 
Melianarrheyal

by G. Deyke

Copyright 2012 G. Deyke

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by Anne Fletcher
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Contents

Part 1 – Mel

Part 2 – Curse

Part 3 – End

Epilogue – What Came After

Acknowledgements

Find G. Deyke online

Appendix – Pronunciation Guide

Preview of _Sahta, First Child_
Part 1

~*~

Mel

"Arri! Arri, wake up!"

Mel's voice, accompanied by a sharp kick to my ribs, breaks into my slumber and starts me awake. I sit up with my heart racing, blinking away sleep and terror, trying to see past her candle.

"Mel? Is that you?" I try to keep my voice from shaking.

"Yes, of course." Her voice is impatient. I can see her a little, now, through the light: her golden hair is twisted and pinned and braided back, out of the way of her face, and she is dressed for travel. With her free hand she shields her nose from the worst of the stench.

"Are you leaving?"

"Yes," she says. "To Saluyah. Tonight. Now."

"Why?"

"There is a mission I must swear to." She glances around, disgusted. "Can we talk somewhere with fresher air?"

I shake my head. I have lived in tunnels like these all my life; kretchin must learn to live with the stink.

"All right, listen." She squats down beside me and holds my eyes. "This evening I heard two of my servants speaking of my Kerheyin as though he had a child. I know that my beloved would never betray me of free will, so its mother must have laid a great charm on him; that is the only possible explanation. I go now to restore his honor, and my own."

I think of the time when she first learned that she was to wed Kerheyin – she was twelve years old, then, and loathed the very idea. She was given a painting of him, which was all she had to judge him by; and when she brought me into her mansion (in secret, of course!) she would show it to me and point out all that was wrong with him, with his features and his family. He is of House Lithuk, which, she assured me then, is well-known for doing the unexpected. Kerheyin's own aunt wed a lowly assassin, she said, and lost her claim to nobility. Of course she could expect him to be untrue to her. He had probably been with all Saluyah already.

But I say nothing. She tried everything she could think of to bring her parents to withdraw the betrothal, without success; but in time she decided it was good that she failed, because she and Kerheyin are meant for one another, without any doubt, and their marriage will be blessed by all the gods. All that she had called flaws in the painting became points of especial beauty in her eyes; and she knows that he must choose her over anyone else, because anyone would. He is some years older than her – eighteen when she was twelve, I think – but this is usual among noble marriages, so she told me.

Now Mel is fifteen, and she is due to wed her betrothed in less than two years' time.

"Could they have lied, your servants?" I ask her.

"No." She shakes her head. "I questioned them very thoroughly. It seems all the world knows this rumor, except for myself."

I begin to say that I did not know, but hold my tongue at the last second. Mel's all the world does not include kretchin. We are nothing. We are filth. We must not speak to nobles or commoners, or meet their eyes, or wear our hair longer than to our shoulders. We know nothing of nobles. Even Mel became my friend only because she loves risk and deception: she thought it amusing to mislead the egg-seller who caught me stealing, and then she thought it amusing to speak to me, and to befriend me, and to sometimes bring me food and gifts. If her parents or servants ever saw me – a filthy kretchin boy, with her – they'd – but Mel keeps me safe.

"Are you going alone?" I ask instead. I am afraid to think of her leaving, of being alone again without her here to protect me.

She purses her lips. "I suppose I ought to take at least one servant – but no, I cannot trust them. And it would be much harder to keep my mission secret, if even one of them knew. You know how much they gossip." Her lip twitches at this joke, but by the time her meaning has dawned on me she has gone on: "No, I suppose I shall have to go alone. Unless _you_ would accompany me, Arri."

I gape at her.

"But – I – but I am kretchin – how can I? What if –"

She narrows her eyes, appraising me.

"– of course," I stammer. "If you would have me, of course I will come. But – what can I do?"

"It _is_ improper for me to go alone," she says. "And the quickest way to reach Saluyah is over the Desert. I shall need your nature talent to call water, if nothing else."

My nature sense is very weak, compared with some. I have heard of those who can speak to animals and those who can call storms, even of those who can bring trees to walk away from the places where they have grown all their lives. For myself, I can only sense the presence of life around me, not the nature of its thoughts; and while I know that I can call water in the Desert if need be – I have had to do so, before I came to Therwil – it takes much effort and a good spot, and it must be gathered quickly before it sinks back into the sand.

"I – I will do what I can," I promise.

"Good," she says. "Then we must swear to the mission."

She kneels down, twisting her face with displeasure as she touches the filthy ground; and she draws her dagger; and she closes her eyes.

"I – Melianarrheyal of House Chinlar – swear by great Haryin the double-faced, by my life, and by the honor of House Chinlar, that the woman who led my Kerheyin astray shall die. Your will and mine be done!" And she draws the dagger swiftly across her finger, and marks the ground with her blood as it wells up, and kisses that mark in honor of the gods.

"Now, you," she says. "– Although I suppose it might be blasphemous for you to swear by any god, and your family has no honor either."

I flinch back a bit at these remarks, ducking down my head as though to shield myself from a blow; but of course this is silly. She would not harm me without reason. And it is true that my family has no honor. Our name is Suyiol, which means betrayer in the old language. Yuit said our ancestors were servant to a noble family long ago, and exiled from servitude for disloyalty. That is why we are kretchin now. It is also true that kretchin do not openly worship any gods but Snake, although this is not because it would be sacrilege but because no gods but Snake care for kretchin.

I don't think Mel knows about Snake. He is never spoken of except among kretchin, and she has never asked about the whistle-call to him that I utter in place of prayer whenever I am nervous or upset.

I whistle to Snake now, and say: "I – Arr-" and I stop, and start again. "I swear by my life to give what aid I can to Mel's mission, to kill the mother of that child. Your will be done." And I cut my finger on Mel's dagger, trying to ignore the sharp sting of the blade, and I kiss the bloodied ground. It tastes salty on my lips.

"Whose will be done? Mine?" She laughs, but before I must answer she goes on: "I don't know who this woman is, nor how hard it will be to reach her. And even poisons have been known to fail. No, I must have a demon to find and kill her – that, she cannot guard against – so I shall hire a conjurer, as soon as we reach Saluyah. It will be easy to find one there."

"There are conjurers in Therwil, too," I say.

"Yes," she says, deliberately, the way she always speaks when I have said something particularly foolish; "but if I were to show myself here, dressed for travel and asking for escort to Saluyah, the whole city would know where I had gone, and my parents would have an easy time of it bringing me back."

This is how Mel is: rather than asking for approval, she prefers to make sure that no one can stop her.

"Now, are you ready?" she asks. "I have brought some food and coin – I hope fifty gold will last us; I couldn't take more without attracting attention – so take whatever else you might need."

I bite back my awe – although I have never had so much as a full gold piece at one time, I'm sure it isn't much to Mel – and cast about the room. Most of it is taken up by the mess of torn clothing, old sacks, and useless scraps of cloth that serves as my bed. In another corner lies a small stock of food for emergencies, and a collection of every present Mel has given me.

I once had a charm, a carved bit of wood on a leather thong, meant to bring luck. My brother Yuit gave it to me as a gift while I still lived with my family in Quiyen; but I lost it when I left. Since then I have felt more afraid to do anything unusual or dangerous. Mel only laughed at me when I told her about it; she thinks me superstitious and silly, I suppose. But now I would have something, anything, to wear for luck.

I take a pale blue ribbon from the pile and loop it around my wrist. At the very least, it can serve as a sign of Mel's kindness.

She sees me, and remembers it. "Is that the torn ribbon I gave you – when – it must have been some two years ago?" she asks.

I nod.

"I did not think you kept it," she says. I shrug.

I find and pull on the short boots I keep for winter, remembering the Desert's searing heat. They are a little too large for me and full of holes in the toes, but the soles are thick enough that they may give me some protection from the burning sand all the same.

I have all my money – three copper – with me always, and I can't think of anything else I might need. "I am ready," I tell her.

"Will you guide the way to the surface?"

I nod, and go. Her candle flickers dimly behind me, but I can walk without its light. I have lived all my life in tunnels like these, without coin to spare for candles or lamps, without anything to light my way.

And I am half-blind, besides; my right eye has never seen anything but darkness.

So I lead the way through darkness and filth without any light but Mel's, and do not stumble. The stench is worse here. These tunnels were once used for ceremonies, long ago – they still open into the temples – but now they are only for kretchin, and our filth lies thick on the ground. I hold my breath as long as I can, and take deep breaths when we climb out into fresh air. Mel does the same.

"How can you live in such filth?" she asks. "At last I understand why kretchin smell so foul!"

I have no response for her. I look down at my boots, avoiding her eyes.

"Come now, Arri," she says impatiently. "We must be as far from Therwil as we can before we rest tonight. I'm sure my father will have the whole city searching for me by morning."

I come. She leads the way, now; she has blown out the candle, for fear that its light might attract unwanted attention, but she is sure enough of herself within the city. It is very dark – the moon is hidden by a thin layer of cloud, and only a purplish sheen high above hints at its presence – and it is very quiet. I find myself wondering just how late it is. It seems that Mel and I are the only people alive at this hour.

Anyone awake to see us would know that we are doing something wrong.

Once, as we pass a noble estate, a solitary dog barks. Mel hurries on, paying it no heed; but my knees grow weak with fear, and I do all I can to breathe more quietly and follow as closely behind Mel as I can. I can hardly see her in this dark, but by a twinge of my nature sense I always have some idea of how near she is and in which direction.

My bleeding finger stings, but I try not to think of it. It will be better by morning. It is only a small cut.

When we reach the city wall my fear rises again. The wall isn't guarded – of course – but if wind of Mel's departure reached Father Chinlar it would be. And we must cross it somehow; and the gate is closed for the night.

"We shall have to climb over it," Mel whispers to me. Even her whisper sounds loudly in the silence, and I flinch back toward a shadow. I shake my head mutely. We can't stay hidden while we climb.

"Calm yourself, Arri," she whispers. "You have sworn to aid me. I am climbing across the wall, and you shall have to follow me, if your oath means anything to you."

And this is true, of course. I will not break my sacred oath. And I will not leave Mel; she is my friend. I will stay by her side as long as she permits it.

There is a stair built into the inside of the wall, so our way up is easy enough; but the outside has no such stair, and nothing but stones to cling to. Mel swings over the top and climbs down easily. She makes it look so simple. But she has had a great deal of practice: she climbs out of her window and over the wall surrounding House Chinlar's estate quite often. I am afraid to follow her.

But I cannot stay behind. I whistle to Snake and follow.

My feet scrabble against the stones for purchase. I prefer to climb barefoot, when I must climb; but I would rather not climb at all. I have never liked heights – the sky holds no shelter.

Halfway down the wall I drop, and land hard. It is several steps before my legs are sure again.

We leave Therwil and make our way downhill, toward the Desert, moving as fast as we can, but the darkness is so complete that I can't see where I put my feet. Mel feels her way with gritted teeth. She would rather have light, I think; but she doesn't dare light a candle, for fear we might be seen.

For myself, I like the darkness. It is easier to understand things when I can only see what is near me. But I wish we had light, for Mel's sake.

I can no longer rely on my talent to show me where she is, for the forest is a sea of life through which I cannot sense her clearly. I could if I must, I think, but only with an effort that I ought not to waste. I follow her by her voice.

In time, we grow so tired that we cannot stumble on through the darkness any longer. We must rest before we go on. We hide ourselves as well as we can, and I fall asleep to the sound of Mel's breathing.

~*~

Mel kicks me awake again when dawn comes. She always wakes early: this is a habit taught to all nobles. Better to nap in the afternoon than in the morning, they told her. I am still tired, but of course all House Chinlar will be awake by now as well, and we must be far from Therwil before they catch us up. They can ride faster than we can walk.

I wonder why we have no steeds of our own, now that I think of it. I am sure Mel could have stolen some easily enough, for she must know where House Chinlar's steeds are kept. When I ask her, she laughs prettily and says:

"Steeds, in the Desert? Even if they survived the heat, their prints would lead my father's men straight to us! No, the Desert-folk use insects as steeds, and with reason. Besides," she adds, "a missing steed might go noticed sooner than I."

I shudder at the thought of the Desert's great insects. I have never liked insects of any sort – something my siblings always laughed about, on account of my nature sense – and from the first time I saw one of the great Desert-insects it filled me with a sharp and urgent fear, reasonless but deeper than any I had felt before. And I have feared often. The clan which found me and escorted me back toward the Mountains used one as a pack-animal, and I could not bear to be near it. If Mel truly intends to ride such an insect, I must follow her at some distance, and on foot, and perhaps her mission would be complete and she back home in Therwil by the time I reached Saluyah.

But for now we are on foot, and on foot we make our way down the mountainside. By afternoon it has flattened into a short stretch of rolling, rocky hills, with the gold-brown sands of the Desert beyond. Without the trees around us to spread their shade, the day quickly becomes very hot.

"Which way is Saluyah?" I ask.

She purses her lips. "I could find it easily enough following Mountain roads. Through the Desert – we shall have to cross to the River Saluyah, and follow that to the city."

"How do we know if we find the River?"

"The Desert has only one river of any size," she tells me shortly, and I nod, chastised.

When we leave the hills behind us I am almost overcome by the emptiness all around me: there is life in the Desert, but it is rare enough that each life is distinct and clear in my mind. Mel's burns like a candle, near and bright.

I am unused to walking on sand, and it is a long while before I find out how not to sink into the dunes with every step. The searing heat works through my poor boots, so that I soon long for the cool shelter of my underground room. Even the clothing I wear is welcome shade; where the cloth is ripped or worn through the sunlight burns as it touches me, leaving my skin reddened and sore. Mel's cloak, though it must be very warm, at least shelters her from the worst of the light.

The Desert is wide and open and bright, with the blinding sand below and the cloudless sky above. Every so often I glance backward, fearing that someone has already seen us at a distance. There is nothing here to hide us. There is nothing here at all.

I have been here once before, and then I was glad of it. It was strange and bright and open and it frightened me, but for all that it held food, and life, and living voices, and it meant that I was to live at least a while longer. But now I am afraid of this place, and I wish I was somewhere else, in cool darkness, where I might hide. Several times I must whistle to Snake for comfort, overcome by the fear of all this sun.

I feel a little safer when darkness falls, and also cooler. Now, we are hidden even here. I walk on with renewed vigor, although I am very tired by now, and my side aches with so much walking.

"Won't your servants tell your parents what they told you? Mightn't they guess whither you've gone?" I ask when the thought finally crosses my mind.

"No," she says. "I made certain that those two servants will not gossip about my love again."

For a moment I wonder how she did so, but I will not ask.

I have grown quite tired and hungry by now, and the night has quickly grown very cold, so that I am shivering in my thin clothing; but Mel urges me onward. "We must come away from the Mountains as fast as we can, Arri," she tells me. "Else we shall be found, and stopped ere the mission is complete. Hurry on, now. You can walk for a while more." And so we walk on, striking out straight across the Desert until we can walk no longer. Only then does she send me to call water.

She hunts a rabbit for our supper, using her dagger and her little blue spells – I try not to notice the feel of its life going out in my mind – and cooks it, inexpertly, over a fire. It tastes very plain and a little burnt. "Tomorrow we shall have to look for plants," she says, "any sort at all, to give the meat some flavor – any sort at all."

I nod, and scrub the pot clean, and we sleep. I lie across the remnants of the fire from Mel, curled close to the ashes for warmth, with my blind eye to the ground and the scent of sand in my nose.

~*~

The sun brings with it great heat when it rises, and it wakes me before Mel does. Before we break camp I call water again, so that we both may slake our thirst; the effort leaves me shaking. I cannot do this often. We must drink much, for we shall have no more water until nightfall.

We are surrounded on all sides by great sand dunes, so that even the Mountains are hidden from our sight. The limitless Desert stretches out around us. Our footsteps from the night before go every which way, so we can find no help there.

"Which way is Saluyah?" I ask again.

Mel gives a small shrug. "Which way are the Mountains, Arri?"

I shake my head and shrug.

She sighs. "Do you sense anything?"

I sense one of the dead-looking trees at some distance; it lives, though it is dark and leafless. I sense the tall, dark green cacti that grow straight upward. I sense a family of lizards on the other side of a great dune, where I cannot see them. I sense –

"There's a person, I think."

"Where? How many? Is it our pursuers?" Mel's gray eyes look into mine intently. I shrink back a little and look away. Although Mel prefers to look at my eyes when she speaks to me, kretchin ought never to see the eyes of a noble, and I am always a little afraid to look her full in the face.

"Far away," I say. "I can hardly sense them. It is not many... but it is too far to be certain."

"Are they searching for us?" she asks again. I shake my head.

"I don't know. I don't think so. It's... moving farther away, I think."

"Which way?"

I point.

"We shall follow them until we are near enough that you can count them," she decides. "Perhaps, if they're no threat to us, they can point us to Saluyah."

We walk. I fix my attention on the human life and lead the way, adjusting for it as it moves.

"There is only one," I tell her at last. "They are alone, and I don't think they've noticed us."

"Good," she says, satisfied. "We shall ask this person where Saluyah lies."

At last we are within sight of the lone stranger: a tall figure striding long-legged through the Desert, still distant but within our reach. If he sees us, he makes no sign of it.

Now that we have him in sight I relax my attention, and notice another life coming straight for us, quite fast. An insect, a lone insect, must have caught our scent. There is a part of me that remembers hearing that they usually travel in groups; but this thought is pushed from my mind by the force of my fear. "Insect!" I cry, in warning and in panic.

I fear the great Desert-insects. I fear them even when they are tame, mere pack-animals, harmless. And this wild one will eat us, perhaps even before we die; it will tear us apart; it will kill us. I know that they feed on travelers when they can, and this one will meet little defense. Mel has her little blue spells and her dagger, but I have nothing.

My oldest brother, Yuit, once tried to teach me what he could of hand-fighting. I learned slowly, and I did not learn well. He despaired of it well before I could defend myself. I tried to learn; but try as I might, I could not see from Yuit's stance how he would move, and I was unable to avoid his blows. And once he struck me I was too afraid to fight back. I ended up on the ground, curled up tightly against his fists and against all the world, and would not respond to his touch nor his voice; and there I remained, too afraid to move, until Silwen – my other brother – came and fetched me. After that I would not meet Yuit's eyes for weeks. In the end he had to be satisfied with giving me two simple instructions: to aim for the groin if I could, and to scream if I needed help.

But neither of these will help me here.

I whistle to Snake through dry lips, and take several backward steps. I will not run and leave Mel here, but I can be of no aid in this fight.

Mel draws her dagger, and she flings one of her little blue spells at the insect. It hardly seems to notice. I watch in fear: though she has her dagger, she has never learned to use it against an adversary with six long legs and powerful mandibles. I want to close my eyes against the horror of it, but I am too afraid. I must keep it in sight. At least, I must know when it is finished with Mel and wishes to kill me as well.

All at once a funnel of whirling sand sweeps in from my blind right side. It cannot be an ordinary sandstorm – it is too small, too fast – and the air is still all around me – but it is just as deadly. It kills the insect easily, and dissolves again into windblown sand.

I spin around to my right, seeking the source. All I see is the lone stranger. He has turned to face us, and is watching us without emotion.

"So, he is a conjurer!" says Mel as she straightens, deeply satisfied, and smiling as though the insect never was. "Haryin has indeed blessed me: he has sent me the last thing I need to complete my mission!"

The conjurer comes toward us, perhaps hoping to be repaid for his kindness, or perhaps hoping to see if we are uninjured; and we come toward him. He is a tall man, and thin, who stands very straight so that he appears even taller. His skin is brown, darker than mine and Mel's, and his hair is straight and dark, worn loose down his back. He looks almost like one of the Desert-folk; but there is something different in his face and in his dress, and I know that the Desert-folk never travel alone.

Now that we are closer I can see the man's face: his eyebrows are thick and low; his jaw is square, with a thin wisp of beard; his hands are large, and wearing several rings, and one of them is resting lightly on the hilt of a sword.

His eyes are dark, and his gaze as he looks us over is oddly contemptuous. I am grateful to the man for his help, so I waste no thought on it, and even Mel pays it no heed: perhaps she is so glad to come upon a conjurer this easily, before we even arrive at Saluyah, that something so little doesn't concern her. She hastens to introduce herself.

"Well met," she says; "I am Melianarrheyal. And you are?"

I wonder for a moment why she introduces herself by name and not by House, and I almost ask her; but then it occurs to me that perhaps she does not want the man to know she is a noble. I hold my tongue, ashamed that I almost spoke.

"Ty," says the man, then looks to me. "You?"

"That is Arri," Mel says impatiently. "Now – Ty – you seem a skilled conjurer. Is your talent with elementals alone, or can you summon demons as well?"

"Both, but that little whirlwind hardly means that I am skilled. You could do with some perspective."

Mel bridles at this. "Are you, then?"

He shrugs. "Skilled enough."

I have often heard it said that conjury is a rare talent, but it only seems this way because a conjurer without training cannot use his talent at all, and only those who are wealthy or have a very strong talent have training; so there are many conjurers who go unnoticed. My brother Yuit might have been one, but he knows none of the symbols they use to control their power. He has no talent he can use.

"We are on a mission," Mel is telling the man, "and we require the skills of a conjurer. If you would join us, I have gold enough to repay you. You may consider the offer a thanks for killing that insect."

"I have no interest in your mission."

Mel's eyes narrow, and the shadow of a smile crosses her face. Not for nothing have I known her these many years – I can see that her interest is aroused. She will do all she can to bring the man to join us, now. Mel loves a challenge.

"Have you no liking for gold? Is there truly nothing you desire beyond your means?"

"I have gold enough for all I need," he says, shrugging again. "Of course, if you must be rid of it, I would not object to lightening your load."

She does not respond to this, but says instead: "Without your help we are lost. If such an insect attacks again we shall surely perish. If we are to hire a conjurer in Saluyah, we must first arrive there safely."

"If you plan to reach Saluyah, you've been traveling in the wrong direction," he says.

"Then we need your guidance as well! Without it, we shall be lost to the Desert. You would be condemning us to death to leave us here."

"Interesting." His lip twitches in a slight smile, so like Mel's that I shudder and whistle to Snake. "I'm sure the scavengers of the Desert would thank me for your deaths."

Mel changes her tactic, seeing he is not to be moved by pity. "You say you are a skilled conjurer – how skilled? Might I find your equal in Saluyah? The service I require may be difficult to perform. Perhaps you are the only one who can help me. I have great confidence in your talent, and little in those Saluyah's conjurers have to offer, for I have never seen _theirs_ at work."

"What is this service, then?" There is no interest in his voice.

"I require a demon," Mel says, "in order to exact vengeance upon a woman in Saluyah. A simple thing for a conjurer as skilled as yourself."

"And who is this woman who has so wronged you?"

Mel looks away from him, unsure for the first time. "I do not know her name," she admits. "But that can be found easily enough. She is the woman who led astray my betrothed and bore him a child. He is Kerheyin, of House Lithuk, and a man of sound morals and good judgment who could not betray me willingly. I am certain the woman charmed him, and I have sworn she will die."

"And how often have you met this man of sound morals?" He sounds almost amused.

Mel draws her chin up high. "Never yet," she says, "and I have had no need to. But we shall wed the winter after next, and I will have his honor and mine restored before that time."

"Oh? How long has it been marred?" Is that interest in his eyes? No, it cannot be.

She shrugs. "My servants seemed sure the child must be two or three years old."

This is new to me, and I am taken aback. The child must have been born quite shortly after Mel was betrothed; had she known then, I am certain her parents would have withdrawn the betrothal straightaway. To think that the key to her release was always so near at hand! But now, of course, Mel knows that she and Kerheyin belong together, and she does not wish to end her betrothal but to save it.

"A noble bastard in Saluyah," Ty muses, and as I hear the words I know at once that I have heard them before. But I can't remember where.

Abruptly, he says: "Good. Then I shall be your guide and bodyguard for one gold in seven days, and I shall summon your demon for twenty gold – all in advance – and if you should decide that you need a conjurer's power for anything else, I shall require ten further gold before I do more."

I have never had the coin to hire a conjurer, so I do not know how steep his price is. Mel agrees instantly, though perhaps that is only because she is glad that she has won her game with him. She counts out one-and-twenty gold and pays him at once.

He does not swear to our mission – he is bound by gold alone. I hope it is strong enough a binding. At least he seems to know in which direction to travel, for he strides into the Desert with purpose; his long legs allow him to take long steps, so I must hurry not to fall behind. Mel adjusts her own stride to better match his, and either she finds it easy or she masks her difficulty well.

We walk a long time, following our new guide. Several times I see him drink from a skin looped into his belt. I envy his foresight. I whisper this thought to Mel, saying we might buy such a skin for the return journey; she doesn't respond at first, but at last she says, "Perhaps," and falls silent again. I hope I did not offend her. No doubt she thought of this without my help.

One day as we walk I become aware of a sea of life before us, and at last we crest a dune and I see the source below us: a vast field of small round cacti I haven't seen before, with a reddish undertone to their skin, and with thick black thorns as long as my thumb. They grow profusely and in disorder, and a faint but unpleasant odor surrounds the area.

"Stay back," warns our guide, and he alters his course to skirt the field.

"What are they?" I ask, forgetting myself. This is the most life I have felt in one place since we entered the Desert, and it is so strong that I am not sure whether to be glad or afraid.

