who swirled in mass disorder at what seemed the death of their master, and this threw the battle into a tangle, but cunning was behind it. Somehow and somewhere, the Betrayer was hidden.

He threw his blazsers and all his remaining Vilemarcs at the Druid. Grey recoiled from the Tij Noloyd, shaken, for reasons Arck could not see. The red light exploded again into the Keep, then vanished as swiftly. Reality wavered.

Meanwhile, the Betrayer drove wildly through the press of Vilemarcs and Bonelves.

Drawing the huge black sword from his back strap, he scrambled towards Lord Hornblende. A feint of the blade shifted the mighty Lord off balance, then, with a resounding blow, Dread broke through the actiniform protection of the Phlox flower; blood spurted from Hornblende's shoulder, and he fell.

The Vilemarcs roared in glee and gathered around the Betrayer's huge figure, readying an attack on Durakerk. Yet the great Black Spurl who stood with his sword lifted, ready to slay Hornblende with a second blow, was not Dread any longer, and a streak of white lightning from Grey devoured his form with a great burst of flame. Then with a vicious bloodcurdling yowl that echoed throughout the cavern, Grey flew at the horde of Vilemarcs, leaving the giant black body ablaze where it had fallen.

Arck was trapped; he knew that the Great Betrayer had somehow left his body and was still alive. Just as victory seemed assured, now defeat leaped from nowhere. He tried to cry out in anguish, but no sound was produced.

His flood of cobalt blue light threatened to swell beyond his control. He could see that Grey threw hot white light hither and thither at any enemy, desperately trying to find the Vilemarc whom the Betrayer possessed, and while she did so, the defective Tij Noloyd which floated above the melee, was forgotten.

Suddenly one of the pair of blazsers, its implanted annujet activated for one last attack, lunged at Grey. It hit her white fire, and the explosion drove Grey back to the gutted doors. Grey's fire sped to the dog, and it burst into flames.

The second blazser raced toward Grey in the same manner, its head a mask of hate, but at the instant before contact, it jerked upwards instead in a tremendous leap, and suddenly it glowed red crimson. Startling crimson light again fell inside the UnderKeep. In its jaws, the blazser caught the evil Tij Noloyd which had hovered above Grey, cleared the fire and sped past the battle in one smooth action.

Now the Proudhon knew where the Great Betrayer was hiding.

It spun on its haunches, as if searching for some sign of weakness, looking back greedily.

Inside his Taja Noloyd, the trapped Proudhon knew Dread was escaping, and escaping with his power increased. He willed his fire at the bazser and again he felt the laughter return.

Even in the body of a lesser host, the Betrayer radiated a fabulous wave of white light, interspersed with sharp arrows of the deepest black poison, and it overwhelmed Arck's blue light. It swept over the battle, to burn without mercy all who were left unprotected. The laughter increased.

The flowerholders drew enormously from the Taja to save themselves from the black arrows of light, and this drained the last vestige of strength left in Arck. He could not know that Dread, in the body of his prized blazser, had disappeared from the battle, through secret doors that instantly opened before him and closed at once afterwards.

Arck felt himself falling through space to the floor of the burning UnderKeep and he fell not comprehending that he had defeated the Great Betrayer. He fell, dispirited, in the lonely void, not sensing the precious Mij he had helped capture. He thought only of the evil Tij they had lost. Though he had found success, he felt that it was failure. He lacked the path home–knowledge is power, and he was locked into a labyrinth of ignorance. He was captured in the maze of the Taja Noloyd, as in a prison without the key, and it would be many weeks before he could find a way out.