"Does it matter?" Mel asks. I suppose it does not, and I hush, shaking my head. Ty answers me all the same.

"Myrkhin," he says. "In the Desert tongue, 'stench-plant'. If they are ripe, they burst when touched; and if they grow overripe they will burst without aid."

I shudder at the thought of their thorns propelled into my skin; but Mel has voiced her disdain for the subject, so I say nothing, and swallow my questions.

Even so, Ty continues to provide curt explanations for the life of the Desert, not only on this day but also on those that follow. "Sakhin – 'water-plant' – a very good source for water, so that you must not die of thirst, although you find it so difficult to call water; and edible flesh," he says of the tall dark cacti covered in long, light thorns; and Mel takes to cutting them open whenever we pass them. When she has slaked her thirst I too may drink, and I am glad of the water in this parched land. The severed portion I carry until nightfall, and add it to our poor soup. It does not taste of much.

Of the dark, leafless trees he says only: "Pikhin – 'wood-plant'," from which I guess that they have no use, except for firewood.

He tells us too that the scavenger-birds which descend each night to eat the offal from our meal are held sacred by the Desert-folk; but he gives them no name.

Once we come across a cloven track like those left by steeds' hooves. "Are there steeds in the Desert, then?" Mel asks.

"No," Ty answers: "these are ryntar tracks. They are similar in some ways to your steeds, but I know of no one who has tried to tame them."

"Let us hope they lead our pursuers astray," Mel says, and I hope.

Whenever we stop for the night, Mel hunts for a lizard or rabbit (though these are rare, this far into the Desert) for supper, and I call water and forage for the sakhin plants to provide even the smallest bit of flavor. Neither of us is always successful, but we do not use the food she packed unless we must. Ty makes his own meals. Sometimes he hunts, or forages, but always alone, and he neither shares his food nor asks to share ours.

At first I find him interesting, for he knows much of the Desert and is an able guide, though he is also arrogant and seems to regard even Mel as an unfortunate burden. She is naturally irked by this, and soon enough it becomes clear that she dislikes the man. Although she seemed eager enough to flatter him when they first spoke, she does not speak to him now unless she has reason to; nor does he speak to her without mocking her. He mocks us both. There is derision in his voice, and bitterness, always, as though our every action was a personal offense – and yet he does not seem to resent us. He looks at us with mild scorn, nothing more.

When we have a moment alone, Mel confesses thoughts of releasing him, and hoping for a more courteous conjurer in Saluyah; but she still holds that Ty is the best conjurer she has seen, and that she would not do with any but the best. Also she is glad to save some time, now that she must no longer seek out a conjurer once we reach the city.

So we are left with this one, discourteous though he is; and because Mel has made her distaste for him clear, my interest quickly gives way to dislike.

~*~

Unlike all Mountain cities I have seen, Saluyah has no city wall dividing it from the Desert. The first I see of it is farmland, kept alive by water diverted from the river. Then there are small houses, built with great slabs of gray stone, and streets cobbled with the same. The houses grow steadily richer around us as we go; the estates of nobles must be nearest the center.

"We shall go to House Lithuk," says Mel, "and see if we can find the woman's name."

I nod. Ty says: "Can you find it?"

She doesn't respond, except to tighten her lips and touch the scar at her cheek. She has never told me whence it came, only that it is a mark of her nobility, and a reminder to behave as a noble ought to. She does not often speak of it, and touches it only when she is in a dangerous mood.

It breaks apart the beauty of her face, but sometimes I think it is her best feature. It is because of that scar that I know that she is real.

We search for most of the morning without success, and in the end we must stop a commoner and ask the way; so it is nearly noon by the time we stand before House Lithuk's estate. "With luck, we shall be invited to stay for the midday meal," Mel says, in a tone that does not quite dare to be hopeful. I think she is glad to hope for a meal prepared for nobles. She has found our traveling food tasteless at best.

She knocks hard on the main door, certain we shall be listened to there – for isn't she a noble? It is soon opened by a servant with an uncertain smile. Her eyes pass quickly over Mel and Ty; then she sees me, and moves to shut the door, saying: "What is this?"

"Wait –" Mel says, and shows the servant her arm, where the sign of House Chinlar is scarred lightly into her skin. Nobles take no chances of losing their children.

The servant waits, eying us with deep suspicion. "Right, then, who are you?"

She makes no effort to hide her distaste. I was a fool to think I could follow Mel. The servant will not listen to us, not while I am here.

"I am Melianarrheyal of House Chinlar, betrothed to Kerheyin of House Lithuk, whom I shall wed in less than two years' time," says Mel. "This," gesturing to me, "is my faithful servant, whom we have disguised as kretchin in order to better complete the mission to which we both have sworn; and he," – Ty – "is my hired bodyguard."

But I am not a servant, and I am not disguised as kretchin. I _am_ kretchin. I wonder how Mel could forget this. At first I want to correct her; but we are not alone, and I do not quite dare to impugn her words before this servant of House Lithuk, lest I witlessly doom our mission.

The servant, for the moment, seems somewhat relieved. Of course – of course Mel in her wisdom would devise a way for me to come with her. I was foolish to think otherwise. I am glad now that I held my tongue, and ashamed that I almost did not. And the servant believes her! But a shadow crosses her face when she hears Kerheyin's name.

"Come in," she says, and we follow her through the door. I have never seen a noble mansion before, not from the proper entrance. I can scarcely contain myself; I look around the entrance hall openly, wanting to see everything; but Mel looks at me sharply and warns me to stop, saying only: "Calm yourself." So I endeavor to look forward, and only forward.

We are given seats, and told to await the return of the servant with Mother Lithuk, whom she has promised to fetch. Mel sits demurely on the edge of her chair, and Ty on her other side sits back in his, but he sits straight, as he is always straight. I try to sit straight, to affect the air of a servant who is merely dressed as kretchin, but I cannot. I am too thoroughly accustomed to holding myself low, to keeping my head down and my shoulders up. I am too accustomed to being afraid. In the hope of hiding that fear I keep my hands in tight fists and rest them on my knees, holding my arms straight. I fix my eye on the wall ahead of us so that I cannot look down and give myself away.

I do not know how to do this, how to be a servant. I tell myself I will say nothing, if I can, so that I do not give myself away by saying something improper, and otherwise I will follow Mel's lead and even Ty's as well as I can. I must not give myself away. They must not know what I am.

After a while the servant returns and introduces Mother Lithuk, and bows, and leaves. I look up at the noblewoman quickly – I can see some of Kerheyin's features in her face, from Mel's painting – but I am too afraid to look for long, and I soon drop my gaze.

Mel introduces us again, as she did to the servant, and Mother Lithuk nods.

"We have much to discuss," she says. "If you would care to share a meal with me? Naturally your servants may take a repast as well."

"My servant has sworn to the mission as I have," says Mel with a glance at me; "and, though of course I expect no need of him here, I trust you will understand that I wish to keep my bodyguard nearby as well."

"Of course," says Mother Lithuk. "Then they must hear our talk."

She leads us to a room with a long table and a row of arched windows. She and Mel are seated at one end and Ty and I at the other. They are on my blind side. I cannot see them without turning my head.

"Now they may listen," the Mother says, and sends for the meal. Ty and I are brought servants' food. Never before have I been served in this manner, and I keep my eyes down so as not to offend those who bring out our food. I forget that I am here as a noble servant myself, however much I try to remember.

What might Mother Lithuk do, if she knew there was a kretchin boy in her house? I am afraid to think of it. I am afraid she might read my thoughts in my face, afraid she might see that I am no servant at all – only kretchin in the disguise of a disguise.

The food is very good, much better than I have ever had, except when Mel gave me something; better even than the food she brought for our journey across the Desert. I try to restrain myself, to eat slowly, and to to follow Ty's lead in the proper use of the utensils.

"Where is Kerheyin, then?" Mel asks when the servants have left us.

"He's not in," says Mother Lithuk. "We shall have to conduct our business without him. I am, of course, willing to give your mission whatever aid I am able; if I may know what it is?"

"I must admit," says Mel, "I am here because of something I have not seen myself, nor heard except from servants, so I cannot know if it is true. I overheard them saying something which could not be true, of course, but I am afraid I believed them; or in any case I thought perhaps I should see for myself whether, by chance, they had happened upon the truth. And I swore to act on this truth which may not be, and came to Saluyah following only a rumor. My servants seemed very certain, though, that this rumor is known to everyone."

I don't understand. She knows that the woman bore Kerheyin a child; why doesn't she tell this to Mother Lithuk? Why does she say everything but that? But I know nothing of the ways of nobles. I say nothing, and hope that Mother Lithuk cannot see my confusion.

When I glance toward her, quickly, I see that her brow is knit with something like concern. "If it pleases you to tell me the nature of this rumor?" is all she says.

"I do not like to say," says Mel, "for it mars the honor of all House Lithuk. I would not be said to accuse your noble House of dishonor, and all the less for I shall join it within two years."

"Of course I know that you are only repeating what you have already heard, that whatever you may say is a servant's accusation and not your own," she says. She is visibly flustered, now.

"Very well..." Mel pauses, as though unwilling to go on. "What they say is this: a strange woman is known to have seduced my betrothed. They say she has born a child of his blood. I know it is a cruel accusation, but of course I know that my Kerheyin would never betray me of his own will: he must have been charmed beyond his wit, if it is true, of that I am certain. The strange woman must be a healer, with a strong talent to charm. I am true to my Kerheyin still, and I know he must love me still as I love him; and so it is my intention to visit punishment on the woman who led him astray – should she exist."

I cannot bring myself to look only at my plate; my eye keeps turning to their faces. Mother Lithuk looks very strange as she hears this. I am glad that nobles have no glance to spare for their servants, for she'd surely know something was amiss if she saw my eyes on her face. I do not look at her for long.

At last, slowly, she answers. "Yes," she says. "I regret that I must tell you this, but it is true. It is the shame of House Lithuk. Kerheyin, it seems, begot a child by some strange woman almost three years ago; and perhaps she did charm him, though I cannot speak to that." She laughs lightly. "How rare that your gossiping servants knew the truth! Not the whole truth, surely, but that they had heard of it at all – and that, for once, it seems they did not invent the scandal themselves. It is only fortunate that the news has yet to reach any noble ears but yours." Now she leans toward Mel and lowers her voice. "It would please me if you did not go about spreading the gossip. I do not accuse you of telling tales, of course – but this had best remain private, I think, even from House Chinlar."

"Why should I gossip about the shame of the House which shall soon be my own?" asks Mel. She sounds amused, but I think I can see the confusion in the knit of her brow. I know her so well.

"I only thought to be certain," says Mother Lithuk. "But there is something more you must know, I think, for this was not the worst the woman did, nor was his troth the most precious thing she took from him."

Mel raises her eyebrows. "Is there a more precious thing she could steal? If I may know what it was?"

"She died in childbirth, and whatever spell she cast over Kerheyin – if spell it was – obliged him to drown himself for sorrow. It was his life she stole." I can no longer read the subtleties of her expression. Instead I look at Mel: she has put a hand to her scar, and her eyes are hard.

" _If I may ask_ , why did it never please you to tell House Chinlar of his death?" she asks. Her voice is cold, and she sits very still except to speak.

I hold very still, and look down, and hope she does not glance my way. I know her anger is not with _me_ , but sometimes it is not enough to know this. I am always afraid when she is like this, always.

For a moment Mother Lithuk says nothing at all. When she speaks, at last, her voice is halting. "Did your mother and father never tell you? I sent a messenger, of course; but I never did receive a response, so perhaps he was lost along the way. If he was disloyal, perhaps that is why this gossip is everywhere, as you describe it. Now that you are here, and I know that he never reached you, I shall send another message forthwith, to tell of your safe arrival in Saluyah and to tell again of Kerheyin's demise."

Ty has been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, unmoving, waiting for the talk to finish; but now he stirs. I glance at him and see that he is frowning, but he says nothing. Perhaps, like me, he thinks it better to allow Mel to speak for us all while we are with another noble.

Mel says: "No."

Mother Lithuk looks at her. "Pardon?"

"That will not be necessary." Mel sticks out her chin. "They would rather not be troubled with such a message."

"Surely they might be glad to learn of your safety?"

"Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary. I shall inform them myself of Kerheyin's death and the reason for it; you needn't waste another disloyal messenger."

For a long moment both noblewomen are silent, leaning very slightly forward and looking into each other's eyes, their faces oddly alike. Neither of them blinks. I can see Mother Lithuk biting her lip, and Mel's face is set in some mixture of challenge and something I cannot place. Her eyes are narrowed, her chin thrust forward, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

"Perhaps we can come to an agreement," Mother Lithuk says at last, stiffly.

"Perhaps."

Mother Lithuk summons a servant, a scribe with ink and parchment and two quills. He lays the parchment between the two nobles, and uses his nail to crease a line down the center of it between them; and he gives each of them a quill, and sets down the inkwell beside them. Each begins to write, and the servant stands by, looking blankly across the room.

I am glad he does not look at me, for he would surely know what I am. I _cannot_ deceive them all. It is only luck that has kept me hidden here so long.

The scratching of quills against the parchment continues for some time. Now that Mel's attention is fixed elsewhere, I become more afraid that Mother Lithuk will glance up, and see me for what I am, and cast me out. I purse my lips for a whistle to Snake, but hold back at the last moment, remembering that this would betray me. Instead I hold as still as I can, hoping to turn her attention away from myself.

Now my thoughts turn to the mission: I wonder how Mel will find the woman, and I finally grasp that the mission is already fulfilled, and was before it began. The woman is dead, and she cannot be killed again. Perhaps it was not Mel who killed her, but it is finished all the same. Neither of us is bound by oath any longer.

The quills fall silent, first Mel's and then Mother Lithuk's, and Mother Lithuk gestures for her scribe. "Bear witness," she commands.

The scribe reads aloud what his mistress wrote: "I Melianarrheyal of House Chinlar will spread no word of the death of Kerheyin of House Lithuk, nor of the child he sired, nor of the woman who bore it nor of their relation, to anyone, be they noble or common or yet neither, be they kin or stranger. If asked I will deny knowledge. Nor will I spread any untruths about House Lithuk, nor gossip of any sort."

Mel hears all this in silence, and says only: "Ty. Bear witness."

"Not the servant?" I can hear from Mother Lithuk's tone that this is wrong – I suppose it is because Ty is only a hired bodyguard, not the servant I pretend to be. Panic rises in me. If I am made to do this... I cannot think of it. I cannot read. I am kretchin. I cannot read, and I cannot speak to a noble (but for Mel), and I cannot know what I must do well enough to know I will not fail; and I cannot read. I stare at the goblet before me, and I clench my fists beneath the table, and I try not to breathe, so as not to draw attention toward myself. My sight begins to swim, so sharp I cannot see anything but the goblet. The shape of its wooden handle is fixed in my mind. My temples tingle, and I feel a great pressure winding around my head.

I can feel my heart beating. I can hear it in my head.

When Mel speaks, I can hardly hear her. Her voice comes in waves, sounding closer and then farther away. "My servant is mute," she says.

This is not true.

I can speak, I can speak as well as anyone. It is not true. Why can she not remember me speaking?

How much am I giving myself away, by staring at the goblet instead of giving any sign that I heard Mel's words? But I cannot look away. Everything else is gone, white, blank.

I fear I will float away, and I want to grip the table, to assure myself of its nearness and reality, but I do not dare unclench my hands. I will not lose what I have hold of already, be it only my own fingers. The fine food, fit for the servants of nobles, feels unsteady in my stomach. I try to keep it down, to cast aside the discomfort.

I wish beyond wishes, so much I am nearly overcome by it, that I dared to whistle to Snake.

Now I am dimly aware of Ty standing up, walking around the end of the table, passing behind me, standing behind Mel's shoulder. I can feel him moving, but it doesn't seem to matter. I am occupied with trying to breathe, slowly, quietly, evenly. If I hold my breath inside for too long it will escape in a sharp burst, and they will hear, and they will look at me. They must not look at me. They must not see me, they must not know me. They must not see me.

Every breath is shaky.

He speaks, and his voice is deep and solid. I want to cling to it, to ground myself by it. I cling to it with my mind, with my ears, although I can hardly hear his words.

"I Mother Lithuk will not by any means give notice to House Chinlar of the presence of Melianarrheyal of House Chinlar in Saluyah."

The words drop from his mouth like stones, but they do nothing to weigh me down. Still, I know now that the task has not fallen to me, and will not, and I am breathing almost normally again. I become aware that my fingernails are digging deep into my flesh, and I make an effort to relax my hands. My fingers hurt from the strain of the clenching.

My sight begins to return to normal; the fear is replaced by lassitude. I am stricken by the thought that I cannot see Mel or the others at all, even on the edge of my vision, without turning my head. I turn it enough to watch the noblewomen shake hands and turn the parchment around. Again, each of them dips her quill into the ink and writes: their names, I think, to promise their obedience to the agreement. This is a practice Mel told me about once, long ago.

Now Mother Lithuk nods again to her servant, and he tears the parchment along the crease. He gives the portion bearing Mother Lithuk's name to Mel, and the portion bearing Mel's name to Mother Lithuk. Mel's eyes narrow slightly as he tears it, but she says nothing. Her eyes are still cold and hard. She takes the parchment wordlessly, and rolls it up and puts it away in one of the pouches at her belt.

"Might I visit Kerheyin's place of rest before I leave? He is buried beneath this mansion, yes?"

"No..." Mother Lithuk draws out the word, as though to soften its impact. "He is not yet buried. We could not bury him without House Chinlar's attendance, of course, and as the messenger never returned..."

"And the child?"

"It was moved to Qualin, last I knew."

"Thank you." Mel stands. "I think we had best be on our way."

I hasten to stand as well, and to stand a little beside and behind Mel, where perhaps I may be cast in her shadow and shielded from Mother Lithuk's attention. Mother Lithuk thanks Mel for her company, and they say their farewells, and we are led out of the mansion.

"She lied," says Ty when we are alone. "If she had truly sent a messenger who did not return, she'd have sent another. A noble does not despair after a single attempt."

Mel acknowledges his words with a grunt, but says nothing.

"And now that the mission is finished, do we return to Therwil?" I ask. My voice is still thin and shaking, but I am calm enough to speak, now. And I am not mute.

"Finished? Arri, the child yet lives! We journey to Qualin."

"But the woman is dead," I say.

Mel looks me full in the face, holding my eye with hers. Her voice is low and deadly. "The child lives," she says. "It must pay for its mother's crime, if she cannot. We journey to Qualin, and there Ty shall summon his demon to remove it. Kerheyin must be avenged. The mission is unchanged and unfinished."

"Not unchanged," I insist, foolishly obstinate.

She takes my arm and twists it, not enough to cripple it but enough to remind me of my place. I cringe at the pain, but I say nothing. The mission is unchanged or it is unfinished; it cannot be both. I know what I swore.

But – perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps she vowed the child's death silently. Perhaps I forgot the words of her vow. Then her mission is unchanged. _Mine_ , though, is finished.

I am no longer bound by oath, but I am still bound by friendship, and I will follow Mel as far as she permits it, and I will do what I can to help her. As long as I follow her, does it matter why? I am sure it will be good enough for Mel if I help her for friendship alone – I am sure it will be enough – so I needn't trouble her with it. "Unchanged," I gasp, and "but finished!" I add in my thoughts. She needn't know. It is good enough.

She holds me for a few seconds more before releasing me. I back off from her a little and keep my eyes on the ground.

"We shall stay for the day in Saluyah," she says as though I never spoke. "There are things I must buy before we venture into the Desert again."

"If you don't need me for anything, I should like to visit the temples," Ty says. "Perhaps the Namers know something more of the child."

The child must have seen a Namer two weeks after its birth, as every child does. Still, I wonder how he plans to find the Namer who named it. He knows nothing of the child except its father, and as both mother and father died before the child was named, I doubt that the Namer would know the same.

"Good," says Mel, surprising me a little. "Arri, be so good as to go with him. Perhaps you too may learn something."

I nod my assent silently.

"Then we shall meet again at the great burning ground in the center of the city," says Mel. I don't know of what she speaks; there is no such burning ground in Therwil, nor in Quiyen. But Ty seems to understand, for he agrees without question. I shall have to be sure not to lose him.

He leads the way, and I follow, rubbing my arm.

"Does she do that sort of thing often?" he asks.

"What?" I feel strange following him, this man whom I neither know nor like, and who neither knows nor likes me; but also a little proud that Mel trusts me with watching him.

"Hurt you."

I stop rubbing at my arm and let my hand fall to my side. "Mel doesn't hurt me," I say. "She has never done anything to harm me."

"Your arm?"

"If I am being especially foolish, she does what she must to remind me to at least try to think. She does not hurt me."

"So you've said." A short pause. "'Think'?"

I shrug, nod, watch the ground beneath our feet. We have reached a river and now walk alongside it, against the direction of the stream. I wonder if this is the River Saluyah or only a diversion of it. It is rather wider across than even Ty is tall, and it looks very deep. I do not doubt that Kerheyin was able to drown himself in these waters.

Across the water is a bare section of sloped stone, and across it is the city wall. There is one on this side of Saluyah, at least; I wonder why only here. Perhaps the Desert doesn't bear protecting against, although I don't know what lies on the other side of the River.

"Is it thinking to change your words to appease her?"

I frown and shake my head. "I saw that I was wrong. I must have forgotten what she swore." I wonder why he must invent reasons to dislike Mel. He seems willing enough to dislike me without a reason.

"You really believe that, don't you?"

There is something strange about his voice, as though something is missing from it, but it is over too quickly for me to be sure. I don't understand what he means, so I try to speak of something else. "Where are we going?"

"To the temple where the child was born, with any luck." Whatever was strange about his voice is gone now. He is as unfriendly as always.

I did not think children were often born in temples, and I say as much.

"A noble bastard would surely be born in one."

I think about this for some time, but I cannot see why. Also I am distracted by a faint memory, again, that I have heard something about a noble bastard in Saluyah before; but I cannot think of what it was. At last, hoping I don't offend him, I ask: "Why would a noble bastard be born in a temple?"

"Because it would certainly not be born anywhere where it might cause gossip. No one of House Lithuk could know about the child, and a hired healer could not be trusted to keep silent. Usually at least one Namer in each temple is a healer, and they are easier than most to buy into silence."

"Do you know which temple?" He hasn't hurt me yet for asking questions, so I am growing bolder, though I don't know why he doesn't. Mel has taken pity on me and allowed me to come with her, but I am still kretchin. Another man might have hurt me for speaking to him at all.

"I can guess."

I wonder how, and almost ask; but I don't want to press my luck. Besides, I remember now the disdain with which Mel treated him in the Desert. Then, I did not ask questions because I knew she disapproved. Now that she is not here, I have no reason to act any differently. Out of respect for Mel, I say nothing for some time.

And out of respect for Mel, I do not ask that question at all. But after a few more minutes of walking, curiosity overcomes me, and I find I cannot keep silent. "How do you know Saluyah so well? And the Desert? Do you live here?"

"No," he says shortly. "And I do not know Saluyah well. I know it no better than any other city. But, as with any city, I can find the temples more easily than anything else; and I know that there is only one which is near the river and yet far from House Lithuk."

"What –"

"Mother Lithuk is known to be a strong healer, and I very much doubt the boy was without a servant. If he were near his home when he drowned himself, his servant would surely have brought him to his mother before he died. And I assume that he went straight to the river once the child was born, so the temple must be near the river. We shall see if I am right, and if not we shall visit the others as well."

"Couldn't he have waited to drown himself?"

"Certainly he could have, but it would be very rare for a noble to kill himself in anything but the heat of emotion. If he waited, it was no longer than a day."

I don't quite know what he means, but I think I have asked enough questions. We walk the rest of the way in silence.

The temple is cool and dark, a welcome relief from the bright Desert sun. It is lit dimly by candles and it smells of burning herbs. The walls are covered with carven images of the gods. I have heard that there are stories written in these pictures, but I don't know if this is true. I don't think anyone knows how to read them anymore. Maybe the Namers do.

There are kretchin in the temple, as there are kretchin in every temple: the tunnels in which we live open into the temples, so we pass through them often. They sit with their backs to the wall, their eyes glinting in the darkness as they glance our way. Their hair is cropped at shoulder length or shorter, and their clothing is thin and worn. They are like me, dirty and hungry and afraid.

I feel almost as though I'd come home. I could belong here. But I don't.

I follow Ty. He walks straight across the temple and draws aside an unoccupied Namer, asking: "Is one among you a healer?"

The Namer is a tall man who might have Desert blood in him, with a black beard down to his chest. "I am one," he says.

"Do you remember a child born here some three years ago, to one Kerheyin of House Lithuk?"

The Namer frowns. There is something in his eyes – is it anger or fear? I do not know, but I shrink back behind Ty, afraid it is anger.

"I know nothing," he says, and turns away.

Ty catches him by the elbow. "Would it comfort you that we already know the child exists? We are not here for confirmation – only for details." I am surprised that he includes me, that he says we and not I, but the Namer seems not to notice.

He turns and looks at Ty more carefully. "I know you," he says. "You've been here before."

Ty touches his hands together, with his fingers spread and pointing upward, his palms touching, his thumbs near his chest. I have seen this gesture before, I think, used by the people of the Desert, but I never learned what it means.

"I visited this temple as I did all others in this city." Even when he speaks to the Namer, his voice is lightly touched with scorn. "Perhaps you remember that I asked to hear what legends you knew."

The Namer repeats Ty's gesture.

"Yes," he says. "You had a rare interest."

"I have it still."

"And now you ask about this child – why?"

Ty turns his wrist, quickly, up and down. Again, I think I have seen the gesture before. It must have been long ago. "I cannot be sure until you tell me what you know," he says.

The Namer looks at him for a time, saying nothing, perhaps considering. Then: "Very well," he says. "Come." He takes up a lamp and leads the way to a back room. Ty follows him silently, and I follow Ty.

The walls are lined with shelves, and these filled with scrolls. In the center of the room is a small wooden desk. The Namer sits behind it, lighting the candles on the desk with the candle from his lamp, and turns his eyes back to Ty.

He stands before the desk with his arms crossed, watching the Namer. I stand a ways behind him, nearer the wall, trying to make myself small. The Namer pays me no heed. No doubt he thinks I have made Ty the object of my begging, if he has noticed me at all.

"Yes, I remember that child," he says. "How could I not? It was strange enough."

"Tell me."

"It has not yet been three years. It was a rainy day in autumn when they came: a noble and a strange woman heavy with child. She needed his help to descend into the temple, for the birth was already upon her. I saw that the noble was of House Lithuk, for I had seen him before, although he did not often come to this temple. But the woman –

"She was..." The Namer stops to gather his words. He continues haltingly; he must know how strange his story sounds.

"Her face was young – perhaps older than his, but only just – and very beautiful, but it was as though she had no color – her hair was thick and long – and straight – and white, as though she were very old. And her skin, too, was as pale as any I've seen... but her eyes – her hair was nearly normal, after her eyes – her eyes were silver, true silver, shining as the jewelry of nobles. And she would not speak. Her lover spoke for her, saying she was mute – and yet I could see fear in her eyes, and joy, and love, and trust, just as any new mother might feel. I have since heard all manner of gossip about Kerheyin and his lover, and they say she arrived from Anaria, for she came in a boat and no one but traders knows what Anarians look like."

If she is Anarian, I know she cannot have charmed him. In Anaria the people have no talents, so I have heard. How, then, could Kerheyin choose her over Mel?

"The birth was very difficult," the Namer goes on, "and when the child was born it was clear the woman would not live much longer. I told them that children born in temples are often blessed, but they were both too concerned with the woman's life to have much interest. I looked for a blessing nonetheless. And what I saw –

"The child was blessed indeed, but not by any god they knew. Do you know of Snake?" I start, hearing Snake's name spoken here.

Ty touches his hands together again.

"Not many do, but for kretchin. This child had Snake's blessing. I could not tell them this, for a kretchin god's blessing on a noble child is no blessing but a curse."

Very suddenly, I remember how I heard of a noble bastard in Saluyah before. All kretchin knew the rumor, even in Therwil: a noble bastard in Saluyah was blessed by Snake. A girl had whistled to Snake in a temple, as she walked past the noble and his lover; and she saw Snake's sign around the child, and so she knew that the child was blessed. A noble bastard blessed by Snake is news everywhere. Snake rarely cares for any but kretchin, as none but kretchin care for him.

He is a god of cunning and survival, and of slithering through holes. He is scorned by other gods as kretchin are scorned by all others, but he has the cunning to live contently without their love – though he must always watch for them. His blessing means that the child will live, and live contently, and do whatever it sets out to do. I very much doubt that Mel will be able to kill it, for Snake's power must be greater than even hers.

Still, I must do what I can to help her – even against Snake's will – for she is my friend.

"But the child was also blessed by another power," the Namer says, and pauses before he goes on. "I do not know which power it was. It was not a god we worship here, nor in the Mountains, nor in any other part of Thilua. It... it was strong, very strong, and I had the impression that it had not only blessed the child but had chosen it, for some purpose. That child will turn destiny, I think."

Yet another reason that Mel may not be able to kill the child! – but I doubt she will listen if I tell her so. Mel has never thought much of fate.

Ty stiffens, very slightly, but his voice is the same as always. "Did you notice anything else about this power?"

The Namer taps the first two fingers of his right hand against the inside of his left wrist. "Only that it needed the child for something."

"Mm. Go on."

"I told them about this strange power – only that I did not know it. The noble listened, but said nothing. The woman could feel that she was dying, I think, but she smiled when she heard of the blessing.

"When she had nearly slipped away, he kissed the air above her cheek – here –" he touches his own cheek, briefly, "– and he stood, and told me that I must not burn her body, but rather wrap it carefully and release it into the River, with a boat if I could find one; and that I must ask for her not the blessing of the Queen, that she become one with the dark-dust, but that of the Sea-Father, that she find her way; and he took the child from my arms and left the temple.

"Of course I found this very strange, but I did as he asked –"

"He paid you for it." I dislike Ty's tone. I am afraid to be in this room with him, afraid the Namer will grow angry, afraid they will fight.

"A noble sees to it that you do as he asks," the Namer replies.

Ty makes another strange gesture, a quick pass with his hand from inside to outside across his waist. "What else do you remember?"

"Nothing more."

"Did you see the child again?"

Again, the Namer taps his wrist. "It was named elsewhere."

"Thank you," Ty says, and turns toward the door. I duck against a wall to let him pass, and follow him out of the temple.

~*~

After the cool dark of the temple the heat and light of the street is sudden and intense, and it hurts. The sun glares off the gray street and buildings, so that I cannot rest my eye anywhere without pain. I squint through my eyelashes and try to watch only Ty's shadow.

He leads the way in closed silence, and I think he is lost in thought. He shortens his long stride, so that our walk takes longer than it might. If he is thinking, perhaps he is glad of a longer walk before we reach Mel.

What he is thinking about, I do not know. The child, perhaps, though for myself I think it a mystery to which we cannot know the answer, and for which answer we have no use. Mel must kill the child. What does it matter which gods blessed it? It will die in the end, if Mel is successful, and Mel is always successful.

The sun is beginning to set when we come to the center of the city. There is a large clear circle of the same gray stone here, and though it is swept clean I can see traces of ash on the ground. Mel sits on a low wall across from us, facing away. Her shoulders are shaking.

She looks almost as if she might be crying; but Mel does not cry.

Still, it comes to me now that she has reason to. There is no one I love as Mel loved Kerheyin, but I try to think how I might feel if someone I cared about was gone: my stomach twists painfully at the thought of my mother or siblings dead, although I doubt I will ever see them again no matter how long they live.

I cannot even think of Mel dead. My mind dances away from the very thought, afraid of what I might find.

"Are we disturbing you, noble?" Ty's voice is mocking, as always.

Mel's shoulders stand still at the sound. Her own voice is calm, composed: "So you're back. Did you find what you wanted?"

Of course she was not crying. Mel does not cry. I feel foolish for even thinking it.

"Yes, I think so."

"Arri?"

"He said..." I struggle to remember everything that might interest Mel. "The woman had white hair, but was young. And eyes like silver. He said she was Anarian, probably."

"He knows nothing of Anarians," says Ty with contempt. "Even for them, white hair and silver eyes would be a strange thing."

I wonder why Ty would know anything more of Anaria than the Namer. Anaria is a strange land, far away, across the ocean. I know little about it save that Anarians have no talents and that they worship strange gods, who live among the stars instead of under the earth as ours do.

"Is that all?" Mel asks.

I say nothing at first, wondering if Mel would rather not know. But she asked, and I must answer. "He said the child was blessed."

"We will be stronger than its blessing," she says shortly. "Haryin smiles beneath us."

Haryin Two-Faced is the favorite god of nobles. He is a god of intrigues and weighted deals. They say he cannot be trusted, and that if he helps you he will take double payment. But nobles pray to him more than any other god, perhaps because they are always making intrigues and weighted deals themselves.

Mel has always believed herself favored by Haryin.

"That was all, I think," I tell her. My hand has crept back up to rub at my arm, although the hurt is almost gone now. I force myself to let it hang at my side.

Mel swings around on the wall to face us. Her eyes are bright and hard in the darkening light of the setting sun.

"By rights I ought to visit Kerheyin in his proper place of rest, that I might mourn him as befits my betrothed. To think that they have yet to bury him, these three years after his death! The state his body must be in! I am forced to wonder what Mother Lithuk had planned for the funeral, if it was ever to happen..."

"You would have learned of his death at the wedding, at the latest." Ty's mouth twitches, as though he finds this thought amusing. Mel glares at him.

"You can mourn as we walk, anyway," says Ty. "You wanted to go to Qualin, yes?"

" _How can you be so callous?_ Have you no _shred_ of compassion? Can you not even _begin_ to imagine what it is like for those of us who know the death of a love? _Do you even know what love is?_ " She has stood up by now, and balled her hands into angry fists. The light of the sun gleams in her glaring eyes. I shrink back a little, afraid as I always am of her anger, or anyone's; and yet a part of me is intensely, uncomfortably aware that Ty is cool and calm and unmoved. He is neither angry with Mel nor afraid of her anger; he knew what she would do, and goaded her all the same.

It comes to me that he must have _wanted_ this, _wanted_ Mel to become angry with him.

The constant mockery he makes of everything and everyone must be because he _wishes_ to be disliked, by all who speak with him.

And he is successful enough, for I can easily see that Mel dislikes him; perhaps she even hates him. Mel hates easily. And I dislike him as well, as I would dislike anyone who finds it amusing to anger her. How can he be so disrespectful? Of _Mel_?

"I very much doubt you loved him," he says. "For myself, I should find it difficult to love anyone whom I'd never met. Certainly he seemed to like another woman better than you, so even if you _did_ love him it surely wasn't a feeling he shared."

Mel has gone very still, but I can see her shaking with fury. Her voice, when she speaks, is low and dangerous. When she speaks to me in this way I do what she says without question. Now that she uses it with Ty, I can only be afraid. I shrink back still further.

"You shall be silent," she commands through her teeth. "I am paying you to kill the child, not to mock my love – my love of which _you_ know _nothing_. Nor can you claim to know whom Kerheyin did or didn't care for, as I very much doubt that _you_ knew him any better than _I_ did. He was _my_ betrothed after all."

Ty shrugs, but I can see a smirk hovering about his lips. "I don't seem to recall being paid to kill the child," he says.

"You have been paid to summon your demon. It ought to make little difference to you whom you send it to kill."

"So, having been thwarted in your plans to kill the woman – by her untimely death – you now seek to kill your beloved Kerheyin's child instead?"

"The woman's child," she corrects, barely moving her lips.

"The last part of your 'betrothed' which still lives."

"The last part of the woman who wronged me!" Her eyes flash. "I will not be wronged, conjurer. You would do well to remember that. And once wronged I _will_ have my revenge."

The sun is almost completely gone now.

When Ty speaks again, his voice is oddly careful. "If I were to summon a demon to kill the child, I'd need a focus." He pauses. "Something of the child's. As both its parents are dead, something of theirs might do as well – and the longer I have the focus before the conjuration, the better my control of the demon. It would be best to find something before we continue our journey."

"We can find something of the child's in Qualin," says Mel.

"I would have at least three days between finding a focus and summoning the demon," Ty warns. There is an odd note to his protest, but I cannot place it.

"Then we shall stay three days there," says Mel. "I should be glad of time to prepare, and be certain that everything is perfect."

Ty gives a small sigh and shrugs. "So be it. Which way shall we go – through the Desert again, or along the Mountain roads?"

"The Desert," she says at once. "I cannot be seen. I might never reach Qualin through the Mountains." I think she has laid aside her fury for now; it is replaced by a fear of being captured and taken back home.

"We shall have to walk up the Mountains in the end," he reminds her.

"True – but as there is no other way –" she stops. "Is there another way? Arri!"

I jump.

"Calm yourself," she says, but her voice is cool now, and she does not look at me. "You have mentioned Qualin before, have you not?"

I nod, looking down.

"You've been there?"

"Not long," I say. "Hardly a day."

"And when you left..."

I can feel the heat on my face as I redden. "There was a well," I say. "I've told you the story. I came out in the Desert."

"That was Qualin, then?" she muses. "Do you remember the way back through the caves?"

I consider. I think I do. I was lost for so long in that twisting darkness that the paths I took were seared into my memory. I nod. "I think so," I say.

But I am afraid to show those caves to Mel, for when I told her the story she laughed at me. She did not believe my tales of water that shone with its own light. She told me I must have dreamed it, sick with hunger as I was.

"If the water glowed all Qualin would know of it!" she said. "And as I have never heard of such a thing, it cannot be true."

But at least she did not think I lied, only that I could not know what I saw. And perhaps Mel knows best. Perhaps the water did not shine, and all in that labyrinth of caves was darkness. But I am afraid to see the water again and know if Mel was right.

I know it is a foolish fear, but I cannot stop it.

And I am afraid of going to Qualin because nothing happened there that was good. I was there hardly a day. I had only just arrived, and then the well happened, and now that is all I can remember of the city.

And I am afraid because I am going back along paths I have already traveled once, and I am afraid that I may come out in Quiyen, and I must never again be in Quiyen where I was born. I was told to leave, and I left, and I cannot go back. I cannot.

"Then we shall journey to Qualin through the Desert and then through the caves," Mel decides. "I think it is a shorter route, and certainly we shall better avoid suspicion the longer we can avoid the Mountains."

Ty knows the way to the caves we speak of, he says; so we follow him, again. We strike out into the Desert straight away, and do not make camp until we have left Saluyah behind us.

~*~

Ty is less silent and more pointedly unfriendly as we journey back across the Desert, mocking us both at every turn. He must be doing all he can to make us hate him. He is not unsuccessful: I can see Mel's hatred for him deepening by degrees, day by day.

I do not hate him, because I will not hate. I will fear or dislike someone easily enough, but never truly hate, I think; I don't know how it feels, what it means, except when I see it in others. I am afraid to feel loathing. I hope I never do.

And I do not fear him, because he has done nothing to make me afraid. He does not hurt me or yell at me or threaten me. He ignores me more often than not, and he makes a mockery of Mel far more often than of me. So I do not fear him, any more than I would fear any other stranger. But I dislike him, and my dislike grows stronger with Mel's hatred. I begin to wish we could go on without him.

But between his taunts he is a helpful guide. In the evenings he helps me to forage, telling me what is edible, even showing me a nest of insect eggs one night. These are as large as my head, and they taste better than I would expect of anything that came from an insect.

I expect he helps only because he is paid to. He has made it so clear that he dislikes us both. I might be grateful, except that whenever we are alone together he speaks to me; and whenever he speaks to me, I find more and more reason to dislike him. He accuses Mel of all manner of evil. I try not to listen.

During the day we walk in silence. Ty is not much given to conversation, I think, although he never resists making a derisive remark when Mel speaks first. And she says little, knowing this.

One day I sense insects running toward us – I cannot count them, they move too quickly, their lives run together in my mind – and I turn to face the feel of them, trying to blot the image of their mandibles tearing into my flesh out of my mind. I break the silence to yell a warning: "Insects!"

At first they are only a distant cloud of dust, but they scurry quickly over the dunes with their feet drumming on the sand. My legs tremble as I watch them run toward us – there are five of them – and I stifle a scream; I try instead to whistle to Snake, and find I can't hold my lips together long enough to bring out a sound. My mouth, my face is twisted with fear.

I want above all to flee.

Ty has drawn his sword, and he holds it comfortably. I do not doubt he will be able to kill both of those that run his way. Mel is firing her little blue spells at one of the others; it is still coming for her, but by the time it reaches her it will be weakened, and perhaps she can fight it off with her dagger. I can only hope.

The other two race toward me. I cast around for something – anything – with which to fight them off, but there is nothing. I stand my ground as long as I dare. But in the end I can't stay there while they come for me, I _can't_ , and I turn on my quivering feet and run.

My feet sink deep into the sand and I stumble, twisting my right leg beneath me as I fall. A feeling like fire pierces up from it. The pain does not replace my fear, but strengthens it; I can feel the tears on my cheeks and the burning sand pressed close against my face, and I know the insects are just behind me, and any moment they will be here, they will be _here_ , and I dig my fingers into the sand, struggling to pull myself away from them, to do anything at all to get away, to run away where they can't follow; and I know, I _know_ , that there is nothing I can do – nothing at all – that even if I were on my feet I could not outrun the great insects, that they are faster than anything else in the Desert, that I am hopelessly slow, that I cannot even stand, that the pain in my leg is so great that I cannot even think of standing, or running; and now they will reach me and they will _touch_ me, they will touch me with their abominably segmented legs and their clicking mandibles and they will eat me, they will tear me apart, and they will touch me, and I weep with the helpless knowledge that they will come so near to me as to touch me.

I fear the great insects of the Desert above all else.

I try to pull myself away with my arms – even that hurts my leg. I flatten myself against the sand, trying to stay as far away from them as possible (until they catch me), but I don't know where they are – I can't see them – and I can't sense them; my attention keeps slipping from my nature talent, fixing itself instead on the pain and fear. I can't bear not knowing where they are. I push myself up and turn at the waist, looking about wildly for the insects.

The two which threatened to kill me lie dead before me now, half-buried in sand, still bleeding. I push back from them as much as I can, but I can't go far with this pain in my leg, and they will not hurt me now. Still, I do not like the thought of their nearness. I wish I could flee.

I tear my gaze from the things and look for the others. The one attacking Mel is meeting death: it is being taken apart by a little whirlwind sandstorm elemental, like the one Ty summoned before, the first time he saved us. Now it seems he is saving us again. He is directing the elemental with his left hand, and using his right to fend off another insect with his sword. The last lies dead beside him.

When the insect by Mel has fallen he brings the elemental around, to finish the one still alive, before letting it fall apart.

I wipe my face roughly. My hands are covered in hot sand, so I dirty my face rather than cleaning it, but I do manage to dry it a little. My tears have mostly stopped. I am still shivering with fear and repugnance, though, and I don't dare to stand on my hurt leg. I whistle to Snake for comfort.

"Arri! Come!" shouts Mel. I push myself to my good foot and hop toward her. Though I don't step on the hurt leg at all, each little hop jostles it painfully, and soon new tears are coursing down my dirtied cheeks.

When she sees that I cannot walk normally she comes toward me, and we reach each other near a pikhin tree. I let myself fall to the ground.

"What _have_ you done to your leg, Arri?" Mel cries. "How can you walk? I ought to leave you here; you'll slow us terribly; but you must come with. Somehow, you must walk."

I nod miserably and whistle again to Snake. I wish I had not run away so foolishly. I know that I have hurt Mel's mission, and I am sorry. But I don't tell her so; once when I did she told me that it wasn't important how sorry I was, or what I meant by it, or what I did not mean. All that mattered was what I had done, and my words could never make it right. So I say nothing, knowing it would only anger her more.

I am afraid to see her face. I know what I'd see there, but I do not dare to look. Her voice is hard enough to bear without the sight of it in her eyes.

After a long moment she leaves me sitting there and staring at the ground. I can see her from the corner of my eye, walking to the top of a small dune and staring out into the Desert impatiently; and I can hear her footsteps, one after the other. I can feel her presence dimly, but my nature sense is not so strong that I can watch her in my mind, and besides I cannot take in so many different things all at once. It is almost too much to hear her footsteps and Ty's at one time, moving at different speeds, the one coming toward me, the other moving away.

He kneels beside me. "Hold out your leg."

I don't like his tone of voice, his quiet command, his calm. There is no reason for me to listen to him or do as he says. He is nothing but a hired conjurer under the thrall of Mel's gold, and she hates him. I shake my head obstinately, looking at the ground.

His only response is to shift his weight and sit down, as though to wait more comfortably. I try not to listen.

For some time I do not move at all. It is too much for me, too much all at once, and it takes a while for my mind to catch up to itself. The pain in my leg is sharp and urgent, and through it I have hardly enough attention to spare for anything else.

The uneven sand beneath me is in shade from my body and from the pikhin tree near us. I am leaning heavily on my left hand, and it has sunk into the ground a little, where the sand is a little cooler and doesn't burn me as much.

I am breathing through my mouth, and the heat of the Desert is beginning to dry out my tongue. I am very thirsty. My lips taste salty, like tears. I can hear Ty's breathing below mine, slow and even.

I want water.

Ty is still waiting, patiently, and it is clear by now that he can wait longer than I. I stretch my leg out toward him, as far as I can bear to move it.

He takes off my right boot and examines the leg roughly. Several times I nearly cry out, but I try to stifle the sound into a low moan of pain.

"So you have hurt your leg, and rendered it useless," he says, "and not killed nor wounded even one of them. Will you hold still, at least, if there's nothing more you can do?"

His words sting me; but he is nothing more than a hired conjurer, and his words mustn't matter to me. I have disappointed Mel. Perhaps I have even dismayed her. There is nothing Ty could say that might deepen my remorse. I hold still, and say nothing to him.

He uses a fallen branch of the pikhin tree as a splint, and ties my leg to it with scraps of cloth. My tears have come back, and I find myself wondering how much water is left in me now. I am still very thirsty.

"A hurt like this is quickly made and slowly healed," he says. "I can do no more for it, but perhaps the Queen may."

I don't understand. He must mean the Queen of the Dark-dust; but the Queen of the Dark-dust has no reason to heal me.

"Now come, before she abandons you after all," he says as he stands. He is smiling, as always, faintly, derisively. I say nothing. I will not respond.

We make camp early that night. Mel is very tired from using her little blue spell so many times, and does not hunt. Instead she eats something from her stores while I fetch water, and falls asleep soon after.

I try to sleep, but the pain in my leg is too strong, and I am hungry. I lie on my back, not wanting to turn, and unable to sleep.

Ty is sitting up, still, making a meal of some dried meat. I can hear him eating, and the sound reminds me of my hunger and distracts me from my rest. I sit up, at last, and watch him in silence.

He sees my gaze and tosses me a scrap of meat. I brush it aside, push it back toward him. "I am no dog to be fed by your scraps," I say.

"Aren't you?" he asks. He seems almost amused; the faint smile is on his lips as always. He reaches and takes the meat back, and eats it himself. "You ought to eat well, for now," he tells me, "so that your leg heals more quickly." But he does not offer me another piece.

He finishes his meal and lies down. He lies perfectly still, and I cannot see whether he is already asleep. Again I lie down on my back, but I am restless. My eyes will not close.

"What do you care how quickly I heal?" I ask. Much as I dislike the man, I would still rather speak to him than lie here in silence without sleeping. I hope his voice may distract me from the constant pain in my leg.

It seems he is awake after all, for he answers me: "I am hired to help you reach Qualin, and I have no interest in prolonging that journey."

I don't know why he is with us at all. He didn't want to join us, not for the mission, not for gold. What was it that decided him, in the end? I can't remember; I must not have found it important then.

"It hurts," I complain. "I can't sleep."

"I am not here to make you comfortable. I am hired only to speed and guide your way and to summon your demon."

"Why?" I doubt he will give me an answer, but now that I have thought of it I cannot shake my confusion. "Why are you still with us, when you dislike us so much and are bound only by gold?"

For a long moment he is silent, and I wonder if he will answer at all. At last he says, a little shortly: "I wish to set aright a wrong I did when I met you. Now be still, and sleep."

"I'm hungry."

"The Desert is full of food."

This is true, of course, and Ty has taught me something of how to find it. But I am afraid to leave the camp. What if I should lose it? What if Mel awoke to find me gone? So I say nothing and lie still, and at last I fall asleep.

~*~

Mel wants to move faster, always faster. She wants to reach Qualin as soon as possible and have the mission done with. She was thwarted in Saluyah, and that rankled her, and now she wants to finish before she can be thwarted again. Whenever I am too slow on my injured leg, she reminds me to quicken my pace.

"I would not strain that leg," Ty warns. "It will only worsen." But Mel assures him that I am stronger than he thinks, and I try to be worthy of her faith. "I will not slow us," I say. I will not.

Ty gives a short, barking laugh and strides off ahead of us. I try to follow him, to catch him up – I try! But every step sends little sparkles of pain up my right leg, and I am already going as fast as I can.

At last he slows, only to mock me again. "Fool," he says; "you gain nothing by pushing yourself, and tomorrow will be worse. If anything, you have slowed us further."

"Quiet, you," says Mel. "We know what slows us. Now come, Arri – you can go a little faster than _that_."

And I go faster.

Ty strides off into the Desert again, but once he is well ahead of us he matches our speed. Mel stays with me, to be sure that I keep an eye to speed, and to complain.

"This is _my_ mission. He is here only because I pay him to be, and I could release him at any time if I chose to. He forgets that, or doesn't respect it."

"But you can't," I remind her. "He can summon the demon. He is a powerful conjurer, and we need him."

"That is all that keeps him living," she says. "If I met a man half as irksome and had no need of him, I should slit his sorry throat."

I shiver, knowing now that we walk with a dead man. His skill with conjury and with the sword far exceeds mine and Mel's, but she will find a way to kill him all the same, as soon as the child is slain. Mel always finds a way.

I shan't miss the man when he is gone, for he has been nothing but discourteous to us. I shall be glad to be rid of him at last. I will.

~*~

By the next day my leg has worsened terribly. I can hardly move for pain, even to sit up. Also I have a fever, and I lie sickened while Mel glares at me, much vexed.