### The Great Betrayer 30

Time dragged over hot coals and burned to its last shreds. Arck was encapsulated in this slow-cooker of the Taja Noloyd disc, and the hot metal neuroways and sama circuits of the Taja Noloyd convoluted his already confused and vulnerable mind. A blue light flitted over his body, which he spun above but could not seem to enter. Other lights were nearby, and the great white light of Grey had twice attacked his center of cognition, urging him to his old memories. The white centric light was always there, prodding him, and Arck could not break free to search out the definition of self he recalled as his own. Everything stood still inside, baked into lethargy and boredom. He had only a primitive sense of sight, he could not hear or feel physical sensation. He was in a coma, suffering beyond endurance or understanding, but he had no emotional release, so after four endless Lorlett weeks, he still lived a slave to his noloyd environment and could not find a way home. He understood the sequence of events: why Grey had come here, why she needed the Tij Noloyd, why Taff went along with it, why Fern had joined them and why even the Great Betrayer had come. What he didn't understand was why he was here. He hadn't guessed, could not imagine, that he could well have been captive in this cybernetic cell, not just for now, but for all eternity, if Dread had his way. But even as Dread would have had it so, Dread himself was subdued and somewhere deeply submerged. Arck's spirit smiled a small, satisfied grin. When he could manage to think about anything, he thought that somehow the white light had defeated the Betrayer. It was magic. It was inexpressible joy, and he tried to hold the thought as long as he could retain it.

Now and then, Taff's green light drew near him, like a lost friend. Taff seemed all around Arck's prison walls. In blind excitement, the Proudhon would race the disc around the labyrinths of corridors, trying to touch Taff's presence, but he was like a child lost in a forest without a compass, and he would keep returning to the same place, not understanding how to move from tree to tree in a straight line. He was lost in a maze without the logic to learn how to escape. He was without the key.

Arck's body had been brought to the surface, and Grey had been watching over him with hardly a break for these four weeks. Tob and Strom brought her food, or Jissy did, and it took all of Grey's skill to finally figure a way to end Arck's coma. Just yesterday she had summoned Staff, Hornblende, Taff, Tob and the rest to meet her here at noon today. Arck's body was the center of a great deal of attention from Freeguard healers: tubes, monitoring machines, and attendants hung all around him.

Taff's ceptor had been moved from Barkel mountain soon after they had come to the surface, and now they were hidden beside a rock-strewn valley which the Slager Druid knew to be secret. Arck lay on a table in the middle of the main medical chamber of the ceptor. He was stretched, thin and almost naked, over a pool of clear warm water, suspended just above it with strips of velvety cloth and straps of softest leather. These, in turn, were attached to metal rods overhead. Only a silken loin pouch covered him, and a cloth band with a single cuneiform-like symbol dressed his forehead. No unauthorized personnel came near him.

The room bustled with activity, and Freeguard healers slid in and out of shadows with a slow cautiousness that bespoke danger. Each was as lean and aquiline as if selected by machine, rather than by Taff. The crew was on strict rations, and already, ground had been turned over and a number of crops planted. With the use of hovering machines, irrigation devices for water and fertilizers, and artificial light monitors, the first forced yields would be ready in days.

Though the camp ran without phlofusion or any quantum protection that would change today at noon. Taff, Staff, and Grey herself were going to use their noloyds to bring Arck back. This could lead to the camp's detection and therefore the fusion force fields would be raised immediately afterwards. Taff was the first to arrive, and just inside the doors he bowed shortly.

"Hello, Grey," he said. "We are all set?"

She nodded, very serious. "All we need are the flower and noloyd holders," she said aloud in Naja.

Soon after, Lord Hornblende swept into the room, the Phlox Flower hanging around his neck. Taff dismissed his contingent and moved to the Spurl Lord. Hornblende looked recovered from his battle wound, but Taff knew that this was merely a brave face, and Hornblende's was in considerable discomfort.

"I have just learned that Tilly Croft has disappeared," he said to the Spurl Lord, just loud enough for Grey to hear.

Grey's ears pricked up and she at once came to them. "Are Arck's sisters missing?"

"There has been an attack at the Fault."

"Who?" she said, fearing the worst.

Taff shrugged, his golden eyes shadowed with worry. "Tilly and the others may have escaped." His voice was trembling. "It was a slaughter. Sheila, too, is missing. But there is no one to break the news to, is there?"