"If we must stay here, I am going hunting," she says. "At least that may have some use. Be sure there is plenty of water when I return."

Mel has not hunted in days. She wants to be out of the Desert, and she will not tarry for anything. We have been living off of the food that she bought in Saluyah, and I can only hope that it will not run short.

I hope her hunt will be successful.

I can feel no water below me, but I cannot move to find a better spot. I begin to dig away the sand with my right hand, my better hand, but I can't twist my head enough to see what I'm doing on that blind side. I will feel my way. I must.

It goes slowly and poorly. I try and try to call water, and it will not come. It takes an enormous effort to use my nature sense at all, and the hole is still so shallow.

Only when Ty speaks do I remember that he is there, watching me. "Shall I dig for you?"

The question surprises me, so I respond without thinking: "Why?"

"I, too, am thirsty." He crouches beside me, and begins to dig – I can hear him – but I cannot see him without turning my head, and I will not turn it. It feels too heavy.

The sound of his digging fades in and out of my hearing, and at last it stops completely. "You can't call water, can you?"

I try again, but through the fever I can hardly feel myself trying. I shake my head, very slightly, but enough to be dizzied by the motion.

"I'll be back shortly," he says. "Try not to be eaten in the meantime."

I shudder, and shut my eyes, and wait.

He startles me out of a black haze like sleep when he returns, and I blink up at him, trying to see. The day is painfully bright, and he looks nearly black against the sun. He is holding something, over the hole – something falls, glittering – and then he crouches again, and I close my eyes against the sun.

His hand is on my shoulder, and I am too weak to shrug it off. Then he says a soft word I don't understand, and I feel something twist and release inside me, and everything turns black.

~*~

I drift in and out of blackness a long time, hearing their voices but too fevered to listen, unable to think. At last I wake with a clearer mind. The fever has left me, and I know by the cold that it must be night.

Their voices are quiet now, but heated.

"This is my mission," Mel is saying. "You must respect my judgment."

"Certainly," he agrees. "And I do, when you tell me whither we are going and what we are doing there. But you know less of hurt legs than I. We made poor time yesterday, although you pushed him beyond his limits, and today he could not walk at all – didn't I tell you it would be so? Didn't I warn you?"

"Then you cursed him with your conjury, to make us believe you."

"I am a conjurer and cannot curse, and if you don't know that you are truly a poor excuse for a noble."

"What, you can heal but cannot curse?"

He sighs, as though he has lived this conversation too many times. "I have no talent to heal. I know enough to say you are well and truly a fool, but knowledge is not talent – mine is for conjury alone. If it was for healing Arri would be well by now. I have nothing to gain from staying so long in this Desert."

"Heal him, then, if you truly wish to speed our way."

"Are you thick, or merely deaf?" Even now his voice is calm – contemptuous, but calm. "I can do no more for that leg. It will not walk tonight. It ought not to walk tomorrow, even slowly. Force it, and your Arri may be crippled for life. Is that your wish, noble?"

"Arri must guide us through the caves," she says, coldly, and then they are silent. I can hear her walk off a ways and lie down. Her breathing slows and evens, and I know that she sleeps.

I wait a while longer before opening my eyes. The stars are bright above me. I turn my head and find Ty sitting beside me, keeping watch. I am almost surprised; I had hoped that he might have gone without my notice.

"Do not move lest you hurt yourself more," he warns softly.

My mouth is thick, my tongue dry. "Is there water?"

"Beside you."

On my right side is a hole in the sand, filled with water. It looks deep, and the water does not sink back into the sand. It is far more than I have ever been able to call.

I cup water into my hand and drink eagerly, tilting my head just enough that I do not choke.

"How?" I ask when my thirst is somewhat slaked.

"I helped you call water."

"How?"

"I combined our talents. A difficult thing to do, but quite possible as long as both are willing – or if one is too weak to refuse, as you were. Seems it was too much for you, though."

I remember swooning. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, and I think, maybe I could have done it if not for the fever. But I say nothing. Instead I look at the pool and say: "It is stronger than my talent alone."

"My talent is stronger than yours. This little spring will stay here long after we are gone."

Of course it is stronger. He is a skilled conjurer, and my talent is very weak. I can barely call water at all, on my own. Still, I wish he wouldn't boast so. He is nothing, I remind myself. He is nothing but a hired conjurer.

And I am nothing but kretchin.

I drink a little more. It clears my head a little, but the water in my belly reminds me of my hunger. How long has it been since I ate? It can't have been long – no more than a day or two – but the fever took my strength.

"I did not ask for your help," I say. I don't like him. I don't want him here.

"You are so prideful," he says, "especially for one so afraid to overstep his place. You will not take that which is not given to you, yet you refuse that which is. Fool."

I say nothing. It has been a long time since the kretchin children taunted me, but I am still the same; I said nothing, and I did nothing, and in time they left. They laughed and laughed and kicked at me and then they left and Silwen came and found me and took me home, and I was safe there.

And now I can never see him again, or any of my family. Now there is only Mel.

"Why do you follow her?" he asks at length.

"She is my friend," I answer, startled out of my thoughts.

"A friend who asks you to walk farther and faster than you are able? A friend more concerned with her own mission than with your pain? A friend who does not leave you here to die – only because she needs your help?"

I wonder whether Ty always tries to push people apart this way, whether he whispers the same untruths to Mel about me. "I will walk tomorrow," I say.

"She has you well-trained, hasn't she – perhaps you are a dog after all."

I will not answer to his taunt. I say nothing more. After a while I fall asleep despite my pain and hunger, and this time it is a real sleep, deep and dark and untouched by fever.

~*~

Mel makes up for my limp by allowing no other delays. She does not hunt; she does not wander; she does not make camp until we have gathered a fire's worth of wood from the pikhin that grow directly in our path. Ty suggests that we visit a Desert village, in hope of finding a healer, but she will not stray. "We go to the caves," she says, "and only to the caves. We must not forget the mission."

Ty gives me a stick, saying it will speed our way, and it does. My face burns with shame as I take it, but Mel says nothing. She has not said much to me, of late. Perhaps it is because Ty has so upset her, but she hardly spares me a glance.

We are faster now that I can limp on a walking stick, but still slower than before I hurt my leg. Every step is a reminder that I was a fool to run from the insect, and that Mel is very generous to keep me with her.

She often walks ahead of me, now, perhaps because she is annoyed with my slow pace. Ty stays with me and watches me. He speaks with me often, whenever she is not nearby.

"There is nothing you might say to me that you cannot also say in front of Mel," I tell him, but he only gives a short laugh in response, and carries on as though I had said nothing.

"Why do you never call her by her true name?" he asks me one day.

"I stumbled over it so many times that she told me not to try anymore."

"Do you know it when you hear it spoken?"

I nod.

"Melianarrheyal?"

I nod.

"Flower of disdain, in the old language," he translates, pushing the words out of his mouth as though they taste unpleasant. "Very typical of nobles. And Chinlar means vengeance – that House has always been known for it. I suppose she is carrying on their legacy."

I am too startled by his knowledge to answer – I shrug and nod without thinking. My thoughts are busy with how much he knows. Few can speak more than a few words of the old language, unless they are Namers. I know only the meaning of my own true name, and I doubt that Mel knows much more than hers, even though she is noble.

"And you? Arri cannot be your true name."

I say nothing for a long time. I don't understand. How he can know this? Arri is a real name. I knew a girl named Arri once, so I know it is a real name – though it is not mine. I don't know how he knows.

At last I shake my head. "I was named Arrek for strength," I tell him. "I am called Arri now because it is clear that I have none." And I ask: "How did you know?"

"Because Arri is a name usually reserved for women. I do not doubt that strangers often laugh when they hear it."

I nod, taken a little aback. I know that people always laughed at me, and I know also that no one laughed at the girl Arri I once knew, but I never thought that this would be the reason. They laughed even when I was still Arrek. They have always laughed.

And I still don't understand – I might if they were only surprised, but I don't understand why they laughed.

"Do you know what it means?"

I shake my head.

"It means something hidden, secret, buried away."

"Then it is a fitting name, as I am a coward." I cannot deny this. I have been a coward all my life, a foolish coward who would rather run or hide than fight. It is because of my cowardice that my leg is hurt and Mel's mission so slowed. I have been told so often how fitting my nickname is – this must be the reason.

"It is not the hiding that comes of cowardice," he says, "more that of hidden treasure. It implies that you have some hidden quality of strength or of truth, which may take all your life to come out, or may never, but which is there all the same."

"But I _am_ a coward."

"All I am saying is that _by name_ – and not even your true name – you are not a coward at heart, whatever you may show. You cannot expect those who gave you the name to know whether it is true."

From then on he refers to Mel as a flower, and he calls me Arrek until I ask him again and again to stop. "Please don't call me that," I say. "I know I have no strength, only cowardice. That name does not belong to me." At last he stops, and instead he goes back to calling me a dog.

"Do you hate me?" he asks another time.

I shake my head. "I have never hated," I say. "I don't know what it feels like. But Mel does hate you, very much."

"It would be easier for me if you did."

I look at him, confused, but I say nothing.

"You follow her so faithfully," he says. "I'm surprised you don't hate me just because she does."

I frown. "I dislike you," I offer.

"Because of her?"

I don't know how to answer to that. I open my mouth, close it again, open it. "She is my friend," I say at last.

I don't think that answers his question, but I don't know what else to say. I know that I dislike him. I am no longer quite as sure why. But he is a dead man. It isn't important whether I like him, nor why.

"I would like to leave," he tells me. "I would if I could, and quickly. I don't like this – it is tiring, always watching her little power plays. But I must make right my wrong."

What does he mean? I want to defend her, and I want to ask him what his wrong was and how he plans to right it, but I don't quite dare. "Why do you tell me this?" I ask instead.

He smiles bitterly. "I am sorry for you, poor loyal dog. I would that I could turn you from this path, so that one less must die."

I don't understand, and I tell him as much.

"You intend to keep following her?"

"She is my friend." Of course I will. Always, for as long as she permits it. What else should I do?

He looks at me. "You know that she needs you to guide her through the caves. Do you know that she plans to leave you once she reaches Qualin?"

"You're wrong." He must be. Mel would never leave me. She is my friend.

He sighs, then shrugs. "Well, with some good luck on my part and a great deal of poor fortune on yours, she will lose you in her own way."

"Poor fortune comes easily to me, but she will not leave me. She is my friend."

"Perhaps. We shall see."

"She will kill you," I tell him. There is no danger in telling him: he has said himself that he will not leave, and that he already wishes he could. And I dislike keeping secrets. Mel never said I wasn't to tell him, after all.

"Good," he says. I don't understand, but now that he knows that he is dead, the air is clear between us.

He tells me stories, sometimes, when he is not accusing Mel of anything. He tells me that his folk are seafaring traders, who live on an island off the coast of the Desert. He left them six years ago, and since then he has traveled all over Thilua, learning whatever he could find. That is why he knows so much about so many things.

He tells me stories of the Desert, and of Saluyah. Its name means guardian in the old language, he tells me. It is guarding the rest of Thilua against something deep inside the stone plain on the other side of the River.

A thousand years ago, he says, something came to Thilua from another world. No one remembers what it was, anymore, but they thought it was dangerous. They imprisoned it in the center of the stone plain, and they built Saluyah as the first line of defense if it should escape.

There is a prophecy which says it will be freed in a thousand years, so perhaps we shall see it fulfilled before we die. Its time must be drawing near. I know Mel would laugh if she heard of it – she has never thought much of fate – but I wonder. I wonder what the thing is, and what it might do if it awoke, and who would free something so dangerous, and why.

Little by little, he tells me more. The stone plain was not always barren, but when the thing came to this world, the land was hurt – whether by it or by whatever power imprisoned it. And there was a great city under the sea near the stone plain, and the people who lived there could breathe water, or they could somehow bring the air down with them, and that city also died a thousand years ago. The city is still there, he says. It glitters under the waves, too deep to reach. Some of the houses are built into the cliff, and they are still there too, but falling apart after so much time.

The gate to that other world is still open, he says.

And he tells me stories about the gods, about Haryin Two-Faced and the Sundancer and Rain-shaker, and the Queen of the Dark-Dust and the Scavenger – all the gods that are well-known in the Desert and the Mountains. He even mentions Snake.

I like his stories very much. I have always liked listening to stories. It is part of why I liked to sit in temples when I was young, and why I always listened to Aharyin the Bard whenever he was nearby. Aharyin travels from city to city, paying kretchin in food for their stories and spreading those stories to other cities; he knows the kretchin gossip long before the nobles do, and so they pay him, sometimes, for information. It was from him that I learned of a noble bastard in Saluyah, long before I knew that child was Kerheyin's.

Through him, I could have told my family that I was alive and safe in Therwil; but I thought it better to tell them nothing, so I have never given Aharyin a story. But I always liked listening to him, very much, and now I like listening to Ty. It is almost enough to make me forget my dislike of him.

~*~

Ty tells me very little of himself, and I do not ask. I like his stories, but I don't like him; I would rather he tell me of gods and prophecies than of his own life. In turn I say nothing of myself – nor do I speak much at all – until he asks.

"How do you know of these caves? The Desert-folk do not often show them to outsiders, nor do they know of a way through them, as you claim to."

For a long, long time I say nothing. I do not like to recall that time. But I shall have to recall it soon enough, to lead the way to the well, and I don't want to leave his question unanswered. I must say something.

I try to leave things out, and tell as little of the story as I dare, but whenever I make an omission he asks me about it, and I will not lie to him unless I must. I am a terrible liar.

"I... I was in Qualin, once. A while ago. Several years."

"For a day," he remembers.

I nod, and go on haltingly. "I... left through the well. In the center of the city."

"You fell in?" I can hear the disbelief in his voice.

I nod, shake my head, nod. "Nnnnye – nn – I. Not... really. I. I fell." I am at a loss, and I don't know how to tell him that. I don't want to tell him. I don't want to remember. I look at the sand beneath my feet. "In a way."

"Did you now or didn't you?" I can't tell if he's annoyed or amused.

I keep my eyes down, feel my face burning. I mumble, "I was thrown in."

"Ah. Go on."

"I fell... I didn't die. Deep water, broke my fall." I find that I can't bring myself to say this in full sentences. I speak in broken phrases. "Dark... but the water," I glance around briefly for Mel, afraid to say this if she is too close, "glowed." I make my voice very small.

"Ah? What did you do?

Indeed I did not do very much at all at first. I was still afraid and on edge from having left Quiyen and my family so shortly before, and I did not want to go on, to live, to do anything at all. At first I swam desperately, needing air; and then I found that at the edge of the well the water was shallow enough to sit, and there I sat with my head in my hands, shaking and coughing up water and waiting for the world to be all right again.

The world itself never changed, but after the bucket had been raised and lowered several times by the people up above, I knew that I couldn't sit there waiting any longer. And I could never go back. I hurt, inside, and I didn't know how to fix it; usually I would run to my mother or to Silwen, but now I could never do that again. I could not go back. I could not climb out of the well, and I could not go back to Quiyen, and I could not be seen in Qualin again.

I was in a calm part of a river that flowed beneath the ground and gave Qualin its water. It was very dark, and in its own way it was very comfortable, for it reminded me a little of the temples; but the water cast its own light, by which I could see quite well enough.

I could not go back up to Qualin, for I'd surely be killed again – for a third time – and perhaps this time they would succeed in killing me. So I would have to find another way out. I walked, not knowing whither I might go nor what I could do when I arrived, only because there was nothing else I could do.

For a very long time I wandered, always following the flow of the stream. The caves were intricate and very large, and many times I lost my way. Sometimes the passages were entirely filled with water, so that I could not stay with the river; and sometimes I took paths where there was no water at all, walking in blind darkness. Sometimes the river took many paths at once, and I had to choose which one to follow.

In the end there were only so many paths I could take. I tried everything, or nearly everything, before I went far, and I had to go over the same paths again and again so many times that the way was burned into my memory. That is how I know I shall be able to guide Mel through the caves.

At long last I came to a place where light came from above, and I found a round patch of blue sky there. It was painfully bright after so much dark, and I saw no way to climb up, but it was the first I had seen of the sky in so long that I thought it might be the only way out. I waited there, on the large heap of sand beneath the hole, until someone came by.

When someone did, I was sick with hunger. I had not eaten since I left Quiyen. The Desert-folk who found me pulled me out of the hole on a length of knotted rope, and took me with them, and cared for me for some time. I was so glad to have hope of life again that I cast my fear aside, and I was grateful to the Desert-folk although they were strangers, and if they had had no insect I might have been happy enough to stay with them.

They told me about the caves where they had found me: they said the river was sacred to the Queen of the Dark-Dust. She is said to reside in those caves, somewhere. That is why the water glows, and why there is nothing alive in those caves except the water itself.

The Queen of the Dark-Dust is a goddess over life and death, and of clear seeing, and of soil. Soil in which to grow plants is rare in the Desert, where they give it the name dark-dust, and so she is perhaps the mightiest god of the Desert. They say she is a healer and that she turns fate.

They told me that if she had allowed me to pass through the caves alive, I must yet have some part to play in fate. They said that the shining water goes dark if it is lifted by a bowl or by those who disrespect her or who go through life using others for gain, and wish to take the water only for their own light. They said that it shines brightly in the hands of some who respect her, and respect the world, and take no more than she is willing to give. They saw that the water dimmed when I touched it, but did not go completely dark; and so they said I must neither respect nor disrespect the Queen, and while I have some purpose yet to fulfill, it is nothing the Queen herself wishes me to do.

They told me that once, long ago, in a time of great drought, an elder of some Desert-clan prayed to the Queen for aid. She appeared to him in a dream, and led him to this spot. He dug wildly until he hit rock, and cleared the sand from this place; and there was one in his clan who had a great nature talent, so strong that she might move the rock, and she made the hole; and the people let themselves down and they saw the shining water and they knew that they were saved. They thanked the Queen, and they filled their waterskins, and they knew that the place was sacred.

Now they go to the caves for water in time of drought; and also they use the sacred water for many of their ceremonies; and their elders meditate in the darkness of the cave; and sometimes they bathe things in the sacred water so that these things may be given some small sacredness themselves. Every clan in the Desert comes to this place, no matter how far away their village may be.

And so they fed me and nourished me and took me with them, for a time. They were interested to learn of the well which took from the Queen's water, and they did not hate me although I am kretchin. It seems the clansmen of the Desert have a strange respect for scavengers, even kretchin, and while they did not wish to keep me with them forever they were glad to help me regain my strength. "Kill not the scavenger," they said, and they did not kill me.

We traveled toward the mountains, and were quite near them when they finally asked me how I came to be in the well at all. Like Ty, they did not believe that I could fall in by accident and not climb out again. When they heard that I was thrown in for stealing, they left me at once. The people of the Desert may respect scavengers, but they have no love for thieves.

But I was near enough the mountains that I could make my way up them alone, and I did; and thus I came to Therwil.

~*~

The cave's entrance is a large black hole in the sand, longer across than Ty is tall. The sand is deep, and if there is rock beneath it it is swallowed by darkness.

"Is this it?" asks Mel, clearly uncertain. Her doubt tastes clear and sharp. I shrink back a little, and I must remind myself that I did what she asked, that if she is disappointed it is not because of me. I nod. "The Desert-folk use a rope to go down," I say.

"We have none."

"There is sand at the bottom," I tell her. "The landing will be soft, if we leap."

"Scared, noble?" Ty mocks. "Your dog survived the cave once, and worse prepared than we; do you think you can't do the same?" And then he is gone, down the hole.

"What, are you a dog?" Mel laughs, but her eyes are still uncertain. "Well, it is a good enough name for you. But you are my dog, and I shall take care of you, as I have done so long – only find me the way."

I ask, "Are you my flower, then?"

"Don't be foolish," she says, putting a hand to the scar at her cheek. "You cannot own a person, Arri. Now go, and lead the way."

I leave my stick lying on the sand. I am afraid that it may hit Ty, or myself, if I leap down holding it; and we must walk slowly in the darkness anyhow, so that Mel does not lose her way. My leg is already a little better, so perhaps I shan't need it anymore.

I whistle to Snake for courage and leap down into the hole. For a moment I am reminded of my fall into the well, as the darkness rushes by me; then I sink into soft sand, alive and whole. My leg jostles painfully as I land, but not so painfully as it has done before. The splint holds it in place.

I struggle out of the heap to make way for Mel. Ty stands there already, his arms crossed, waiting. I can see him by the dim light from above, but there is even blackness all around us.

It is a longer moment than I had expected before Mel arrives. "Perhaps she was too afraid after all," Ty remarks, watching the blue circle of sky, but then she falls through the hole and into the sand. She lands with a thump and slides down the pile to stand before us.

The cave is more devoid of life than even the Desert. However much I strain my talent, I can sense only my own life and Mel's and Ty's. But there is something else in the river, a little ways away and out of sight: a strange sort of half-life, perhaps too great for my meager talent to understand. It is blessedly dark here and blessedly cool, cooler and darker than even a temple, but not quite cold.

I almost feel safer here than anywhere else, and happier. A small part of me wishes I were here alone, because the world in which Mel and I are friends is not the same world as the one in which I belong to this darkness. It feels wrong. I try to shake this feeling aside; Mel is my friend and I will always be with her.

"It is... very dark," she says. I nod, and at once I feel foolish, for perhaps she can't even see my nod in this darkness.

"How are we to walk?" she asks. "How shall we keep from stumbling? I have no candles with me, nor a lamp."

I remember that I am better accustomed to darkness than they are, for I have lived in tunnels all my life and am half-blind besides. Of course Mel cannot see in this gloom. We need the water.

My stomach clenches now that this moment is come. I whistle to Snake for comfort and calm. I whistle to Snake for protection. I say: "The water."

"You aren't starting that again?" Mel demands. "The water cannot glow, Arri. You are lying or you are deceiving yourself – and I very much hope, for your sake, that you are not lying to me."

I shake my head miserably. "I am not lying," I whisper. "I am not lying." I will not lie to Mel. I do not ever like lying, and I have never done it well, but especially to Mel I will not lie.

"Perhaps you might see the water with your own eyes before you judge whether your dog is telling the truth?" Ty says. I wish I could shut out his voice. I wish I could stop him. No one must speak to Mel in that way.

She makes no response, but I can feel her seething in fury beside me. When she speaks her voice is tight with loathing. "Arri," she says, "if you could lead the way perhaps? After all you know these caves. Show us this shining water of your dreams."

A small, rebellious part of me is hurt by her words, by her quick contempt for my story, and I wonder if Ty's constant accusations are beginning to sway me. I push the feeling aside very quickly. Mel is my friend; I will not let Ty pull us apart.

"Come," I say, and move forward, keeping one hand on the wall for guidance. I can smell wet stone ahead of me somewhere, and I follow the scent. "Come," I call, and "come," again, every few steps, and they follow along behind me.

Behind me I can hear Ty making some comment to Mel, but I cannot hear the words. The cave and the sound of the river twist the sounds and drown them. Her reply is low and ireful.

"Come," I call again, rounding a bend. The river is before me, as bright as I remember it. It shines from within, a blue-white glow, barely touched by green, and the flecks of foam upon it are mere dark shadows rushing by. It lights the cave quite well enough to see by, although the far edges are dark and shadowed.

"Impossible," says Mel behind me. "How can this be? Why did I never hear of this?" She strides to the river and peers into its shining depths. "Impossible," she murmurs again. "You drank this when you were here before, yes?"

I nod. "And the Desert-folk use it in times of drought. The water is safe."

"Good." She fills her waterskin, and Ty fills his. I slake my own thirst, carrying the water to my mouth with my hands.

"What is this?" Mel cries out suddenly. "The water is turned dark!" Her eyes are on the skin, not the river, and I recall that only a living thing can lift the water and keep the glow intact.

"It is no wonder that I never heard of this, if it loses its light when lifted," she says. "Perhaps the people of Qualin do not even know the nature of their water. But then..." she looks around, and sees that there is more than one passage from this place. "Do we follow the river?"

I shake my head. "No, not now," I say. "The right path is not always along the river."

She tries to lift the water with her hands – the light dies out as she touches it. I am distressed to see it darken. What reason has the Queen to favor me and not Mel? Surely she is more worthy. She is the best person I know. She saved me from the wrathful merchant before she even knew me. Surely the Queen must reward such kindness? But the water spills clear and dark from her fingers.

It must be that the Queen of the Dark-dust disapproves of Mel's mission. No other explanation could make sense. The child is blessed and chosen and destined for something greater: perhaps the Queen wishes it alive. No matter, then. I knew already that fate frowns on the mission, and I will help Mel all the same, if I can.

"Arri!" Mel calls me, her tone unusually sharp. "Perhaps with your nature sense you can keep the water alight. Try."

Perhaps that is all. Perhaps my nature sense is the only reason I do not kill the light. Perhaps the Desert-folk were wrong. But if these waters are sacred, I doubt that the Queen of the Dark-dust would allow more light to those with a nature talent than to those without it – we are all equal before her.

I cup my hands and lift the water. It dims distinctly to a wan, almost yellowish green that scarcely illuminates my own face, but it does not die.

"Good," she says. There is relief in her voice – I suppose she must have worried that the darkness would slow us. Perhaps she is so unused to walking without light that she thought she might stumble or lose me. Still, I am surprised. If it were anyone but Mel, I might think they were afraid at the thought of darkness; but Mel does not fear.

"Scared?" Ty mocks again.

"If you think wanting to see where one puts one's feet is a sign of fear, please feel free to walk in darkness," she tells him. "With so dim a light, you needn't lag far behind to do so."

"Gladly," he says, and he stays well behind us. He walks so silently, or so far behind, that I cannot hear his footsteps at all. I might not know he was there if I did not feel him with my nature talent and if he did not speak every so often.

I hear no complaint from him, nor any sign that he stumbles, so it seems he has almost as little need of light as I do. At first this surprises me a little. But I do not know what he has done for most of his life, and I suppose he has had plenty of time in which to learn to walk in darkness. Perhaps he has done this sort of thing before.

I must lead the way, because I know which paths to take and because I have the light; but I am unused to preceding Mel, and I do not like the feeling. It would be a terrible affront to make a noble follow kretchin, if there was any other way.

When the path is broad enough, she walks beside me; when it is not, she walks as close behind me as she can without touching me. She seems loath to step into shadow. The light we have is so dim that she must be very near me for it to light her way at all.

I don't know how long we must walk through these endlessly twisting passages. There is no night or day here, only gentle darkness. We rest when Mel tires, always trying to sleep just around a bend from the river – so that we can rest in darkness but have light as soon as we wake – and we start off again when she is ready.

It must have been weeks that I spent here before; but then, I didn't know the right way. Still, that memory leaves me with no clear idea of how long we will be here this time. It could be two days, or ten, or twenty. I hope it is not too long, for Mel's sake; the mission must not be delayed.

~*~

The first time that we rest, Ty calls me to the river after Mel is asleep.

He sits beside the stream, lit up from below with its blue-white shine. The patterns from its movement wash over his face in waves, but his eyes are in shadow. "Let me see your leg," he says.

I still don't quite trust the man, and I still dislike him, but he has never hurt me and he was the one who first splinted my leg, so I have little choice. I sit down and move the leg toward him.

"If you hurt me I shall scream and Mel will come to help me," I warn him. It is all I can do; I know I cannot fend him off myself. He is stronger than I, and more capable, and a conjurer besides. I am at his mercy. But Mel hates him, and she will save me if she must, I hope.

"I shouldn't be so certain," he says. "And even if she did, I'd be gone before she could do anything. I know how to vanish, whelp, especially from one so afraid of darkness. But for now I mean you no harm." And he unties my leg from the splint. I feel strange without it, as though the slightest touch might hurt.

"Hang it in the water," he tells me, "– but gently! Careful as you move it."

I look at him. I try out words in my head, try to find a way to voice my complaint. "But – the Queen of the Dark-dust..." I start at last.

"She is known to be a healer, and she seems not to hold you in ill favor. She may heal your leg."

I nod, and swing my leg around into the stream. The cool water soothes me as it rushes by. "Am I not defiling the river?" I ask uncertainly. "It is sacred, after all."

"You defile nothing. If the Queen has chosen to allow you safe passage through these caves she will not object, and she may yet help you."

"But I am dimming the water."

"Dimming, perhaps. You do not kill it as your noble flower does. And it recovers soon after it flows by you, see."

Indeed it feels very good – for the moment, the pain is gone. Perhaps she is indeed mending my leg. Perhaps she thinks I shall better play out my part in fate if I can walk. And I am no longer as afraid that Ty will hurt me. It seems he has done me another kindness.

"Why do you do this?" I ask him.

"I would not have you crippled," he answers.

After that, he bids me hang my leg into the stream again every time we rest. Soon it is healed enough that I can go without the splint. I leave it lying beside the river, and beside it I leave my left boot, for I would rather walk barefoot as I usually do than with one foot shod and the other bare; and my right boot is still in the Desert, where Ty removed it when he first splinted my leg.

~*~

Every time we rest in these caves I have strange dreams, strange and fearful. It must be because we are in her sacred caves that I see the Queen of the Dark-dust before me in my dreams. She appears as a large, motherly woman with a stern visage and skin blacker than a cloudy night. Atop her head is an ornate black crown, and there are dark metal bands on her arms and legs, and there is a simple black cloth about her waist. I have seen her before, carven into the walls of temples, but never has she appeared before me.

She tells me a warning and I will not listen. Dream after dream, she tells me something – she tells me something impossible – I cannot listen, I will not listen, I do not hear. When I awaken I put it out of my mind so well that I have forgotten by the time I sit up. But each time I sleep she tells me again, and again, and again.

She leads me to a place in the darkness where a pool of her sacred water shines upon an altar, and she tells me to look into it. The first time I look, trusting her as I would trust all gods. Why should a god deceive me? I am only mortal. I am not worth their deceit.

The water is clear and shining and in it I see terrible things, terrible things that I cannot believe, and cannot accept. I will not believe her. She may be a god but I cannot and will not believe her. I cannot look away from the pool, so I must wrench myself awake to escape it.

The next time she leads me to the pool I ask her what I will see. The truth, she tells me. I do not look. I walk away, and I lose myself in the maze that surrounds this place in the darkness. I wake terrified, and wish I could cling to Silwen or to my mother so that they might tell me everything is all right; but they are not here, only Ty. Mel is sleeping and I dare not wake her. Nor do I wish to speak to Ty, so I cower in the darkness until I can sleep again.

The Queen's black skin swallows light, but her eyes and the metal bands on her arms glisten with the light of her pool. I cannot force you to look, she tells me. I cannot make you see.

I tell her not to try. I tell her I do not want to see. I do not want to know. It is lies. It is lies, it must be, all of it, lies. I will not listen.

I am a goddess of clear seeing, she tells me. They come to me for clarity. They come to me for truth. They come to me because they wish to know what they are too blind to acknowledge.

I did not come to her. I am only passing through. I am not here seeking the Queen of the Dark-dust, nor her water. I only want to get through these caves, to reach the other side.

I do not lie, she tells me. I will show you only the truth. My sacred water is the blood that runs in my black veins. It shows only that which I have seen to be true. It cannot lie.

What if she is wrong? She must be. Though she is a goddess, and though she is the goddess of clear seeing, and though she turns fate, she must be wrong. I do not look into the pool again. When she comes to me in my dreams, I turn my back to her. I will not follow her to that place in the darkness.

Seldom have I seen one so blind as you, she says. You refuse to see. You are not content in your blindness, and yet you fear to see.

Perhaps she decides to leave me be, for after a time it is Snake who comes to me instead. I have heard that Snake can take the form of a simple snake, small and brown, when he wishes; but now he comes to me as a god, much longer than I am tall and as thick as my leg, bright and shining in the darkness. His scales are as many colors as there are stars in the sky, and always changing. His eyes are golden, and they shine like little suns. His fangs are long and silver. His tongue is red and forked. I whistle to him in reverence, awed that he should appear before me.

I come with a warning, he tells me. You are in the Queen's land, but you are one of mine. You are losing yourself. You have almost lost. You must fight to keep yourself.

I try to ask him about the Queen's water. I want some hope, some outside assurance that she is wrong or lying, that what her water shows is nothing but a horrible twisting of truth. I feel that I am not coming through to him, but perhaps that is only because it is a dream.

You would not listen to the Queen. Perhaps you will listen to me.

The Queen is wrong, I think; the Queen must be wrong.

The Queen does not lie. She cannot. She is arrogant and reclusive, but she will not deceive you. She will not even deceive gods; why should she care more for mortals?

I whistle again, unhappily. I do not want to believe this. I will not believe it, but I will listen to Snake. I will not think of that which I saw in the Queen's pool.

You have followed one of Haryin's for many years. She has twisted you into the semblance of a loyal servant, but you are no servant. If she was your punishment for being caught, she was more punishment than anyone deserves – and you are one of mine. Escape her. Escape this false servitude. Fight, and regain yourself.

She is my friend. She is my friend, and she helped me. She is more than I deserve. She is better. She is the best person I know, who had no reason to be kind to me but who was kind to me all the same. I cannot leave her. I will not leave her. I will not think of it. The man is wrong. The Queen is wrong. Maybe even Snake is wrong.

Fight while you still can. Soon you will break. Better to betray her than to break under her, or be betrayed by her – as you will, in the end. Remember what you saw in the Queen's water, for it was the truth.

She is the only person I have. I do not want to be alone again. And she is my friend. And it must be lies. I will not betray her. Why should I, when she has given me more than I deserve?

When I awaken from my dream of Snake, I put it out of my mind.

~*~

Mel grows more and more impatient to leave the cave, although we are going as fast as I can walk without spilling the water. "Will we soon reach the well?" she asks. "I weary of this unending darkness, and my mission must be finished."

I shake my head. "Not yet," I say.

"How soon?"

Again I shake my head. "I don't know. It took much longer the first time."

"And you, conjurer? Will you not call the stone out of our way?" Her voice is cutting, so like his that it hurts. Somehow it is even worse – there is a wrathful edge to it that his lacks.

"No," he says.

"Are you so eager to hinder me?" Her voice spits venom. It is unlike her to be so vicious. Although she hates the man, she much prefers to appear civil – and she still has need of him. He is our conjurer. He must summon the demon.

"Even if I could do such a thing – and that is not a task for conjury – it would surely collapse the cave. We should die, and never reach the city."

So Mel must content herself with walking. She does not take it well: she is constantly on edge. She snaps at Ty, and she snaps at me, and she wants to move faster. She wants to be out of the cave, out of the darkness. She frightens me sometimes with her impatience. She drives me forward, always forward.

"Tell me truly, Arri, have you forgotten the path?" she asks me when we must be halfway through the cave. Her tone is soft, gentle, forgiving. It is gentler than it has been in days. But her eyes – she stares at me as though I had wronged her, and Mel will not be wronged. I find myself afraid.

I shake my head and take a step backward, away from her, toward the cave's wall. "I have not forgotten it," I say. "We still travel the path I remember." I remember it better the farther we go. I have walked these paths so many times that they are like home to me.

"How far is it, then?"

I shake my head again, helplessly. "I don't know. I don't know. Maybe half. I don't... I..."

"You don't know."

I shake my head.

"And yet you claim to know what the right path is?"

"I know the turns we must make," I say. "I know which paths to follow. I don't know how far it is between turns, or how long it will take to walk. It was much longer last time."

"What comes next, then?"

"I don't know," I say. "I need to feel each place to know where to turn." I fear she will not believe me. I wish I knew how to make her understand that I am telling only the truth.

Ty puts a hand on my shoulder. I jump a little at his touch, surprised he is so close behind me. I want to bite his hand, to shrug it off. He puts his hand on my shoulder as though to protect me, but I need more protection from him than from Mel. She is my friend. He is nothing but a hired conjurer and a dead man walking. But I am indeed afraid – against my will – so I do nothing but to shrink down a little beneath his hand.

"Cease this," he says. "He has said that he knows the path and that we have not strayed from it. He will not grow more honest if you question him further."

Of course I cannot grow more honest. I am already honest. I am not lying. Why will she not believe me?

She turns those hate-filled eyes onto him now, but he doesn't seem to notice. "What do you care?" she asks him. "Perhaps you are content to stay in this darkness forever, but I have a mission to fulfill, and must reach daylight again."

"Indeed. And I am hired to help you, so I must follow you. And your dog knows the way, so you must follow him. It must be very strange for you, following the one who always follows you – do you fear he may betray you, now that he has the power? Perhaps you don't know just how well-trained he is?"

"Arri shall guide me," she says. "And if he does not, he too shall die in this darkness."

I see the look in her eyes and I wonder if she doesn't perhaps hate Ty more than she hates the child, now. The thought worries me. I find suddenly that I do not want him to die.

~*~

"How much food is left?" I ask her when we stop to sleep.

"If we are but halfway through the cave, it will not last us both." She is lying on her stomach and hanging her finger in the river. Darkness trails from it where she kills the light. I want her to stop, to take away her hand, but I know it is not my place to stop her.

"Then you must have it," I say. "I can eat when we reach Qualin."

"Good," she says. "Then we must reach it soon."

~*~

Once when we wake and head for the river, Mel stumbles in the darkness. She is not hurt, but she seems more afraid of the blackness around us. She leans on me until we reach the river. I walk slowly and carefully so as not to run her into a wall, but I don't think she quite trusts me not to.

"The darkness is driving me mad," she tells me, perhaps so quietly that Ty does not hear. "The light of your... water is not enough to banish the shadows. I shan't trust that I can still see until we have reached Qualin. I long for the light of the sun..."

Mel has never confessed fear to me before. I did not know she could fear. I don't know what to say to her. And I find the darkness comforting, so I don't understand.

"Again and again I think I see faces," she whispers. "There – there, just beyond my grasp... they will kill us, Arri, if they can. We cannot trust the shadows."

But all around is gentle darkness. I see no faces. Perhaps she is indeed going mad.

She is still nervous when we reach the river. She glances around, watching the shadows, tapping her feet impatiently as I drink. "Come," she says. "Come, we must go as far as we can today. I would spend no more time in this cave than we must: if there is any way we can reach the well tonight, I will not stop. We can rest in Qualin, where the faces may not reach..."

"Seeing faces, flower?" Ty asks.

"What of it?" She turns on him, eyes bright and angry. I can see how close she is to breaking, and for the first time I pity her. I wish there were something I could do to ease her fear, to drive off the faces she sees. But even now I am of no aid to her.

The faint derisive smile is back on Ty's lips. "They say these caves are sacred to the Queen of the Dark-dust," he says. "I have heard of clansmen who cannot be here for long. They darken the water as you did, and they see faces – as you do. They say it is the Queen's way of removing those who do not belong."

"What? _What?_ " Her fists are clenched and I can see her trembling. There is a mad hope in her eyes, behind the fear. "They can – the others, they can lift the water?"

He shrugs. "So I have heard."

"Then it is not Arri's nature talent which lets him do so?" Her voice is almost desperate.

He shrugs again. "Perhaps, perhaps not."

" _Could you?_ "

For a long moment he says nothing. Mel breathes deeply, calms herself. There is still a tremor in her voice, but the desperation is gone. "I don't suppose you can," she says, goading him. "After all..." her voice softens, lowers. "Why should a mere traveling conjurer have the Queen's favor? One who so clearly has no talents but conjury? One who refuses aid even to those who _pay_ him for it?"

"Believe what you will."

"Try it," she says. "Show me."

He sighs. "I thought you wanted no more delays?" But he dips a hand into the water, quickly, lifts it, lets it fall. He holds it so briefly that I nearly miss it, but I can see that the water shines just as brightly in his hand as it does in the river. It does not even dim, as it does for me.

"It is not so difficult," he says.

I don't understand. Perhaps Ty is better than I first took him for. Perhaps I no longer want him to die. Perhaps I even begin to trust him. But why would the Queen of the Dark-dust have more favor for him than for Mel? She is the best person I know. She is my friend. And Ty is still discourteous and mocking and he still unfairly accuses Mel of hurting me. She is a better person than he. Why would she kill the light while he can keep it whole?

If the Queen of the Dark-dust dislikes Mel or disapproves of her mission, there is a reason her water is always dark – but that does not explain why Ty's is not.

"Then you must help to carry the light," she says.

He nods to me. "Your dog carries enough light for us all. I shall walk in darkness. Besides," he says smiling his humorless smile, "even my light cannot drive off your visions."

As though in response, she spins around to put the river at her back. "They will kill us," she says. "See their pale faces! See how they mock me!" And she forms a weak blue spell and flings it into the darkness, where it flickers and dies.

"See how they suck out my spell? So they will suck out my life!" she cries. "Arri, Arri, what shall I do? I cannot fight them. I cannot touch them. Even my spells do not hurt them. Arri, we must flee, Arri, come, let us flee them!"

I stand helpless, wanting to help her, to defend her, but not knowing how. How can I fight that which I cannot see? What could I do that she cannot?

"He cannot fight your shadows," Ty breaks in. "He will not help himself – how could he help you? And I very much doubt he even sees them. I certainly do not. These faces are yours alone, noble flower."

"Then let us flee," she says. "Arri, show the way, come. We must reach Qualin tonight. Are we close?"

"Closer," I say. "Perhaps we can reach Qualin, if we do not rest." I take my handful of water and lead the way.

We walk a long time, longer than we have before in these caves. My legs and feet grow weary. My arms and hands grow wearier. They tremble from the effort of holding the water, carefully, for hours on end. I want nothing more than to drop the water, the precious light, but I know that I mustn't. I steady my arms against my chest and try not to think of the ache.

The first time I went this way I went without water, without light. It was easier to feel my way – my arms weren't as tired – I could rest when I needed to...

We walk beside the river, close beside it, but there is a wall separating us from its light, so that I must still carry my own. Sometimes there are small breaks in the wall through which it shines, wanner still than that which I carry, just enough to see that it is there. It is beside one of these breaks that Mel in her weariness stumbles a second time. She falls, and she falls against me, into me. I let out a short cry, startled; and I let fall the water.

It plashes against my shirt and my bare feet. We stand in the darkness.

Mel stands. The light from the river comes through the break in the wall so that can I see her face a little, the tears of rage or fear in her eyes; and I know that I have betrayed her.

"You have doomed us," she hisses, and then there is an eruption of pain and light in my face. The burst of light fades away quickly; the pain remains. I can feel something trickling down my left cheek, and I want to wipe it away, but the pain is so great that I don't dare touch my face at all.

I can't see. I can't see Mel anymore. I don't know where she is. It hurts. My eye – my left eye, my good eye – my eye is gone. I cannot see. I can't see and my eye hurts, my eye hurts in the place where it was.

It _hurts_.

I am torn between pain and remorse and fear.

Maybe the Queen's water was truth – maybe – but no, I deserve no better. I betrayed Mel. I dropped her water. I ought to have kept hold of it. She was right to punish me. But it _hurts_.

"I will find the way in darkness," I promise shakily. I have done it before; I can do it again. "We must be very close now. We can reach the river soon, and the well soon after. I will guide you there. Take my hand." My voice sounds very strange to me, and it hurts, it _hurts_ , but I will guide Mel all the same.

I don't need to see here. I can walk in darkness. My blind right eye and the tunnels of my childhood prepared me for this long ago, and with or without light these paths will be in my mind forever. I walk with one hand on the wall, and one hand holding Mel's, and I step carefully so that I will not stumble, and I try to put the pain out of my mind. It will not be put. It stays with me, steady and fierce.

My heart is pounding, pounding. I don't need to think about what to do. I need to take Mel to the river and then I can bathe my eye in the Queen's river, the Queen's shining blood, and maybe she will help it as she helped my leg, and I need to take Mel to the well, and that is as far as I can think, but I don't need to think. I need to do it and then I can maybe think about what comes after by the time I must. I don't need to think about the mission or about Snake's warning.

Ty walks behind us in silence. He says nothing at all, not a word. I wish he would say something, anything. I don't know his thoughts.

I can hear the river, but I don't see it; I'm not sure if we're in the right place. But Mel lets go of my hand and runs forward, so it must be here. I see nothing at all. I whistle to Snake, suddenly afraid that I may fall in. I can feel myself shaking, and I fear that I may start crying. I don't want to know what will happen if I cry now. I don't want to think of my tears worsening the pain.

Then there is a hand on my shoulder, just for a moment, and Ty walks past me. I can feel him walking, perhaps from the wind of his passing and perhaps from my nature sense. I follow. When he stops I stop beside him, and kneel, and stretch out my hands blindly. The water surprises me when I feel it, sudden and cold. I wash my face, as gently as I can, as thoroughly as I dare. The water does not sting as it touches the wound, but soothes it. I suppose the Queen of the Dark-dust is indeed a healer. I wish I could hang my head in the water, but we must press on.

"That's repugnant," Mel says. Her voice is unsteady. "Cover it up."

I tear my sleeve. The first several strips I tear are too short to wrap around my head; at last I rip off my entire other sleeve, and use that. I wet it with the Queen's water before I tie it, hoping she may heal me.

Ty is beside me, and unusually still. He must be filling his waterskin; I don't know what else he might be doing. He speaks now, and when he speaks his voice is strangely devoid of all traces of scorn, or derision, or any emotion whatever. He sounds utterly unmoved. But his voice worries me, because it is different.

"Melianarrheyal," he says. I think it is the first time he has used Mel's true name when speaking to her. "It was foolish of you to act in rage."

"Arri dropped the water and let in the dark." She sounds defensive, defiant, almost afraid.

"You have blinded him and so slowed your mission."

"He has one eye left. That will last him."

"That eye is blind."

"What?"

I don't understand either. I never told him. How can he know?

"Arri," she says, "would you not have told me if this was true? Am I not your friend?"

I cower, shake my head. "I didn't think it was important," I say. My voice still sounds very strange to me, and small, and yet all too loud. I don't want to speak again.

"And rightly so," she says, her voice cold. "But to tell this conjurer?"

"He told me nothing," says Ty. "When something happens to his left he looks with his eyes, and when something happens to his right he turns his head. It was easy enough to guess why."

She is silent for a moment. "Then he is blind," she says at last. "He must still guide me, but I cannot trust him with the water any longer; you must carry it in his place."

"For gold? No. If I go so far as to carry this water for you, you must pay me with something more."

"Name your price."

I can picture her so easily. Whenever she speaks in that tone she raises her chin and thrusts it forward a little. But I cannot see her. I shall never see her again.

"Swear that I have the right to concern myself with your mission, beyond those services which you have bought."

I don't understand why he needs to bargain for this – unless he plans to do something against the mission rather than for it. But I say nothing.

"May you concern yourself with whatever you will," says Mel. "Now hold the water."

"So it is sworn," he says, and I hear him dip his hands into the river. "Lead on, now. I have the light, so I must take the middle."

"It is close," I say, and I lead the way. We are very close now. I wade into the river and walk upstream. Ty walks between me and Mel, and I do not hear him drop his water, although the light must be very strong here.

I walk with one hand on the wall, and at last the feel of it changes. "We are here," I say, and I let myself down at the edge of the well, exhausted.

Only now does Ty drop his water. It falls and plashes as it rejoins the stream.

"Daylight!" cries Mel. "At last! Now we must only climb these walls, and be free!"

"Now?" Ty's voice is back to normal. I am almost relieved to hear his scorn. "We are all tired. We have been walking a long time. Your dog may not be able to climb out blindly, particularly without being seen; and any of us may be seen, if we climb out in daylight."

"We must find the child," says Mel. "I must ask around for it, and that had best be done during the day."

"Hardly. Do you think you can ask another noble? I thought you were concerned about being caught – and besides, you look a fair sight, all dirty and sodden and disheveled. No noble would trust you looking as you do, scar or no. If you wish to assume the guise of a servant, you can do so after we've rested."

"Then we rest," she says, but I can hear the fury in her voice. Still, I am glad to rest. I lie down at the shallowest part of the water, so that the hole where my left eye was is covered by it, and hope I shan't drown.

I hear Mel's breathing slow and even. She sleeps. I am nearly asleep myself when I breathe in a little of the Queen's water through my nose and sit up, snorting and coughing.

"Be still, lest you wake the flower," Ty warns me. I quiet myself. No, I will not wake Mel. She needs the rest after our long walk.

The pain is worse now that the wound is above the water. I try to put it out of my mind, and lean back against the wall with my eye closed, awaiting sleep. I try not to heed the hunger and the pain.

"Tell me, whelp," Ty says after a while, "do you still believe she is your friend?"

"Of course." I am too restless to pretend I don't hear him.

"Though she blinded you?"

"She didn't know," I say. "I never told her. And I betrayed her by dropping the water; it was her right to punish me."

"Still, she put out your eye. And still you call her friend."

"She saved me," I tell him. "I was new in Therwil and I stole some eggs on the market. The seller saw me and ran after me. Mel saw this and she misled him, though she didn't even know me, and so he never found me."

"One kindness does not excuse years of mistreatment."

"I am not mistreated," I say.

"You do not love your friend. You worship her as a god risen from the darkness beneath the earth. Your fear of her is so great that you cannot even see that you fear her."

"She..." I stop.

"When did she last spare you a kind word, a glance, anything?"

I don't know. I don't know, and I don't want to think about it. I say nothing for a time, and sleep claims me before I can think of a response that will not betray her.

~*~

Voices and pain and hunger break into my slumber. I hear Mel and Ty arguing over something, though I am still too much asleep to know what they speak of. I hear their words but I do not understand them.

It was Ty's voice that woke me. He speaks more loudly than usual: "What of your dog?"

"He is no use to me blind. Now come, quickly."

"Perhaps you are through with him, but I am not. He must help me in the conjury."

"What? What help can _he_ give you?"

"I need his nature talent. He can help me focus the demon properly."

" _Blindly?_ "

"Ah, you are right, of course. Then I shall have to restore his sight."

"I thought you weren't a healer?" Her voice is cold and accusing.

"No healer could help him now, little flower. The one eye is beyond repair and the other gone. There's nothing for a healer to work with. So I cannot fully restore his sight – but I _can_ perhaps give him a different sort of sight, so that he can help me as he must."

"And why don't you simply hire someone with a stronger nature talent? Why must it be Arri?"

He is silent for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. "He's already involved. If you really would rather, I suppose I could tell another about everything – including the child's birth – but I thought you might prefer to keep this matter as private as possible."

"Very well," she says coldly; "then he is yours, and you must account for him."

He touches my shoulder. I jump; his voice sounded from farther away. He can walk so silently, even in water.

"Come," he says. "It is dark now. We must leave the well. Can you climb blindly?"