"Tob?" Grey asked.

"He knows," Taff returned awkwardly.

Durakerk entered, and stood close to Taff and Hornblende.

"The rest are nearby?" Taff asked him.

"Strom and the silver bird are in the gardens," Durakerk answered. "Tob was with Ruby the last time I saw him."

The Elder was the next to arrive, nodding a greeting, and going to Grey." What will the gods dig up for me in this strange dream today?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

"You will soon see," Grey assured him.

He smiled at this. "I am beaten down by years. I fear I can no longer decipher these divine messages."

"No matter," Grey said, now watching Staff Slager enter the room, studying a small metal object in her hand. She'd found it with other mysterious things in the Betrayer's UnderKeep, together with many dozens of annujet. She was half in disarray, and a glower seemed affixed permanently to her face. Hanging from her neck was the Great Betrayer's old Mij Noloyd, she'd taken possession of it. It was slightly larger than the Kiji discs. On one side was a frieze of a Mauller couple with a child, climbing a mountain side. On the other was the depiction of the two massive stars of the Stardance Sun System and the orbit of its fourteen largest planets.

"It is the Mockingbird which is most puzzling," Jeff continued to Grey. "You say it has become the Witch, yet Fern is dead. It speaks for the Witch, or at least it holds her last testament. Now the Wisteria sustains it. Though not a machine, it is still artificial; though alive, it is not an independent life; and though unattached to anything, it has another's purpose which gives it life, vicarious life. Yet it reacts as one that is blind with emotion."

"I could not agree more," Grey said aloud. Then she mindwhispered, "Jeff, excuse me, Strom and Tob are now here and we must begin at once."

Strom came to the middle of the room beside Arck. She was in a summer cotton dress, her black hair braided and bowed; the Larkspur was pinned to her chest. She wore sandals and many etched bangles, a timepiece, microdials, Fern's wrist straps for the Familiar, and the dull gleaming Larlstone. Tob, at her side, wore a surprising costume. He had forsaken his Troanean clothing altogether and now wore the garb of the Freeguard youth, with Taff's crests and his colors-black and gold.

"Attention," Grey said aloud. "We are ready to begin. This afternoon, we seek to withdraw the Proudhon from his disc."

"The boy has great power," the Mockingbird crowed. "We carry him on our backs. When we throw him off, he will once again flounder."

"Be quiet bird," Grey said in Troan.

"Surely we are not to lose our freedom of speech as well?" Strom asked with some bitterness against the Druid.

"We cannot bicker with one another now, hmm?" Taff said quietly in her ear.

Grey entered the circle, releasing a brilliant white glow which surrounded and obscured her feline form. At once Arck burned with a blue actiniform. Illuminating the hall with brilliant light, the flowerholders radiated their spectacular colors of purple, rainbow, red, yellow, stark white, and green, each in quick succession. A moment later, Taff shone in beryl green actiniform; even beside the brilliance of the others, it was still formidable. Staff Slager commanded considerable attention when she turned a translucent, vermilion red. Daily, her power was growing. She'd laid her hands, as well as her foot, on an instrument of vengeance, the Mij Noloyd.

Inside the Taja Noloyd, Arck was awakened from his long stupor. Twice before, light had burst brightly against his new borders. Without the demon of his body, he was trying to grapple with his airy fate, but misunderstood its horizons. Throwing out his own hue, dark blue filled the hall, and the Taja disc rose higher, pulsing. He stirred, remembering long-forgotten pleasure. Though he wanted to remain suspended, in this new bliss, he fought with another new wish–to control his destiny and to escape his predicament. Great now was his desire to find the key.

White centric light was bolstered in Arck's narrow sights, and then he realized Grey's Tij Noloyd floating and spinning beside him. Surmounting force came to him. He felt acutely oppressed by his imprisonment, and as time came flooding back, he realized he had been trapped too long. It had taken weeks to build up this great illusion of timelessness, but only an instant for reality to destroy it. Again, or still, his thoughts were swirling in confusion.