"I will try," I promise. Even if I had my sight I'd be using my hands more than my eyes, and I recall that there was something of a ladder built into the side of the well. I feel for it, climb up.

I heard their words, but I do not think of them. I try to think of nothing at all.

~*~

Mel cannot say she is a noblewoman any longer. Ty is right – she would be caught, if they even believed that she is truly noble. She asks at the servants' entrance. We stand a ways behind her, out of sight from whomever opens the door, where we can listen without being seen.

The door opens and I hear a woman's voice: "Yes?"

"I am looking for someone," Mel says. Her voice is calm, determined. All her fear of faces in the dark is gone. "Perhaps you know of someone who moved here from Saluyah, maybe some three years back, with a young child?"

"Two years," corrects the servant. "Yes, that was Rillik Shiaran, and little Therrin. Her husband was a cook, I hear, but I never learned what House he served – but Rillik was a singer, and she came around and sang for all the nobles in Qualin. Therrin looked a bit strange, very pale, but she was the sweetest little girl I ever met. She so loved to watch us work..." she stops, a little suddenly. "Why do you ask, stranger?"

"I have private business with Rillik," says Mel. "Where might I find her now?"

Of course Mel can do this, can come up with a story that will lead her to the child, but I am nevertheless amazed. So quickly, without time to think about it, she has quieted the servant's fears.

"Her husband is cooking for another House now," the servant says. "House Alyar, I think it was, in Quiyen. They moved thither some three seasons ago – perhaps almost a year."

Quiyen! Why must it be Quiyen? I said I would leave, and I left, and now I must never return. I must never see my family again. I mustn't. I am older now, so the noble who caught me stealing there and tried twice to kill me may not know me – and it is a large city, by the sea, so perhaps he won't even see me. But I said that I would leave and that I would not return and I don't want to return now. What if Yuit sees me, or Silwen, or Kiltha, or my mother? What if the kretchin children who always teased me see me and know me? I mustn't go back.

But I am too afraid to say anything to Mel. I will follow her, as I have always followed her.

"Thank you," Mel says, and the door closes, and she rejoins Ty and me. "We go to Quiyen," she tells us. "We shall need steeds. I cannot walk there now."

I try to feel her with my nature sense. I think she is walking away, leading us. But here in the city there are so many lives, and there is so much pain in my eye and hunger in my belly that I am always distracted from my talent.

Ty passes me something dry and flat and rough. "Eat," he says. "You've had nothing for days." He walks away as he speaks, and I follow the sound of his voice, and put the thing in my mouth and chew it. It is dried meat, I judge by the taste and feel of it in my mouth. It is good. It is not enough to stop my hunger, but it occupies my mouth and perhaps it takes the edge off the hole in my stomach.

I follow Ty silently. Whenever I begin to grow uncertain, he touches my shoulder or my arm, and so leads me on.

The city passes by me unnoticed. I always liked darkness better than light, but now in this utter blackness I am afraid. I can see nothing at all. I assume that we are in Qualin, looking for steeds; but we could be anywhere, anywhere at all, and I might never know the difference.

At last we come to a stable, and Mel takes three steeds from their stalls. "We shall have to forgo saddles," she says – I do not know why – but the steeds are bridled, and I am given the reins to one of them. I cannot see the beast, but I can feel its presence beside me, and I stroke its great soft nose and its forehead between its horns. It snorts softly and licks my hands.

I have always liked animals, all but insects. Perhaps it is because of my nature sense, but I find their presence comforting. I am glad to be with this steed now.

"What are you doing?" Mel demands. I cringe, thinking she means me.

"Leaving money for two of the steeds," Ty says from some distance. "If you wish to steal a steed that is your affair, but I will not take mine without paying."

"Don't be foolish," she says. "We must be on our way, now."

He doesn't respond.

His voice is a little closer when he speaks again: "Shall we rope his steed to one of ours?"

"We must ride _fast_ ," she reminds him. "We cannot be slowed by ropes. We shall have to hope that Arri's steed follows ours."

I shiver, afraid that it won't. Ty says: "Steeds travel in herds, when they can. With luck, it may follow ours without guidance. But if you wish to use your nature sense –" (he must be speaking to me, now) "– t o urge your steed to follow, do so."

I nod. I doubt that I shall be able, but I will do the best I can. Certainly I cannot steer the beast using its reins, not without seeing the path.

Suddenly he lifts me and places me on its back. I am startled at first, but then I am glad to be riding the steed, so near its benign presence. I lean forward and twist my fingers into its mane, keeping only the slightest hold on the reins.

"Which way is Quiyen from here?" asks Mel.

"This way," says Ty. "Toward the sea."

I hear hooves striking the street, and then my steed surges forward beneath me. I whistle to Snake, quietly, and hold fast, and hope that it knows where it is going.

~*~

We ride all through the night and all through the next day. I am completely exhausted, and I am still hungry, and though I feel the warm sunlight on my arms I can see nothing but darkness. I am in a world all my own, wherein there is no light, only sound and smell and the feel of my steed beneath me.

They speak once, to discuss stopping for a rest, but Mel wants to move on. "If we must wait three days after you have your focus, we can use that time to rest," she says. "Now, we must reach Quiyen. We may rest once we arrive there."

The pain in my eye is less now, perhaps because of the sacred water, but it still hurts, and I am still hungry, and I am still very tired. Several times I nearly fall asleep, but then I slip and wake, filled with the fear that I may fall. Then I grip my steed's mane even more tightly, and try to sit up a little straighter, to stay awake.

We ride at a steady trot, in the hope that the steeds may last until Quiyen without rest, but I would not work them so hard were it my choice. I can feel the lather of sweat on my steed's hide long before we are allowed to rest.

There must be some villages on our way, but I never hear any voice but Ty's and Mel's. Perhaps we skirt them, or perhaps I cannot know without my sight when we ride through them. For me, the hours pass without incident. I cannot even watch the trees passing by to stave off my weariness. For many hours I feel nothing but a dreary sameness and the knowledge that I cannot sleep until we reach Quiyen; I am too tired to think of anything but my tiredness itself, and my hunger, and the pain in the hollow where my eye once was, and the state of my steed beneath me.

It runs with the others, but I know that it would rest if it could, that it longs for rest. Perhaps it only follows them because it would rather trot on as long as it is able than be lost and alone without them. I hope it will last until Quiyen. Once it is there, I promise silently, it shall be allowed to rest. It shall be given some sort of a stable and it shall be given food and it shall be with its two friends and it shall be given three days on which to do nothing but eat and rest.

I do not know if all these promises are true, but I must make them, because if I did not I couldn't drive the poor beast this far. I would let it stop here to graze and hunt and sleep a few hours. But Mel will not be stopped.

We halt only once, and only for a few minutes, long enough for us to piss and for the steeds to lick up some water from Ty's hand. I am glad to stretch my legs a little, but so tired, and we cannot sleep. Almost at once we ride on.

I can feel the warm glow of sunlight, and it is hot and uncomfortable. Sweat drips into the hollow where my left eye was, and it stings, so much. I find myself amazed, and glad, that the sacred water did not. I long for sweet shade, but we must ride on, whether the air above us be clear or shaded. We must always ride on.

The mind-numbing dullness has driven me nearly mad by the time it ends. "There lies Quiyen," says Ty at last, and shortly thereafter we ride into the city. There are strange voices all around us, now, and the sound of the ground beneath our steeds' hooves changes. We slow to a walk. I am glad more for my steed than for myself: I have sunk so far into the dreariness that I cannot even think of awaking out of it.

Ahead of me Mel and Ty are speaking: I think they are discussing an inn to stop at, but my tired mind cannot grasp more than a few words they say. At last we stop, and I am lifted off my steed. I cling to its mane at first, unwilling to leave it.

"Be calm," says Ty. His voice sounds strangely real. "Your steed shall be safe here, and well taken care of. It needs rest more than your presence, now. Come along."

I feel a little more awake now that I have the ground beneath my feet again, but those feet are unsteady: my legs and back are painfully sore from the long ride, and will not bear my weight. I cling to his wrist, afraid I may lose him if I let go. He endures my touch without comment.

"What time is it?" I ask in a thin and shaking voice, and "Early evening," I receive in answer.

I walk after him, holding on to him, following his lead. Mel must be ahead of us. I hear a door opening, and I step through the place where it must be, running into the frame with my shoulder. It swings shut behind me. I jump a little at the sudden wind it makes, not knowing what it is; then I hear it shut, and at once I feel very foolish.

Here is the smell of wood and cooking meat and other food, and it is sheltered and cool, and I hear quiet strains of conversation nearby. A man's voice greets us angrily: "What's that doing in here, then? We don't serve _their_ kind here."

Ty says, "Of course we'll pay the full amount for him."

There is silence. Then the man speaks again, obstinate: "I won't give it a room."

"Then he can use mine."

More silence.

"You'll pay for three rooms and use but two?"

"And food."

"All right," says the man, but his voice conveys the dislike he has for the idea. "Be sure it doesn't break anything, and try to keep the room clean."

"You're paid twice what the room's worth," says Ty. "You can afford a little cleaning."

There is talk of how they will divide the cost, and then there is the clink of coins, and then Ty leads me away. He separates his arm from my hand, places his own hand upon my shoulder, and guides me to a chair. "Sit," he says.

I sit.

Mel sits down on my left side and Ty on my right. We sit in silence, all of us too tired to speak. Then there is the heavy breathing of a stranger, and the sound of things being put on the table, and the stronger smell of food; and then the breathing stranger leaves us, without a word.

I sit. I try not to move, not to think. I wait. There are sounds in front of me: things are being moved, things touch against each other, Mel is eating.

"There is food in front of you," Ty says softly. "Bread, and a cup with water. Eat."

I want to look at him, to know if he means what he says. I want to look to Mel for permission. I want to know what will happen if I eat; I am afraid to, afraid to touch what isn't mine. But I can no more see him than I can see the food before me. I grope blindly: there is my knee, there is the underside of the table, there is the edge of the table – it is rough; I must be careful of splinters – there is the cup. I can hear the water move as my fingers brush against it. I lift it, drink, almost drain the cup. I set it down again carefully, hoping that I don't put it down on top of the bread.

There is the bread, then: I fall upon it, devouring it as fast as I can swallow. The feel of food in my belly awakens me a little to the world around me. I feel better now, much better. I drink the last of the water and set down the cup.

I want to tell Mel I am sorry for dropping the water, but I know that my apology cannot begin to make it right. I say nothing. Nor does she say anything, except to bid us goodnight when she is finished with her food. "Tomorrow we must acquire your focus," she says curtly, and then she is gone.

"Are you finished?" Ty asks me, and when I nod he guides me to our room, pushing me along with his hand and warning me when there is an obstacle in my path ("Careful – there is a stair here,"). At last he opens a door, pushes me through it, follows me in, closes it. I hear him doing something more, perhaps locking the door, and then he walks past me into the room.

I sit down, lie down, curl up on the floor. It is a wooden floor, very hard and not very comfortable, but I am glad of any place to rest.

"You'll take the floor?"

I cannot nod from this position, but I don't want to speak. Maybe I am afraid of it as I am afraid of thinking. I don't want to think of words. I sit up so that I can nod, and I will not lie down again until I know he is through with speaking for the night. I nod.

"Then I shall take the bed, and you'll have the blanket." He drops it before me. The sound is soft and heavy. I nod. I want to thank him, but I don't want to speak. I am afraid of words. I keep quiet.

"Will you listen to me?"

I nod.

"Without telling the flower?"

I don't know how to answer. I start to shake my head and then to nod, and at last I shrug.

"I told you that I am here to make right my wrong."

I wait until the silence stretches on too long – it seems he will not tell his story if I do not respond. I nod. I want to ask him what his wrong was, but I am afraid to ask. I hope that he will answer of his own accord.

"In order to do so, I must betray the flower."

He waits, but I say nothing. I think: then that is why he felt he had to bargain for the right to concern himself with the mission. I try to put out the thought, because it is a thought at all. I will have time to think tomorrow. Tonight, I must only listen.

He draws breath, stops. And again. Maybe he is trying out the words in his head and finding them insufficient. I wish I could be sure.

When he speaks at last, I do not see what his words have to do with betraying Mel: "Do you remember what I told you of the thousand years' prophecy?"

I nod.

"The prophecy says that the one who frees whatever is trapped in the stone plain will be an orphan, born of both worlds, born in Saluyah. At least, I think that is what it means. It speaks of the guardian – I think that is Saluyah, but it may be a person – but if I am right, I believe the child Therrin is the chosen one of the prophecy."

Ah.

"The flower means to kill this child of prophecy. If I had not happened to see you in the Desert, and saved you from the great insect, she might have died there and the child might have been safe. But as I meddled I doomed the child, and perhaps I doomed the prophecy. I am here now in order to prevent the flower from completing her mission."

I listen without response.

"She has not wronged me directly, and so I would prefer to betray her without killing or hurting her, if I can. For that I need your help. If you continue to follow her, I may be forced to kill you both, as I doubt I can keep the two of you distracted for long enough if I do not."

This is clearly a threat, but it does not feel like one, and I do not feel threatened. I say nothing.

He starts again to say something, stops, considers. At last he says, carefully: "I have been with you for some time now. I have seen how she treats you. And it is for your sake as well as mine that I ask you to join me.

"She does not treat you as a friend, nor even as a servant, but as a toy to play with. She does not allow you to stray even slightly; she expects you to do the impossible without complaint; any kindness she shows you is fleeting, and she is only kind when her kindness serves some purpose; she punishes you without reason; she does all she can to make you believe that you are unworthy of even the slightest respect, and that when she shows you any kindness at all it is only because she is so tolerant. I'd wager that when she first met you, she helped you not out of kindness but because it amused her to mislead the seller of eggs. Nobles are taught to enjoy deception; it seems she learned that lesson well."

I cringe at his accusations of Mel, but I have said I will listen and I will listen. I try not to think on his words.

"You don't like to hear this?" I will not deign to respond. "Perhaps you are afraid she may learn of it? Perhaps you are afraid that if she does, she will punish you, even if you assure her – even honestly – that you never believed it?

"I offer you an escape. Come with me, help me, and I will protect you from the vengeful flower. You may be free of her."

I find that my heart is pounding: slowly, but very loudly, so that I am aware of each beat.

"You have some time to decide. Before you do, think on this: she has not spoken to you at all since we left the well. She would have left you there: you were her toy, and once you were broken and blind she no longer wanted you. Even before that, in the Desert, she would have left you when your leg was hurt, but for her need of your guidance through the caves."

No.

"The choice is yours to make, and I will respect it. Yet I hope for your sake that you choose to betray her – not because I will kill you if you don't, but because she may.

"I shall ask you again tomorrow."

For a long moment I make no response, no movement at all. I wait for my heart to quiet; it doesn't. At last I nod and reach for the blanket.

"Goodnight," he says, and then he is quiet. I pull the blanket around myself, under myself, to soften the floor. It is comfortable and warm. But I cannot sleep with this pounding in my chest.

I don't want to think about Mel, so I think instead about Ty. Now I remember: he chose to come with us because he heard of a noble bastard in Saluyah. Perhaps he heard the same rumor I did, that this child was blessed. Perhaps he thought even then that she was the chosen one of the prophecy.

I recall what was said of her mother: she was young, but with white hair and silver eyes, and she would not speak, and she was a stranger. And Ty said she was no more Anarian than Thiluan. Then maybe she did come from another world.

And I recall, now that I am thinking of it, that Ty did not swear to the mission, and that he never once said he would summon a demon to kill the child. When he spoke of that he spoke in ifs and woulds. He said he would kill the mother, but perhaps that was before he knew who the child was – or perhaps he knew the child was an orphan – I do not know.

I wonder now if the strange blessing on the child was the blessing of the trapped thing in the stone plain.

Now I am a little calmer, but my thoughts of the prophecy run thin. They return unbidden to Mel. They return unbidden to what I saw in the Queen's water in my dreams. I am afraid to relive that dream, afraid even to think of it, so I try to think of nothing at all; and at last I fall asleep.

~*~

In the morning Ty shows me the chamberpot, and then guides me back down the stairs and into a chair. Breakfast is bread and water. Perhaps Ty and Mel have better food, but I am glad of my bread: it is easy to eat, even blindly. I am hungry enough to be glad of any food at all, and my legs and back still ache from the long ride, no better for what sleep I had.

"So. We need a focus," says Mel. "Something of the child's, yes?"

"Or something of her parents'."

But that is only because its parents are dead. I remember.

"The child's 'parents' here do not share its blood."

"Yes, but what is theirs is hers. It will be easier to find this Rillik and ask her to give something up than to steal into House Alyar's servant quarters and find something that belongs to a child not yet three years old."

I wonder how much of this is true. I don't believe it. A demon focused on something of Rillik's ought to kill Rillik and not the child she took in. But Ty plans to betray Mel, and he says this calmly, and she swallows the lie.

"You think she will give something up so easily?" she asks scornfully.

"My people are traders," he says. "As a noble you ought to know that we can steal from people with words, just as you do." There is bitterness behind the contempt in his voice. I wonder if it is real.

"Then we shall talk to her," she says after a pause. There is coldness in her voice; I wonder if there is anger in her face. They must be speaking with their faces, with their bodies, but I cannot hear it. I cannot know it.

" _I_ shall. The woman might sense your hatred for her daughter, and so refuse to trust me. Set your dog watching me, if you must, or watch from a distance. I very much doubt that she would notice one kretchin more or less nearby."

"Very well," she says. I picture the tightening of her lips, the touch of her finger to the scar at her cheek. I try to shake off the thought. I cannot see her. Better not to think of things I cannot know.

So we go to House Alyar's estate, to find this woman. We shall wait until she comes out – Mel has a description of her from the servant in Qualin – and we shall follow her, and once she is out of sight of House Alyar's estate Ty will speak to her. I am to listen (though Mel never tells me this directly – she does not speak to me at all) nearby, perhaps sitting on the street beside them, and Mel will wait not far away. She won't hear them speak, but she can watch them and see that Ty does indeed receive some focus from her.

So we go, and so we wait.

"That must be she," Mel breathes at last, and walks away, so that the woman does not think she is with us.

Then Ty begins to walk, and I follow him. I hope I shan't lose him. I try to keep my head turned away from his scent and the sound of his breathing, as though I am only by chance walking in the same direction as he is. I wish I were more sure of where he is.

"Rillik Shiaran?"

When he speaks I sit down on the street, drawing up my knees and looping my arms around them. I keep my head down, as though I am looking at the ground.

The footsteps ahead of me stop, then come nearer. When the woman speaks I can hear the music in her voice: "Who are you?" She sounds almost frightened.

Ty's voice is very quiet. I must strain my ears to hear him. I am certain Mel can't hear him at all. He says: "My name is Ty. Your daughter is in danger."

She is silent for a moment, then asks: "What do you know of my daughter?" The words run over each other in her haste.

"Her mother was a stranger to Thilua. Her father was Kerheyin of House Lithuk. To your right there is a young noblewoman, pretending not to watch us: that is Kerheyin's betrothed, and she feels herself wronged by your daughter's very life. She will stop at nothing to kill her."

The mother of the child muffles a gasp. When she next speaks her beautiful voice is unclear. "Why – how do you know this?"

She sounds so afraid, unbelieving, accusing.

"She has hired me to summon the demon that is to kill your daughter. We traced you here from Saluyah. No, don't hate me – at least, not for this – I do not wish to kill her. That is why I am warning you now."

"We must flee," says the woman.

"She will track you, whithersoever you go. But if you will trust me, I can take your daughter away from Thilua, where perhaps the noblewoman cannot follow."

A silence.

"You are welcome to come along, of course."

More silence. Then the woman, Rillik, says: "No, she must find her own path. I always knew this day would come. But – so soon..."

"A child not yet three years old?" I can almost taste the doubt in his voice.

"Therrin is... an unusual child," says Rillik. "My husband and I had no children, and so we were glad to take her in. I'm not certain anymore how she came to us – the wife of an assassin of the House we served then was given her by a nephew, I think; and she could not keep the child herself, as it was a great secret whose child she was. She gave her up to us. We were very glad at first...

"But little Therrin is..." she stops, takes breath, stops. "She is not..." stops.

"She is not all of this world," says Ty.

"No, perhaps not. She seems to know what we are thinking half the time, for one. And her skin is so pale, and it never reddens nor browns in sun – and her..." she breaks off. "She is a beautiful little girl," she says. "I thank all the gods that I was allowed to know her. And she is my _daughter_ , if nothing else, and I love her as any mother loves her daughter. It makes no difference whether she shares my blood."

"Spare me your defenses," says Ty. "I believe that you love your daughter, and I will believe whatever else you tell me of her, and I will still believe you love her then."

I am almost glad I do not see her face now. If he said such a thing to Mel – in such a tone – she would be furious. I am glad I do not have to see this mother's anger.

"Will you?" is all she says at first. Then she gathers her strength and goes on: "She... she grows older by the day. We kept her in Saluyah for a year, and she seemed to be nearly three then; we could not stay, for already she was in everyone's eyes. We took her to Qualin, and there said she was five, but after another year she looked seven; and so we fled to Quiyen. Here we have said she is ten. It has not yet been three years since her Naming, but she looks older than that already – twelve, perhaps? Thirteen? If you say she is not all of this world, perhaps that is why."

"Then I am right," says Ty. "She is of two worlds. There is a prophecy about your daughter, Rillik; I will not kill her because she yet has some greater part to play in fate. And I will help her to escape, if you trust me."

"I have always known she was different," says Rillik. "I know she must find her path. I shall be sorry to see her leave, but perhaps it is for the best: it has told on all of us, never staying more than a year in one place, and my husband has begun to fear how quickly Therrin grows."

I wonder if he has truly only begun, after three years and a child who is almost no longer a child.

"How shall she escape, then?" asks the mother.

"I must make the noblewoman think all is well, and so feign summoning the demon," he says. "Be sure Therrin is alone in the marketplace in three nights' time. If I have counted right, I may have family in port; if I do not, I shall buy passage on another ship. I shall summon a demon to keep the noblewoman at bay, and then escape with Therrin by sea, in the hope that she cannot follow us there.

"And one other thing – I shall need something of yours, so that Therrin may know me."

"And why would I trust you? You have been hired to kill my daughter, and if I agree I have only made it easier for you."

For a few short words, the derision that usually laces his words is gone: "I give you my word that I mean Therrin no ill."

There is a longer silence.

"All right," she says at last. "I will trust you. Be sure you do not betray that trust." I hear something clinking – it must be whatever she gives him – and then she says, "Thank you," and I hear her leave.

I wait. It is easier to wait here than to stand without seeing, and not know which way to turn my head.

I hear footsteps again, and then Mel's voice: "Well done. Maybe you _can_ trick a stranger."

My throat hurts, because I know that Ty told the stranger the truth and is tricking Mel. It feels as though I have swallowed a stone. I stand, and although Mel has not asked me I tell her something of what I learned: "She said the child has grown old quickly, that she looks twelve or thirteen now."

I have to force the words past the stone in my throat, and Mel does not respond. I wonder if she heard me. Perhaps not. Perhaps she no longer feels I am worth responding to. Perhaps... but no. I cannot think of this now.

"I have the focus, and I have learned that the child will be alone in the marketplace in three nights' time," says Ty. His voice is the same as it always is. I cannot hear the lie at all.

"Very good," says Mel. "Then you shall summon the demon three nights from now, and the child shall die at last.

"And now I would very much like to be back at the inn. We have ridden hard and long, and I must rest; and also I ought not to be anywhere I might be seen."

We walk. I follow their voices.

"If I am to restore your dog's vision, I shall need some supplies for that as well," says Ty. "Perhaps tomorrow I can search for them, if you have no need of me."

"Do as you like," says Mel. "There are things I must buy as well, and it would not do to have the two of you getting in my way."

More quietly, she adds: "– and he is not my dog. You have claimed him, and you must account for him."

I hear this, and it begins to sting, but I push the hurt aside. No. I will not think of this. I cannot think of this now. But I must think of it. I must think of it before Ty asks me again to help him. Perhaps I can go to the stable once we reach the inn, and be alone but for the steeds, and there perhaps I can bring myself to think.

But I cannot find them alone.

I have spoken but twice since we left the well, and I do not wish to break my silence now. I am afraid of what my words may bring, afraid even to think them. Nor have I thought of Mel, nor of all that she has done for me. Even when we rode for a night and a day and there was nothing I could do but think, I kept my thoughts from her.

But now I must think. And I must be alone. I will not think, I will not remember, if they are with me.

"Show me the stable," I ask. It is so hard to speak.

"What for?" Ty asks. He sounds almost amused. His tone is biting as always – I try not to listen. Perhaps it means nothing. A man cannot speak this way always and always mean it. But still it makes me more afraid to answer him, to speak again.

And I do not have an answer.

"Steeds," I say at last. My voice is small, and the word gives nothing away, but it is not a lie.

I fear that it may not be enough, but he guides me into the stable. "To your left is the steed you rode," he says. I grope, and I find the door to the stall, and I find it so hard to let myself in, but at last I am with the steed and the door is closed once more behind me.

"I'll come back for you before supper, then," says Ty, and then he is gone and I am alone. I can smell the steeds all around me and I can hear their breath. I reach blindly, and touch mine, and stroke its soft hide. I am glad that it is here with me.

I wish I had something to feed it, some scrap of dried meat or handful of grain, but I have nothing.

And in the end I did not come here to be with the steed, but to be alone. I find the back wall, and sit down in the straw, and try to calm myself. For a moment I am afraid that I am behind the steed, and that it may kick me; but it seems it has turned itself around, for I can feel its warm breath tickling my knees. I smile despite myself, and pet its great nose.

I hear it shifting, and when it snorts again it sounds quite close to the ground. I think it has lain down – I _think_ it, I would think it even if my eye were merely closed and not blind – but I cannot know without seeing. And here comes the first thought that I have tried so hard not to think:

Mel stabbed out my eye.

I relive the moment in my mind. I do not want to. My thoughts run from it, but I must. I must.

My arms were tired, deadly tired, trembling. The water was beginning to spill from my cupped hands. And I was so afraid, _so afraid_ , of spilling it – not for my sake nor Ty's but for Mel's. I could walk in the dark. _He_ could walk in the dark, and even if he could not I might not have cared. But Mel, she could not. She clung to the light. Even in the kretchin tunnels of Therwil, she was loath to part with her candle. And all through the caves she seemed more and more afraid to leave the rivers, and then she saw the faces...

I was so afraid of dropping it.

And if she hadn't fallen into me, I would never have dropped it. This I know because I have done many impossible things, for Mel. For her I would walk on a hurt leg. For her I would forget the words that she swore. No matter how tired my arms, I would _not have dropped it._

Mel stumbled in the darkness. She was behind me and my light was meager, and she stumbled, perhaps stricken by fear of her faces. She stumbled and she fell and she hit my back. I remember what it felt like, the sudden force against my spine, and I almost fell beneath her – but I did not, I put out a hand and I braced myself against the stone wall and the water was gone. I saw it fall, hitting the floor and my bare feet and some small drops of it all over my shirt, and then the light was gone.

Yes, I wronged her, my flower. She was so afraid, and I let in her darkness, when I was all that kept the faces at bay. And yet –

And yet, it was she who stumbled.

I saw the tears in her eyes. I know how I hurt her. She was angry, perhaps, but more than that she was afraid, and she acted in fear. This, I understand. Too often have I acted in fear. No, I cannot condemn her for this. But now I am blind.

I think again of the water she darkened, but I will not let the Queen of the Dark-dust decide for me who may be my friend.

My thoughts of the Queen of the Dark-dust turn to thoughts of my dreams. Yes, the Queen warned against her, and so did Snake. And I trust Snake, more than I trust anyone. And yet...

What of the water?

The Queen's water showed me nothing but the truth. It showed me my own memories. Perhaps they looked different through the water. Perhaps I looked on them from above instead of through my eyes, or perhaps not. I cannot remember. It was a dream, and in dreams all is strange, and it slips from my mind.

But I remember what I saw, and I remember what I felt. I did not feel what I felt when I lived the memory. What I felt must have been a lie. It must have been. But the Queen's water does not lie.

We were in the forest, Mel and I, quite near Therwil but away from its streets. She said that they were making a new cloak for her, warm for the winter, of beautiful red fox-fur. She said that the furs they might buy were insufficient. She said they would hunt for them themselves, to be sure her cloak was perfect.

She said she wanted to see the hunt.

I don't remember how we found it. Maybe she heard its cries, or maybe I felt its pain with my nature sense. But I remember that we found the fox, and that it was hurt. I don't think I understood why.

I saw this wounded fox and I wanted to save it, although I did not know how. I would have gathered it in my arms and taken it back to Therwil, and perhaps I would have looked for a healer, although I hadn't the coin to spare. But Mel would not allow me to leave our hiding spot. "Stay," she said, and when I would not listen she hit me with one of her blue spells, and when I still would not listen she broke a switch from a tree and hit me with that.

The spell struck me in the back, and it felt as though my bones had melted and my blood turned to fire. I fell to my knees, and I watched with wide eyes. I don't know where the hunters came from, but then they were there, and they killed the hurt fox before my eyes. I saw it and it was burned into my mind: a hunter grabbing its snout and pulling it up roughly, and then cutting the throat. At first there was nothing, but it screamed, a terrible sound filled with pain – and I felt its pain in my mind – and then the blood came, and I could see nothing but the blood and its wild eyes full of fear and pain – and as the blood flowed the life faded in my mind until it was gone. And I could not look away until it was dead.

I don't remember what I did, because I didn't know it even then. Perhaps I screamed. No doubt I wept. I remember only that I curled up like a rock on the ground, and that I tried to feel nothing and let everything turn black. For a long time it worked, but it did not work perfectly. I closed my eyes, but I could still see the blood through my eyelid, and I could still feel its pain inside me. I moaned or I screamed or I cried, and I curled up on the ground and I rocked back and forth, gently, slowly, and I tried to forget the world.

Mel would not have me forget her. "Get up, Arri!" she said, again and again, and when I would not listen she hit me with her switch, again and again. I remember the pain against my shoulder. Again and again she hit me, until at last the bruise became a welt became a wound, and I could feel the blood trickling down my back and arm. But her voice was nothing, and I felt the pain but I would not heed it.

"Stop this," she commanded, and when I would not listen after too long a time she left me there, weeping and curled into myself and filled with pain.

It was the only time I would not listen to her. I could not listen. Then, I could think of nothing but the fox's pain, and the blood, and the way the pain had slowly faded into nothingness. But the echo of the pain went on and on and on in my mind, and it would not stop, and I could not stop it.

But when I saw this again through the clear water of the Queen of the Dark-dust, I saw that Mel hit me. She hit me not because I would not listen to her but because I could not. She could not feel that pain, that dying scream in her mind. She has no nature talent. She could not understand. And she was afraid, the Queen's water told me, she was afraid of losing me, afraid that I would no longer do whatever she asked of me.

And though then I was full of fear and pain and though I tried to shut her out, the Queen's water told me that she wronged me, and that she has done so all along, and that she thought and thinks nothing of my hurt. She hurts me to make me follow her. And now I know that I will help Ty, even to betray Mel, because she is _not_ my friend, and she never was.

The steed has lain down, and I have crawled over to it, and now I am lying against its flank, sobbing into its mane. It lies still despite my emotion. I am glad in the back of my mind that it seems to be of mellow nature, but in its fore I can think of nothing but the anguish. I have lost Mel. I have never had her. _She_ had _me_ , and I never want to see her again. I want to flee.

I do not hate her – I think I do not hate her – I have never hated – but I _fear_ her, I fear her so much, so much. I never want to be near her again. I never want to hear her voice. I never want to think of her again, to picture her, to know her mind.

I have feared her for many years, perhaps as long as I have known her, and I have feared her so much that I dared not know how much I feared her. And now I never want to think of her again. I know that this cannot be, for I must be with her for three days more, but when those days are over I will put all my thoughts and memories of Mel into a little box in the very back of my mind and I will lock it and I will bury it and I will throw it away and I will burn it and I will never think of her again. Never. Never in a million years.

I cling to the steed's silken mane, and I bury my blind face in its flank, and I cry bitter tears for the friend I never had and yet still lost, and for the years I have lost in Mel's presence, and for my fear: for I am very afraid.

The steed does not throw me off; rather it snorts warm air on my neck, and noses my hair, and licks me with its long forked tongue. Its nearness soothes me, and when my tears are spent I fall asleep clinging to the beast which bore me back to Quiyen, against its will and mine.

~*~

I wake to Ty's voice: "Sleeping?"

I wake to darkness. I try to open my eye and find that it is already open, and I remember that this darkness is all I have seen for days now. It is no longer as frightening as it was before, but neither is it as soothing as darkness once was.

I feel a little better for having slept the day away, but I am still tired. We have slept so little in the past days, all of us. It will be some time before I can be truly awake again.

I give the steed a last grateful pat, and then I follow Ty back into the inn.

Already I know that these three days will be hard for me. I do not want to be with Mel. I am afraid to be near her. I think to the time when I can leave her forever, but I am afraid that she will know my thoughts, so I try instead to think of nothing. I try not to think of her. I try not to listen when she speaks (fortunately she does not speak much) and I try not to look in her direction and I try not to think of all the pain she has caused me.

I catch a trace of her scent as Ty leads me past her. I try to hold my breath.

I know that, before, I might have asked her now: "What must you buy tomorrow?" Now I think instead: "What must she buy that neither Ty nor I may know of?" She has not spoken to me since we left the well, and she handed me off to Ty – as though I were a thing to be given away – and I wonder if she suspects that something is afoot. I wonder if she intends to buy some means to punish me should I fail her. I wonder if she wishes us both dead, now.

I am glad that I cannot see her.

A small part of me wants to hit her, despite all of Yuit's failed lessons, but a greater part shudders away from the mere thought of her touch. I could never hit her. I would much rather flee. And in three days – three days that may last forever – I _will_ flee, and _she_ shall never be near me again.

After supper, when Ty and I are alone in our room, I tell him: "I will do what I must. Help me. Take me with you."

At first he says nothing. Then he tells me: "I need a focus. I do not plan to kill the flower, only to distract her, but I shall nonetheless need something of hers."

I think. I do not think of entering her room and taking something; I do not dare to. I don't know what else to do. I remember the many gifts she gave me over the years, which I collected and kept, and I wish that I could retrieve them now. Then I think of the blue ribbon looped about my wrist – I shudder and almost cry out, repulsed and afraid at the thought of something touching my skin that once belonged to her. Some good luck charm! I claw at it desperately, scratching open my skin in my eagerness to be rid of it. The quick knot I tied to keep it in place holds fast, but at last it breaks beside the knot, and it comes free so suddenly that my hand comes back and I clout myself in the head. The ribbon clings to my fingers, and I cast it aside with all the force I can muster.

My head stings from the blow, and my wrist stings more from my scrabbling nails. For a few moments I do nothing but breathe, trying to calm myself down so that I can – I hope – speak in an even voice. "That was once hers," I tell Ty at last. "She gave it to me some years ago."

I try not to remember how it tore, how she looked, where we were, what we were doing.

"Thank you," says Ty. I think he wants to say more, but he does not, and in time he falls asleep.

~*~

I do not sleep well, that night. I wake again and again, and I turn so often that the blanket twists around me in my sleep, and I bite at my nails to shorten them but I am not sure that I ever finish. Nor do I have much hunger the next morning. There is a constant dull ache in my belly, and my eye will not close. Soon, I promise myself. In three days, I will sleep. In three days, I will eat. For now I can only wait.

I do not speak to her. I do not look her way. A small part of me wonders if she notices this, but I am not a good enough liar to pretend any longer that I can still bear her presence. My stomach clenches in fear, my eye still stings and reminds me of all the pain she has brought me.

A smaller part of me, born of long habit, wonders if she will not be caught by House Chinlar's men if she spends too much time outside the inn; but I say nothing.

After breakfast Mel goes her way and we go ours. Ty takes me down to the port to look for a ship. He talks to me as we walk, perhaps more to guide me than to say anything.

"I hope my family is here," he says. "If they are not we must pay for passage, and I have gained little gold for that which I have spent of late."

"What of the twenty gold from –" I break off. I don't want to say her name. "– for killing Therrin?"

"I will give that gold back to her," he tells me. "I took it as payment for summoning a demon to kill someone, and as I do not plan to do so I cannot keep her coin in good conscience."

Even without those twenty, she has paid him one gold every seven days. I should be glad of that, but now that I think of it Ty has paid for two steeds and for a room at the inn (or perhaps for two rooms, because of me) since we met him. I don't know how much they cost, but perhaps he has already spent more than he has gained from us. I don't know how much he had before, either – only that he claimed it was enough.

"My family sails under the gold banner," he tells me. "They are Island traders and not Desert traders, so they deal more with nobles than with common folk. Most of what they sell is quite difficult to find anywhere in Thilua."

"Why?" The less words I use, the more quickly he will speak again and guide me with his voice.

"Because," he explains, his voice oddly careful, "some of the things they sell can destroy talents. The Desert-folk refuse to trade them."

I shudder at the thought. My nature sense has always been a part of me; I could think of losing it no more than I could think of losing my hearing, or my sight. But that is already lost.

"How?" I ask.

"The Anarians have some odd things," he says. "There are certain herbs which they will burn for calm, or for strange visions. There is wine, which tastes good enough but which takes away one's control. And these things destroy talents, bit by bit, the more one uses them.

"Many nobles are very fond of such things, perhaps only because they are rare here. And once one starts it is hard to stop."

Ty is a strong conjurer. I know that he must never use these things. He claims to know the taste of wine – perhaps he drank it once, then, and never again. I must hope that his family never uses the things they sell. I don't want to be on a ship with people who have no control over what they see or do.

"And they sell more harmless things as well – razors, sometimes food – whatever keeps – and various other things. Whatever catches their eyes.

"With some luck, they will have something for your sight," he says.

I wonder what he plans for it, but I cannot ask. We have already arrived. "They _are_ here," he says. "Stop, now."

I wait only a moment before I hear a man's voice above and before us, joyous, shouting: "Ty!"

Then there is silence, and then I hear footsteps, running, stopping beside us. "Ty!" says the same voice again, a little more quietly and nearer. "It's been so long! What brings you here? Is this boy with you?"

"Yes," says Ty. His voice sounds strange, almost pleased, as though he might even be glad to see this stranger. "This is – uff – this is my cousin Rih. It is good to see you again, cousin.

"And this is Arrek," he introduces me.

"Arri," I correct him quietly.

"Arri, then, for now. It seems he has some distaste for his true name."

I keep my head down and pull up my shoulders. I don't know what to say. For now I keep quiet and listen.

"Is Ler aboard?" asks Ty.

"She's in the city somewhere," says Rih, "making deals, I expect. Why; what do you need?"

"Two things," says Ty. "The first is safe passage out of Quiyen, for both of us and one other, in two nights' time. I suppose you can't agree to that without her."

"No," Rih agrees. "You'd best come back later – but I'll tell her when she returns. Why do you need it?"

Ty explains, briefly. He says nothing of the prophecy, only that we must take Therrin and flee, and a little about why Mel wishes her dead and how we came to know this.

"What, and you want to save her only because you pity her? I don't believe this."

"No," says Ty. "There is more. There is something special about this child – but I cannot tell you now. If Ler agrees to help us, I'll explain it on the ship."

"And here I almost thought there was hope for you."

Ty does not respond to this. Instead he goes on: "As to the other, I think you can help me as well as she could. I need a focus."

"Ah! Perhaps I _can_ help you. What sort?"

"I don't know what you have," Ty says, very patiently, "so I cannot ask for something particular. Nor have I ever done this sort of thing before. Arri here is blind; I hope to restore some semblance of sight to him."

"Perhaps there is hope for you after all," laughs Rih. "All right, how will you do this? You have no healers' talent."

"And no healer could help him, I think. The one eye has been blind since birth. The other was stabbed out about four days ago – I doubt it could be repaired now. I thought perhaps I might bind a demon to the empty socket and to his mind, to act in place of his eyes."

"Do you think that will work?"

"What do you think?"

"Hmm." There is a pause, and at last Rih says: "I've never heard of something like this being done before, so I don't know if it's possible. But you're still the best conjurer I've seen, Ty. If anyone can do it, you can."

"I admit it will be very delicate," says Ty. "I'm not quite certain how well he'll see, even if it works. Still, anything at all might be better than nothing. But I'll need a focus, or I cannot even attempt it."

"I only hope it doesn't kill you," says Rih soberly. I am suddenly afraid that it will be too much, that Ty _will_ die. I want to look up at him for comfort, but I cannot. I wrap my arms around myself, afraid, and I whistle to Snake.

The bitter edge is back in Ty's voice. "Still so afraid to lose me? I will not need my back to summon a demon, Rih."

"I know," says his cousin unhappily. "All the same, please be careful. That's all I ask."

"It's not always enough. Someone – anything – could surprise me and distract me from the conjury, and I might lose my control. It is impossible to plan for every circumstance."

His voice cuts like a knife. I wither under the sound, although I know I am not its target. I wonder what effect it has on Rih. If he gives a response, it is not one I can hear.

It is a long moment before either of them speaks again.

I begin to fear that whatever passed between them has made them both unable to move or speak, or that it will come to blows, before Ty speaks again at last. "As for a focus: I need something small, then. If I hope to bind the demon to Arri's left socket, the focus must be small enough to fit there – at best, small enough to float there without touching the raw skin. If it must rest it may be too painful."

"Small," says Rih. His voice is practical now; the emotion is gone. "All right. Come aboard; let me show you what we have."

"All right." There is a pause, and I say uncertainly, "I'll stay here." I don't want to follow them blindly aboard. I have never been on a ship. I don't know what it is like, what I might stumble into or over.

"I'll be back shortly," says Ty. I hear Rih leaving, and I can only assume that Ty follows him on silent feet. I sit down to wait.

For the first time since I lost my sight, I am by myself in the open. There are strange voices all around me. I do not want to listen to their idle chatter, so I listen instead to the sea: the waves roll in and out, in and out, again and again. The fresh smell of sea air is on the wind. I breathe the scent of the sea and I listen to the waves and I wait.

At last I hear Ty's voice beside me again: "He's sold me a focus – here, you keep it for now. It needs to be familiar with you more than me."

I hold out my hand, and he drops something into my palm. It is small and cool, with smooth sides but rough, sharp edges. It feels good in my hand, a little heavy for its small size. I like it at once.

"What is it?" I ask as I stand.

"Clear calcite. A rock. They often trade things which may serve as focuses for conjurers."

I nod, and follow him.

"Now, we must buy you some clothing, and a better eyepatch. We shall see if Ler has returned to the ship afterward."

"Why?" I ask. "– the clothing, I mean."

"If you are to escape the flower, it will be best if you don't look too much like kretchin. You cannot wear the clothes until we have left her, but then they will help you to disguise yourself. You'll have to bind your hair back as well, so it isn't as apparent how short it is."

I touch my hair. It reaches nearly to my shoulder, though it would be a little longer when wet or held straight, and it was so raggedly cut that some strands are much shorter than others. If I were staying in Thilua, I'd cut it again soon. It does not do for kretchin to wear their hair too long.

"As to the eyepatch – you won't be able to leave that socket uncovered, and I doubt you could see through that which you have now."

"I am still kretchin," I say.

"No longer," says Ty. "Whithersoever we bring you, you cannot stay in Thilua. You must find some other place for yourself."

For a moment the future seems to expand so that all my mind is filled with its uncertainties. I cannot think of it now. I cannot. I decide not to think of it at all until I must.

"What was that about your back?" I ask instead.

He is silent for a moment. This too is an uncertainty: without seeing him, I cannot know if he is angry or merely deciding how to answer. I stand, unwilling to walk on without hearing a voice to follow.

At last he says: "When we were both children, Rih once acted without thinking and nearly killed me. Now he is afraid that my back will give or weaken me, though it healed long ago, and that if I die it will be on his hands. He may regret what he did, but he cannot undo it."

"Do you still..." I stop, unsure how to go on. "He, you seemed..." I stop again.

"I love Rih despite this, and he is my friend as well as my cousin. But no, I have never forgiven him.

"Now step a little to your left – good – sit there. It will only upset the shopkeeper if you follow me in, but here you're close enough that I can point out your size."

I sit, but protest: "Won't he be just as upset?"

"I needn't say the clothing is for you, only that you're about as big as the person I'm buying it for."

At once I feel foolish for asking. "All right," I say. "I'll wait here."

He gives no response, and after a moment I decide he must have gone. I wait. I listen to the sounds of the street and hope I do not attract attention. I am still afraid to be alone in Quiyen, especially without my sight.

I slide the stone into the pouch which still holds my three copper. It will be safe there until Ty needs it.

Someone whistles to Snake, quite near me. I have heard the whistle many times here, for wherever there are kretchin they will whistle to Snake; but this time it draws my notice, perhaps because it is so near. I turn my head toward the sound, although I can of course see nothing of the whistler.

And then I hear the voice: a voice I could never forget, though it is older now and a little deeper – a voice I have been afraid to hear – the voice of my little sister, Kiltha. "Arri!" she cries softly. "Arri, is that really you?"

I nod almost before I know that I do. My heart is drumming in my chest. I ought not to be here, I remember. I said I would leave Quiyen. I ought not to be here. What will she do? What will my mother do when she learns that I am here? I will be gone in two nights. If only she had not seen me for another two nights! I should have been gone, and they might never have known that I was here.

All at once her arms are around me, cold and thin and lithe, and I can smell her scent and that of kretchin filth and temple smoke in her hair, and her hands are on my face. "What happened?" she asks. "Are you truly blind, Arri?"

I nod. I can do no more.

"Oh, it's been so long!" she says. "We thought we might never see you again, Arri, really! But now you're back – why _are_ you back? I saw you following that man – did he do this to your eye? Why are you following him? I'm so glad you're alive, Arri, but why did you never send word? Aharyin the Bard would have carried news to us, you know that!"

She sounds so glad to see me. Maybe she _is_ glad, after all. But her storm of questions passes over me unanswered; they are too many at once, and I am overwhelmed by them. I grope for her shoulder, follow the line of her arm to her elbow and then to her hand, and I hold her hand, hold it tightly, try to be sure she is real.

"Kiltha?" I manage at last.

"Of course!" She laughs delightedly. "And you are Arri, and you're _alive_. Silwen was so angry with Mother when she cast you out – he said you would surely die without us to look after you. He will be so glad to learn you're all right. They will all be glad. You must come and see them, Arri! They will be so glad – but that man, who was he? Are you bound to follow him?"

I don't know how to answer. "He is..." I start to say, and stop. We are no longer bound to follow Mel. The mission is over or it never will be. I don't know how to explain, and I don't think the truth will do. I must lie; I must pretend that we are still with Mel. I can think of no other way. But I will not tell my sister how Mel thralled me with her words and her tricks and all the hateful things she did to twist my mind, to make me follow her, to make me her servant, her living toy, to amuse herself with my pain.

"We are both hired," I lie. "He... he is being paid in gold, and I in food, to follow a noblewoman and help her fulfill a mission."

Even to say "noblewoman", even without speaking her name, befouls my mouth. I want to scrub it out and wash it clean. I content myself with spitting, and wiping my chin on the clothing I must bear only until we leave.

"I must stay with him," I tell Kiltha. "For the mission. And we shall be gone out of Quiyen in two nights' time."

"Maybe you can come visit before you leave? Our home is the same as ever. They will be glad to see you, all of them. Mother is sorry for sending you away, I think, though perhaps it is for the best."

"I will ask," I promise. "Perhaps I can visit tomorrow or the day after. But if... if I am made to stay, I cannot disobey them." Her.

I don't like to lie. I don't like it. But I must.

"And what of your eye?" Her hand traces my left cheekbone, cold and sudden. I jump a little.

"I..." I stumble over the words. I don't know what to tell her. "It, it was stabbed out." Before she can ask more and make me speak of Mel, I go on: "What of you? And everyone? What has changed since I left?"

"Well..." She thinks. "To start with the good – Yuit has been married two seasons and his wife is with child."

I don't know what to say, how to respond. I am glad for him, of course, but afraid to think that he is married already, and I have never met the woman who is now my sister. I am afraid to meet her.

"What's her name?" I ask at last.

"Kera. She's very nice. She's been helping to care for Mother – and that's something else you ought to know – Mother is very ill. Yuit thinks she will die before long. You must come visit, if you can. I don't know how long you'll still be able."

My stomach twists. I have lost so much. I am afraid to meet my mother now, even more than I was, but I must see her if I can. "I will ask," I promise again. "And what of you, Kiltha?"

"Ah..." Her voice is suddenly higher, thinner, and I sense that she was hoping I might not ask. "In truth, I oughtn't to be out here. But I needed some fresh air, and I just couldn't stay home any longer... and then I saw you..."

"What happened?" I ask, afraid, clutching at her hand. "Kiltha, what has happened?"

She is silent for a long moment. She pulls her hand free of mine and starts playing with my fingers, curling and uncurling them one at a time. I wonder if she even realizes she is doing it. She seems lost in thought, perhaps afraid to speak.

"A few days ago..." she begins at last, "I was a little late coming home, and... I was alone, there was no one nearby..." Her voice is shaking, and as she goes on I can hear that she is fighting tears. "There was a man – a commoner – he came and," she breathes, fights to reclaim control over her voice, "he grabbed my shoulders and," she stops again, "he threw me down and," stops, "he wanted to hurt me," stops, evidently in tears now.

She is younger and smaller than I am, but she was always quicker than I was, at everything, and so she took care of me more than I of her. Now for the first time I put my arms around her, embracing her, trying to comfort her. She quiets in my arms.

"Silwen came for me," she goes on at last, her voice thick with tears. "He saved me before the man could do anything, and he hit him and drove him off and took me home. And he gave me his shirt, even. Mine was all ripped."

I smile despite myself. It was always Silwen's way to protect me – and Kiltha, too – to watch over us, to care for us, to be sure nothing happened. He was always the one to comfort me and take me home when I was too afraid to do anything but curl up in the street, and to run off anyone who threatened me. When I was caught stealing from a noble, and was to be stoned to death, it was Silwen who crept quietly into his estate and freed me and took me home.

And then my mother said that I was too careless or too foolish, and that I was endangering us all, and that she could no longer care for me, and I said I would leave, and I left; and then when I had wandered to Qualin that same noble saw me there, and he took me on the back of his steed and cast me into the well to die there. And I lost the charm that Yuit gave me.