Suddenly the white Tij Noloyd was eclipsed by beryl green light and the effect on Arck was devastating. The Kiji Noloyd drew up beside the Tij. A funnel of greenish light lit up Arck's Noloyd enclosures. Neurotransmitters and sama circuits of the Taja undulated from strange signals. Panic set in, then a burgeoning sensation of pleasure strengthened the outpouring of his power. The flowerholders at once drew protection against its fiery effect, from its source–paradoxically, they expanded their danger and their safety at one and the same time. But like a house of cards, it came closer to destruction the more it grew. Arck became frightened. The piercing lights came closer and closer and he lost all sense of proportion. A tremendous cloud of smoke and fire drove the air into frenzy and a wind rose out of the ceptor's hold. The phlofusion shields were raised. Now the room was a violent, electric blue, and Arck broke from reason, tossing convulsively this way and that inside the noloyd.

Outside the hall, the Freeguard were forced out of the ceptor by the supernatural heat, afraid the shields might fail. The alarm had been sounded and troops, both those on duty and those quartered, were in a rapid military deployment.

Hoping to find a mark, Grey was sending white shafts of laser light into the microingress of the spinning Taja. Taff and Staff were doing likewise. Their concerted action escalated the risks; the Taja Noloyd had been designed especially to avoid such breaches. The Taja disc pulsed faster and faster, drawing air and light to its nucleus, reaching for the point of fusion of matter and energy, where all form is reduced to the pure content of sama. Arck reeled from circuits of cross purposes, as he drew into its center for the umpteenth time. Arck sensed the familiar bitter smell. It came from inside the disc itself. Vaguely, he remembered that during his battle with the Betrayer, he had been able to will his power into the Mij Noloyd, and force Dread back to his body. So now, Arck willed his presence into the sources of red, green, and white light. The results were dramatic.

The Wizard and the Druid were driven into a volscyl withdrawal, startled beyond comprehension, as wild blue light suddenly occupied their neutron discs and filled all their neuroelectronic passageways with a charge from which they had no protection. Though this returned them to their bodies, the act itself halted the dangerous drain on Arck's power and the fire ceased at once as if it had never existed.

The air was fresh and vibrant. Still, from twelve outlets, six colors poured in: the red of autumn, the green of spring, and the other Flower Holders' colors which were attached to his translucence–the purple of Strom's Larkspur, the yellow of the Elder's dtorr, white from Hornblende's Phlox, and the Wisteria's bluish red.

Suddenly Arck realized what had to be done. The brightness of a Flower would guide him. Sensing escape, he clung to the deep rich purple and pursued it for what seemed like miles, past many passageways. Quicker and quicker he raced, and the purple color became concentrated to a fiery beam. As he approached the Noloyd's boundary, a hunger focused all his will into the purple light. Events not yet cast were revealed in liquid waves before him, and the rapids of a purple river swept him up.

He burst through the disc, flowing into life from the artificial womb of a machine. The Taja fell instantly to his body and he was immediately blinded to everything but a pale purple star. All other lights ceased, except for that of the suns of Lorlett, pouring in through the brett-like windows. Startled, Arck found himself in the brain of the Angel, where there was magnified anguish that voiced itself in her scream. A flood of emotion overwhelmed him, and he sensed her hatred for such an unbidden invasion of her being. He tried to find some clue to unravel the mystery of what he was involved in.

He felt a woman's body from the inside–all Strom's memories were suddenly liquid. He saw a night near Charblind on Troan, and two naked forms struggling in a blue haze in a swirling snow storm. Her mind shouted in resentment and shame. "Get out! Get out!"

As if he could not help himself, he saw her most painful secrets. He saw an older man, swaggering and intoxicated, strike Strom with a hard blow to the face, and force himself on her. It was her father. The images came faster. He watched as a naked Witch lay with her, entangled in caresses. He saw another woman kissing a small child, both of them crying inconsolably. That had been her mother, leaving her for the last time.

Suddenly he was lost in the swirling purple confusion and began to absorb many more of Strom's memories and emotions which he could not sort out, but a white centric light called to him.

Incredible sama sense was bubbling into his being, and to refuse the command became unthinkable.

He obeyed and floated into the sunlight of Lorlett until he fell into DreamGarden, where he was bathed in the glory of his own sunlight.

Twice, attempts at deliverance riddled his body with spasms, and though it remained asleep, it gained some appearance of life: a healthy color returned to his pallid skin, his chest rose and fell more noticeably, and a tremble of active life began again.

After so many weeks, Arck was home, and Dread had fallen.

In the room, as this all passed in silence, and as the heat started to dissipate, wondering faces turned to the others, filled with relief. Minutes flew by. Then at last, when the heat was gone, they smiled. They had rescued Arck. Tob threw his hands into the air shouting triumphantly. Only Strom and the Spurl Lord did not smile; he with his stone countenance, she with grim memories reawakened. Strom looked around at their grins and deep tears swelled up in her. She covered her cheeks, broke from the circle of colors and ran, distressed, towards the doors. The Familiar flew off its perch in a fluster, and followed behind her, repeating aloud her silent curse.

"Damn him to hell," it shrieked. "His name is Dishonor!"

Taff looked shocked, as if reacting too late to some sudden explosion. He was still recovering from the fire flash and stinging heat. He turned after Strom, and felt his wound from the battle of Lorlett Keeps as he moved. It was aching. Silently, Staff Slager wove a spell to hold her at the door.

Strom didn't see the Wizard come up behind her; he moved as quietly as a shadow.

"This self-abnegation is a brave thing," he murmured softly. "If he saw too much, or tried too hard, remember that he forgets half of what he knows and does not act on the other half. You succeeded in bringing him home, where Grey failed twice before. Be gentle with yourself and recall Fern's words.

'In the world of the Circle Cluster;

For the Liebrent Heir, where all is fluid,

One of your golden tears has more luster,

Than all the weapons of the Greywheter Druid.'

She blushed, turning her eyes away, suddenly more sad than angry. She drew the Mockingbird to her wrist band.

"My Mother ran away from my father when I was just a child," she said bitterly. "I can't remember her well, but they say she was lovely, and free! They say he threw her out and kept me for amusement. He was evil but I loved him. Even with drunkenness and lust, his evil was pathetically shallow. He cared for me, clothed me, fed me–and poisoned me against all men. If there was no joy in it, what can I say but that he was there, not she. Though he was low, once he aspired to better. And now that I am surrounded by heroes, I have been betrayed."

She stopped, and looked hard into his eyes; her look was less accusing than severe. The Wizard stared back at the girl but, ashamed, he turned red.

"I was saving one soul at the expense of another," he confessed softly. "There is no excuse. I am filled with regret."

"I was a pawn," she continued. "You think that somewhere deep within, I love him. I do not! Grey at least understands this now, but Arck does not. I pity him. Beware, Doctor Hart, I have decided to follow in Fern's steps. And I'll not lie with him again!"

"You put yourself in jeopardy. If you commit yourself to the Witch's cause, you may be forced into the very behavior your heart rebels against. To the Zoraselma Council, no cost will be deemed too great to hold him steadfast. Are you so sure Strom that he is not your prince? Is it not possible he is the one whose passion for you is overwhelming? Who denies wisdom for love? One who is himself without conviction but, for you, will fight for a principle? One who is lost in a maze, but looks to you for, hmm . . . the key?"

Behind her, the doors slid open. She spun on her heels, then turned back again. "What does that have to do with what I feel? You think that he will be pulled from his madness, but I think that his overriding weakness is his present lack of conviction. Fern was right about him, religion, ideology, or both will become his crutches."

"It does not matter Strom," Taff replied quietly, "whether God creates man or man creates God–either way, honesty is the noblest work of both. Will he discover the truth that destiny offers him? This is the question. As for his madness–there is great strength in weakness and great weakness in strength. None are so immune as they think."

She turned and walked away, but Mockingbird hovered in the air a moment, as beautiful and fierce as Fern. "God, like government, is a great lie," the Familiar cried, shaking its shining feathers and then following after Strom. "The Proudhon is a plaything for the Druid."

Taff turned and again he stopped, almost walking into Tob who had come up behind.

"Well, Arck's okay, now?" the boy asked.

Taff smiled. "Yes, we did all right," he said. "Strom has been spending much time with Mockingbird, Tob?"

"It never leaves her side," he answered. "They're just like Arck and Grey."

Taff sighed, smiling. Of all matters, Wizards should know these kinds of things.

"Can we leave Lorlett now, Doctor Hart?" Tob asked. "Staff said we could go if we freed Arck."

"Well, I need some time," he said. "Coldfire must be hailed, if we're even able to contact him. I have just received some disturbing news, and I must appoint a team of SelmaKeatra to look into it. There are other matters as well. Tob, come with me," Taff said turning, "We will eat together and chat, hmm? Jissy can make us a half decent lunch today, I think, although we do not have much."

At once Tob smiled. Taff touched his head lightly as they walked back to Arck. His guards had returned. Taff looked at Grey.

"The Angel pulls away from your design, Grey?" He smiled as he spoke, but there was a note of sarcasm in his tone.

Grey looked back at him, unperturbed. "There is an adage Taff," she said aloud,

"An Ariste may look straight at even a god,

Though in truth they are quaking like a rhyme-rod.

From their handsome fear of every little thing,

Comes their bravery to overcome and sing."

She turned from him and left the hall. Taff watched her go, wondering what the hell she meant. He touched Arck's forehead as if to read his thoughts but in fact did not attempt that. Arck did not stir, and Taff knew he would sleep for some time. His mind turned to other matters as he checked the Proudhon's pulse with his fingers. The Soul Slayer had sent her fleet yet she herself had not come. He thought about this. The timing was right in turns of Tau jumps; it must have been she who had attacked the Fault. Taff had already sensed that Dread had left the planet altogether, yet one report from Coldfire suggested that Tramas, his Pulsar ship, was nearby.

He knew that the Chrisarma Tribunal — the Great Betrayer, the Soul Slayer, and the Heart Harrower — would regroup when Dread recovered his loss. No doubt existed in Taff's mind that Dread would learn the ways of the Tij Noloyd he had stolen, and return stronger, but more cautious, having been bitten by the prey he was trying to cage. By now, Taff imagined, the Betrayer's anger must be immense. The Coll siblings were having their difficulties for the moment, but he could see plainly that time was needed; Slager was a gifted Druid but the Mij disc she had inherited had been corrupted by centuries of Dread's misuse. Greatness is never conquered by the tyranny of neglect. The noloyds were like swords, to be sharpened by those for whom they were crafted–those with wits equal to their purpose.

Taff knew as well that the Beginning One, the Overseer, was like a sleeping dragon; if awakened, He would rise up in His full glory and destroy all who threatened His own foundation. The Evil Trinity would lose their opportunity if that happened. Therefore, they would attempt to keep all matters of noloyds from Him. Anything might warn Him of the ultimate danger, so for a time, the Freeguard were protected, but Taff cursed he knew not what, feeling as if already too much time had been taken from him on Lorlett.

He looked again at Arck. The Proudhon's pulse was light and slow. Taff watched his breathing rise and fall, and ordered him moved to his room. The three other Kiji Wizards were known to only a few, and only one other captained a Pulsarite, Kryce Mane, but Kryce was now in the hands of the Chrisarmains. Another one, Syte, had a great network of armies. Great unswerving Zoraselma power was finally fermenting after all these eons; Grey was now a Tij Druid, Slager soon to be a Mij Druid, and he, himself, a Kiji Lord. And there were three other Kiji Freeguard, and the Taja.

He allowed himself a bit of optimism, and though it might be built on borrowed time, he knew that it was always touch and go in life. Even a small win is a major victory when you live long enough on hope. And if gambling gave a city its heart, the Wizard was a booming metropolis.

––

The Overseer, whose recent lot had been to bring complete psychic and carnal actualization to all He did through the centuries, was losing the race with time. Centuries and eras slid through his hands like sand. It was written, "Every kind of life must seek the spirit, and so the spirit must aid every kind of life. They must die who will not live as they ought."

The laws were there in Ole, His Way translated into the Word for the Races. But must He only watch and mourn? No. He knew, He was a witness also. However, He was also the artist whose art was not only His self, but by extension, all whom He created and governed, which meant everything and everyone.

The Overseer was in a state of rather inorganic observation. His mind was merging with his creation; it went on and off, here and there, whenever and wherever He fancied. His psychic carrier waves allowed His thoughts to travel to the four corners of the universe. The whole of reality was in His soul — this was written also — but when a mere lump of flesh and blood sent a wrinkle over His vast design, He had a mild sort of resurrection into Ideal Form.

After all, He was God, and He knew his universe. Yet, some things were more mysterious than the whole. It ensued that He was soon confused concerning the Great Betrayer's defeat. Power assured Him otherwise. He quickly reassessed the Proudhon's victory. There were no other disturbances in His carrier wave. Dread seemed to be even more powerful than before, and as far as He looked, that flesh and blood which had instigated the wrinkle had disappeared off the face of any of his worlds. The Overseer went back to His peaceful preoccupations, doubting the whole incident; but His own radar had been activated.

––

He was the Proudhon, supposedly a creature of magnificent strength and beauty, but he slept like a wounded soldier. It would be many days before he would recover fully and come out of his sama-induced GardenWorld sleep, but that same evening, while he lay secure in his darkened room on board Taff's ceptor, he awoke for several minutes. He sensed Grey sitting in the shadows of the room.

"How has Hornblende come to have one of my flowers?" he whispered, angrily.

"Never-mind," she mindsaid dismissively, "at first he wanted one of the Tij Noloyds. I needed his help to win the day once Taff had been wounded and carried off the field. I openly bribed him with a volscyl flower and he took it. You should be happy. We won the day–everything is as it should be."

He sat up, disoriented, and for a moment, studied Grey's Tij-Noloyd.

It was smaller than the Taja, a flat circular white crystal, molded into a saucer-shaped wafer. On one side was a Lethewood Tree with inlays of tiny culex-diamonds, on the other were an etched male and female Ariste-couple with a single cub out on the open snow.

"While I was in Strom's mind," Arck whispered, "I realized that she doesn't love me."

"We took her here with cunning and she fell in love with you, but Fern Rewel interfered."

"I could have won her by giving her love and patience."

"Yes, there's that, but if you remember, we were in a hurry."

Grey rose and left.

Arck lay back down skirting with the perfect DreamGarden where he could escape his uncalled for self-reflection. He knew in his heart of hearts it was over. He hoped Strom would find what she was looking for, and maybe forgive him. Then, more than half asleep, he thought of Fonny and his family, and that he had found neither the courage nor the skill to protect them in the last moments of their lives.

He knew that Pom, Larska and Di were in trouble and needed help. He wondered if Tilly and Sheila were still alive, then suddenly he knew they were. He only wished that Fonny and his family were too.

"How could I have failed them all?" he cried out. "I loved them and I couldn't even admit it. Why?" Tears sprang to his eyes and he turned over and buried his face into his pillow. DreamGarden called to him, but before he retreated to it, he promised himself, that whatever it took to save Pom, Larska, and Di, he would do without thought of the cost, even if he were damned by those who had created him.

This is the end of Book I.

Book II is titled, The Soul Slayer

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