"I ought to go back," says Kiltha at last. "They'll be worrying, and I don't much like the idea of seeing that man again."

"All right," I say, though I am loath to be left alone again. "I will ask if I may come visit you. Farewell until then."

"Farewell, Arri. I'm glad you're alive after all."

And then she is gone, and I am alone. A part of me is still afraid, and a part is relieved that now the worst is over, and that it wasn't as bad as I feared. Maybe I was not altogether unwanted after all. But I can't go back anymore. Perhaps I can visit my family; perhaps I can even be glad to see them; but I can never again be one of them, and they can never again take care of me and keep me safe.

For a time I sit alone. Then at last I hear Ty's voice above me: "I'm back."

I stand. "Did you buy everything you wanted to?"

"Yes. If we can take Ler's ship, I shall stow all this there now. It will be easier than taking it back to the inn, and having to invent a reason for it if the flower should ask."

"Who is Ler?" I ask.

"My mother's sister, and Rih's mother. She – and my uncle Fal, until he died – raised us both. She captains under the gold banner."

"Your parents?"

"Both dead. That girl – who was she?"

At first I don't know whom he means. Then I remember: "Outside the shop?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know you were watching," I say.

"I thought it better not to leave you alone and unwatched, blind as you are. Besides, I did have to point you out to the shopkeeper."

"She is my sister," I tell him. "I, too, have family in Quiyen. I was born here."

"Mm."

"I promised I would ask if I might visit them," I say.

"I don't see why the flower would object, now that she's given up on keeping you," he says.

I open my mouth, then close it and bite on my lips. I don't know what to say to that. We arrive back at the ship before I can answer. "Stop," he says, and I stop.

"Is Ler here now?" he asks, loudly.

"I am here," calls a woman's voice from above us.

There is a short silence; then I hear footsteps, and then her voice again, quite near. "I hope you can tell me your story more clearly than Rih did."

He tells it, giving a little more detail than he did with Rih, perhaps because she asks more questions. Still he says nothing of the prophecy, only that there is something special about the child, and that he can say no more until we are on our way.

"And whither might we carry you?"

"That depends on the child, I think," he says. "For now, we must only escape Quiyen, and quickly, once the time comes. We must stay away from Thilua, for the noblewoman will do all in her power to track us, and to kill us."

Ler is quiet for some time. At last she says: "Good. We must cut our stay in Quiyen a little short for you, but we will do it."

"Thank you," says Ty. "How shall I pay you?"

"We can think of that later," she says. "I'll not take your money, and you certainly can't work off your debt; but perhaps something will come up."

"All right," says Ty. "Then we shall be here in two nights' time, and then we must leave with all speed."

"And we shall," says Ler; and with that settled we head back toward the inn.

During our supper Ty asks Mel – almost courteously, for him – if her trip was fruitful. I wish I could close my ears against her response. I don't want to hear her voice. I don't want to know.

"Yes," she says. Her voice is cold, her reply short. "And yours? Did you find whatever you needed for that ritual of yours?"

"Yes. We shall be quite able to do it tomorrow."

"What?" Her voice is tired, still cold, but suddenly vicious. "Tomorrow! Why mustn't you wait three days for this, now that you have your supplies?"

I hadn't noticed that. I wonder now if Ty truly needed the three days or if they were only a way to gain some time before he betrays her. How much has he lied to her? He lies so easily.

"Clearly this isn't as important as the death of the child," he mocks.

"Give me an answer," she hisses. She isn't trying to flatter him anymore, nor even to be civil. That small part of me which still thinks of her – though I try to shut it out – thinks she must be too wearied by the journey to care anymore. I stop that thought before it goes far.

"It will not be quite as difficult to focus," he explains, "and besides, we have little time. Of course I would not think to push back the completion of your mission for something so little as this, but it must be done before we meet Therrin in the marketplace, so that Arri may aid me in the conjury. And I haven't the strength to conjure two such demons on the same day. So you see: tomorrow is the only day we have."

So soon. I must live through two more days. I must endure them.

~*~

As promised, we do the ritual the next day. Mel has no interest in seeing it, so she stays in her room, far from the sight of all those who might tell House Chinlar where she is. Ty and I ride a ways into the forest, seeking an open area away from people, where we may be without interruption.

Because we must not ride far, nor fast, Ty ropes our steeds together. I am glad of this. I still fear that my steed might run off without the rope; I am glad to rely on anything other than its instinct to follow Ty's.

Now that I am riding again the soreness in my legs and back returns with a furious strength. I am glad we must not ride far today.

"Is there truly any danger that you may die?" I ask, remembering Rih's fear.

There are those who sell their talents. It is easy enough to find someone with a strong talent for hire in any city. They can become quite wealthy. But they must do difficult, intricate things with their talents, and every time they do something so difficult it is a little more likely that it will be too much, and they will die. They die young without fail, and always in the course of their work.

Ty's conjury is very strong; I am sure he could sell it if he wanted, but it seems he does not. I hope this ritual will not be too much for him. Those who sell their talents often spend several days doing nothing at all after an especially intricate bit of work, but he must do two such conjurations on successive days.

"There is always a chance," he answers. "This will be very difficult, far more than merely summoning a demon to distract or kill someone. But I doubt I shall die of it."

I hope he is right.

"Here is a good place," he says, halting. "There is a large clearing, and we are far enough from Quiyen that we may be safe from interruption." And he lifts me from the steed, and sets me down.

I stand for some time, waiting. I don't know what he's doing. Perhaps he is tying up the steeds, or perhaps he is beginning the ritual already, or perhaps – but no, I mustn't think of the things I cannot see.

"Walk forward," he directs me at last, "– now stop. Sit there. Take off the sleeve from round your head, and take out the stone."

I walk; I sit; I unwrap the cloth that covered my empty left socket and cast it aside; I take the focus from my pouch. It fits neatly into my hand, and it feels good to hold it. I wonder how it will feel in place of my eye, but I cannot think of it.

"Now wait, and try to be calm," he says. "This may take some time, and any distraction might kill us both."

Perhaps this is not the best thing he could have said if he wanted me to be calm.

I wish I could see what he is doing, that I might know something of this conjury that may give me back my sight, but of course that is impossible. I don't dare distract him with questions. I try at first to hold perfectly still; then I grow tired, and begin to tremble with the effort of making no motion at all. Every time I relax a little, and try to hold the relaxed position, the same happens again and I must try again to put my strained muscles at ease.

I sit so long that sitting becomes awkward and wearisome. I should like to move a little, to stretch out my legs or to lean back on my hands, but I am afraid to move too much, afraid it might prove a distraction. Instead I stay where I am, sitting with my legs folded and my knees pointing outward, and my hands resting in my lap.

To relieve the dreariness, I think of the slight wind rustling in the leaves and of the scent of earth and grass around me and of the warm sunlight on my arms, and of the feel of the stone I hold. It warms in my hand and soothes me with its smoothness. Were I free to move, I might almost feel content now, here, with this stone in my hand. The fear has left me, and I am calm.

At last Ty speaks: "Hold out your hand with the focus." His voice is strained, as though he is already finding this conjuration difficult. I listen and obey, holding out my right hand flat before me, with the stone resting in the palm. He gives no sign that he has noticed. Perhaps the task at hand takes up too much of his attention. Perhaps he has none to spare.

The stone rises up as though plucked from my palm. Ty must have taken it; but his voice sounded from farther away.

I don't know quite what to think of this, and I am afraid of distracting Ty or of making some mistake that would ruin this conjury, so I do nothing at all. I do not even lower my hand, but leave it outstretched and empty. After a few moments it begins to tremble with the effort. I am unpleasantly reminded of carrying the sacred water for Mel; I try very hard not to think of this.

Then I feel something entering the hollow where my eye once was: not something solid touching the raw skin, but something like a gentle warmth, like the feel of sunlight on my skin. It moves about in my eye, not a solid warmth but a playful moving one. I am a little nervous of it at first, but it doesn't hurt me, and I quickly grow accustomed to the feeling.

Still I do not dare to lower my hand.

I wait a little while longer, and then I feel something washing over and into my mind. It isn't painful, but it is very uncomfortable, and I hope it will be over soon. Then there is a sudden twisting feeling in my mind, and then the discomfort is gone, and I can see.

It comes suddenly, but once it does it is as though it were always there, and I had merely blinked. Still, my sight is not what it once was. There is something very strange about the colors I see, as though they are at once brighter and more faded; and although there are shadows and darkness and bright blades of grass brilliant in the sunlight, my sight is not drawn to the light, nor along the shadows. I see everything as though it were equal.

The first thing that greets my new demon-eye is Ty: he stands before me, at the edge of the clearing, swaying gently. His face is as pale as I have ever seen it. I can see his legs trembling, and a light sheen of sweat on his brown skin, even from my distance (and it is so clear, though I know my old eye could never have seen this!), but his hand is sure as he draws a final symbol in the air. He finishes, and something changes in the air around me, and he falls. His knees buckle and his eyes roll back.

He lies on the ground, pale and still.

I hold perfectly still for a long moment. Then, because I can hold it aloft no longer, I slowly lower my hand. I blink when I must, but – as only my blind right eye can close, now – I never stop watching the still form on the ground before me.

I do not move, still afraid that I might distract him, that I might kill him.

He is still breathing, but only just. The rise and fall of his breath is so slight that I wonder that I can see it at all. He hasn't the strength to breathe more deeply.

The wind brushes a blade of grass against my wrist, back and forth. It tickles, and I want to scratch at it, but I don't dare move. I will sit here and I will wait. I will wait until Ty can move again, and stand, and take me back to the inn. If I must wait here all day, even all night, I will do so.

At long last he moves: he takes the waterskin from his belt and holds it over his face. Water pours into his mouth, so much at once that I fear he may drown. He finishes with it and puts it away, but does not sit up. As slowly as he took out the waterskin, he pulls a black strip of cloth from a pouch with his right hand and holds it toward me, resting his arm on the ground.

With one finger, he beckons.

I will not stand, but I crawl over to him and I kneel beside him. His eyes are barely open, and he is so tired, and so pale, and so drained. When he speaks his voice is scarcely more than a whisper: "Put this on."

For a moment I don't understand; then I take the cloth from his hand. It is an eyepatch, black and well-made, and thin enough that I can see through it. I slip it over my head and carefully arrange the broadest part of it over my left eye. It is strange to cover the eye which can see and leave the blind one exposed, but I do not know what the demon in my left socket looks like, and with the eyepatch I shall look like I have one seeing eye – which is, after all, true.

Now there is a black film over everything I see. I don't like it, and I know that I shall leave my eye uncovered whenever I can – except to sleep, when it might serve as an eyelid – but I can see through it, well enough.

"Can you see?" Ty whispers. I nod.

"Help me back."

I cast around for the steeds. They are tied to a tree, some ways off, and are grazing. I find I know which is mine, though I have never seen it before. Ty's is looking our way, and it snorts softly.

I cannot carry Ty back – he is rather larger than I am, and I am not strong – but I help him to his feet and I let him lean heavily on me as I walk him back to the steeds. His skin is clammy and his breathing shallow. He cannot mount his steed alone, but needs my help to push him up – a difficult task, as his steed keeps backing away. He rides with his head bowed, looking as though he might swoon at any moment. I hope he will last until we reach the inn.

"What shall we do with the steeds tomorrow?" I ask.

"Leave them," he says. "The innkeeper will be glad to gain three steeds."

His reply is so weak that I wish I had waited until he was better-rested to ask.

Now that I can see I mount my own steed without help; but it is so large and I am so unused to doing so that it takes me four attempts, and at last I must use a large rock to reach its back. Fortunately it is very patient with me. For the second time, I am glad that I was given a steed with such a mellow nature.

At first I want to lead and let Ty's steed follow, while he is this weak, but I cannot. "I don't know the way," I say. "You must lead."

And he leads, and I follow. Now I can see the forest, and when we reach the city I see Quiyen again for the first time in many years.

I fear that Ty may soon fall again, but it seems that his strength is slowly returning. Though he is still pale and tired when we reach the inn, he dismounts without my help, and walks to our room alone, leaving me the key. It seems he is so thoroughly exhausted that he would rather sleep than eat supper.

Then I must eat alone with Mel.

We sit at the same table, but I do not look at her. I glance her way only once: instead of the beautiful noble I followed so eagerly for years, I see a girl a little older than myself, disheveled and dirty, her hair pulling loose from the intricate braid that has held it since we left Therwil, her face tired and almost forlorn, but her eyes still hard and cold. As I see her my stomach twists painfully with fear. I want to vomit. I do not look her way again.

Instead I look everywhere else, anywhere else. I see that the inn is filled with dark wood, and that the innkeeper is a large, plump man with a round red face and brown curls and beard. His eyes are watery and blue and unfriendly, although perhaps this is only because I am kretchin.

There is soup as well as bread and water, and now that I can see it I eat of that as well. The taste is good enough, but the dull ache in my belly is still there, always there when she is near.

"You have a new eyepatch," she says.

I nod quickly, duck my head down.

"You can see, then?" I think that must be disapproval in her voice. I nod again.

"How does a conjurer heal eyes?" Now it is doubt I hear. I don't want to answer her. My stomach hurts. I cannot leave the question unanswered. I speak through the pain in my gut, my voice unsteady: "He summoned a demon."

"What, and this demon looks around for you and tells you what it sees?"

I nod. It is not precisely true, but it is true enough, and I would much rather nod than speak.

I eat as quickly as I can, and I eat perhaps less than I usually would, because I cannot bring myself to finish. I do not know how much of the pain in my belly is hunger and how much of it is Mel's nearness and my fear of her. The thought of food sickens me, but I know I must eat – when I was young my mother would yell if I did not eat at least a little something at every meal – and so I eat until I cannot bring myself to swallow any more, and then I leave, glad to escape her presence. Only tonight and tomorrow now, I think. Then I will be free of her. Then I will be gone.

I take the cup of water with me, hoping to see my new eye in its reflection.

I am glad to be in our room, with the door locked, where she cannot reach me. Ty is lying on the bed, fast asleep. He does not wake as I enter the room. I am very glad that Mel did not think to kill him now; perhaps she thinks it better to wait until he has done what he was hired for, summoned the demon that will kill Therrin. But that is a demon he will never summon.

I take the eyepatch off now, and without it I can see easily even in darkness. It seems the demon in my eye has little need of light. I set down the cup of water and look into it; and I see that it makes its own light, and I know why I must never be seen without an eyepatch by strangers.

The calcite-stone floats in the center of what was once my eye, spinning slowly, shining white. Around it swirls a purple mist with a dimmer glow, which twists around the calcite like a snake. The play of light in my eye reminds me of rippling water under the moon.

Although the Queen's sacred water helped to heal it a little, the empty socket must still be raw and wounded; but the glow overshadows this so that I do not see it. And the hurt is almost completely gone now.

I do not look like the slow, frightened child I have always been; the glow that is my eye lends me an air of mystery and strength. I wonder if I can gain this strength only by looking as though I ought to have it. Somehow I must become worthy of the demon in my eye, and Ty has said I cannot be kretchin any longer.

I cover the demon so that I may sleep, and lie down with my blanket in darkness. I fall asleep hoping that, somehow, this new eye will give me the strength to betray Mel, to free myself from her, to run away from Thilua and never think of her again.

~*~

The next day Ty devours his breakfast ravenously, and twice calls to the innkeeper for another helping. He still looks a little pale, and I wonder if he must eat this much to recover his strength before tonight. I hope it will be enough.

"I shall stay in my room today," he tells us. "I must rest, so that I may be at my full strength when I summon the demon."

"And I as well," says Mel. I can see her wringing her hands, although I try not to look at her. I doubt she will be resting. More likely she will be pacing her room, waiting eagerly for Therrin's death – and perhaps ours as well – but she cannot succeed, we must escape her.

I open my mouth and close it. I promised I would ask, but I am afraid to speak to her. I promised. That is all that makes me open my mouth again and say: "I have family in Quiyen. I would visit them, if you have no need of me today." I do not look her way.

"Go, then," she says, indifferent. "Don't be late tonight, or I shall be sure you regret it."

I shiver. And to think, she threatened me so often these many years, and only now do I fear _her_ for it! I never feared anything but my own foolish inability to obey her.

And I will be back tonight, punctually, and yet it shall be not to _aid_ her but to _betray_ her. I hold to that thought, and to the hope it brings. Tonight I leave Thilua. She cannot track me beyond the shores of this land.

It has been many years since I lived in Quiyen, and I am no longer quite certain how to find the place that was once my home. The city has changed, and I am taller now, and everything looks different. Also I have been trying for years not to think of Quiyen. Kiltha said Mother is sorry she sent me away; but I have been afraid to think of her at all, because whenever I did all I could remember was her angry despairing face that cast me away from my home and my family.

And now I am afraid to see her again, afraid to think of whether I still love her, afraid to think I may fear her more. And I am afraid to see them all, my family. But I promised I would, and here I am, searching this changed city for the home of my childhood.

It must be at least an hour before I find it. I descend into the tunnels, and for a moment I am overcome by the stench. It has been so long since we left Therwil that I forgot just how sickening these tunnels are. I must fight down the compulsion to vomit.

The journey has washed me nearly clean, with sand and sweat and sacred water, and now I am loath to tread in the filth that carpets the tunnel. I used to live here, I remember. And in Therwil I lived somewhere very much like this. But no longer: Ty has given me an escape, and I will use it, and I have no desire to carry this filth with me.

I will wash my feet, I decide. Perhaps I will wash myself all over. First I must visit my family, but then I will go to the sea and wash myself clean of all this filth.

The feel of it under my bare feet repels me, but I promised. Now that I have found the tunnel it is easy to find the set of rooms which my family calls home – it is all the same, just as though I were a child again. I slip inside and look around.

It is a little cleaner here than in the tunnel, though some of that filth has been tracked in on bare feet. There is no one in this first room, only a small pile of cloth and a few cracked dishes. Once my mother slept here, and Kiltha and I had the room on the left side, and Yuit and Silwen were in the room that lies straight ahead. I hear voices, there, and I see a dim light through my eyepatch. I follow these signs.

The room is so full of people that no one sees me at first. They are all here, though they have all grown older since I saw them last. Mother lies swathed in a large nest of blankets and clothing, perhaps asleep. Kiltha and Silwen and Yuit are sitting beside her, and beside Yuit is a stranger, a kretchin woman perhaps as old as he is – a few years younger than Ty, I guess – with a large frame and fair hair. I start at first, seeing her. I wonder who she is and what she is doing here, and then I remember: Yuit is married.

I stand watching them for a moment, my chest fluttering, thinking that I might still leave now without their notice; but then the stranger glances up at the door and gasps sharply. "Who," she starts, and then she smiles suddenly, warm and open. "Are you Arri, then?"

Then they all look, and jump up, and surround me. "You _did_ come," cries Kiltha, and "Arri! You're alive! You're all right!" says Silwen, and I am overwhelmed with embraces from all sides.

I can say nothing. It is too much, all at once. I cling to them, to their long-forgotten scents and their comforting arms, and then tears are coursing down my right cheek, and I am sobbing, afraid of what I have lost, afraid of what may come to me.

I never want to leave this moment – not because it is wonderful, but because I am so afraid of what may follow it.

"It's all right, Arri," Silwen tries to tell me, holding me close. I have grown, and so he seems much smaller than he was. I come up almost to his chin now. "It's all right. Calm down now. Mother won't be upset, I promise."

How can he know this? How can he know that Mother is what I fear most here? But he does, and he holds me and ruffles my hair and slowly I calm down. The tears are gone now, replaced by a spasming chest and a sniveling nose.

"I'm ba – hic – back," I say quietly through the thickness in my throat. "For now."

"Good," he says, and "Well met," says Yuit, smiling. "Kera, this is Arri. Arri, this is Kera, my wife."

Now that she is facing me, I can see that her belly is round with child. I look at her wide-eyed. I don't know what to say to her. I nod.

She smiles again. She looks very kind, and very friendly. I hope she will be a good mother to my brother's child. "I hope we can learn to know each other, now that you're here," she says.

I shake my head quickly. "I'm not staying," I tell them. "I have to – hic – I have to leave again tonight."

"Whither?"

I shake my head again, uncertain. "I don't know."

"Well, if you have the chance and you need a place to live, you're always welcome here," says Silwen. "Come back any time."

I nod, shrug. "Maybe, if I can," I say. But I will never feel welcome in this place my mother cast me out of. And I can never find a home in Thilua again. Mel would find me.

"And where have you been until now?"

"Therwil," I tell them.

"And you lived there? Alone?"

No. I relied on Mel so much. She helped me. She gave me food sometimes – not much, but even her scraps helped me – and she gave me a reason to live, to try to please her. But I cannot tell them this, and I do not want it to be true. I shrug, nod.

They don't believe me, I think – they want to, and they try to, but they can't. They are so surprised. They spent so much of my childhood looking after me, because I was witless and slow and always afraid, and so they cannot believe that I survived without them. But I am still the same as ever, witless and slow and afraid, and the only reason I lived this long was that I was lucky, and that Mel kept me alive (but I cannot be grateful to her, even for that). But now I will escape. Now I will be strong. Now, somehow, I will learn to live, to survive, even alone. I must.

They want to hear more. I don't like to tell stories, especially not about myself, and I don't want to tell them; but I give a brief account of how I was thrown into the well and how I survived there only by chance, and how I was rescued by a Desert clan and then brought to Therwil. I tell them nothing of Mel, nor of the reason for my presence in Quiyen now.

"See now, he's had quite a few adventures, even!" laughs Silwen. He seems so proud. They all do – proud that I am still alive, that I have some power left in me that they never saw, even if it has done nothing for me but to keep me alive. They even dare to say that perhaps Snake smiles beneath me. But my journey to Therwil was no adventure. It was only that there always seemed to be only one path left open to take, and I took it only after I had grown tired of waiting and doing nothing. I survived on luck alone. I don't deserve their pride.

I turn the conversation away from myself as soon as I can. I try to learn everything that has happened to them since I left, and everything that happened to Kera even before then. I wish her and Yuit the best of luck, and offer my hope that their child grow old and be healthy and happy, and that the birth be easy.

When my mother wakes and sees me, she seems to think that I am nothing more than a fancy of her fevered mind. But she cries openly at the sight of me. "Arri," she says. "Arri, my child. I am sorry. Please, come back, come back to me."

I am afraid to speak, still afraid that she will yell at me if she knows I am here, afraid she will cast me out again. But I hold her hand, and I stay by her side. I wish I dared to draw close and let her embrace me.

"Are you there?" she whispers, and I nod.

"Arri? You live?" But before I can answer, she turns away. Perhaps she is too fevered to speak with me. Perhaps it is only that she doesn't believe I am real.

"I hope you are better soon," I tell her, but I have no great faith that she will live. I am so afraid: of losing her, of coming back to find her dead, of never seeing her again, of being cast out.

I wonder if it is good that I visited. I am glad to see my family again, but they stir up my memories, and I am so afraid.

I wish them all well and leave at last, still afraid that my mother may die, although I have not seen her in many years and fear her so much. I wish I could do something to help her, to help them, but there is nothing I can do. I am as helpless as always.

I wash myself off quickly in the sea before I return to the inn. My skin lightens by several shades as the dirt frees itself, and perhaps some of the kretchin stench leaves me. I may not be as clean as a noble when I return to the inn, but I am cleaner than I have been in years, and still wet, and the innkeeper glares as he sees me dripping on his wooden floor.

We eat our last meal together, and then we wait. We must wait until it is completely dark. Mel is impatient. She wants this over with as fast as possible, but Ty reminds her that Therrin will not be in the marketplace until it is late, and that he cannot summon the demon if there is anyone else still about. And so we wait.

There is nothing we can do in these few hours except to be sure that everything is ready and that we aren't forgetting anything, and to use the chamberpot a last time before we go, and to wait.

Ty is calm, outwardly at least. He lies in the bed with his arms crossed behind his head, waiting. I am more nervous. I sit against a wall, toying with my hands, trying to think of everything we must do tonight, and how we must do it, and what we might be forgetting.

"What if something goes wrong?" I ask.

"We can't plan for that without knowing _what_ will go wrong, so we shall have to decide when and if it happens," he says.

"And are you strong enough to summon the demon? After my eye?"

"It will be simple enough. I shan't die, certainly. But once it is summoned we shall have to _run_ to the ship, as quickly as we can – it would help to know I may lean on you if I must."

"Of course," I promise.

And so we wait.

At last it is dark – at least, as dark as it will be tonight. The waning moon is high and bright in the sky, filling the city with its silvery violet light. I can see even through the eyepatch in this light, but all the same I pull it away as soon as I am able, when we are away from the eyes of the innkeeper and his patrons. Mel shies back as she sees the demon for the first time. There is something in her eyes, repugnance, even fear. A part of me is afraid to see fear in Mel's eyes; another part is glad to have some power over her at last, even just this. It is better than hitting her.

She does not speak to me again, and she stays back from me.

As we come to the empty marketplace, we see the child at once: a girl older than Kiltha but younger than myself, with long hair – the fairest I have ever seen, so light it is nearly white under the moon – coming down to her waist in waves. She sits on the low wall surrounding the large statue in the center of the square, facing away from it and from us. I can hardly see her behind the statue, only that she is kicking her feet idly.

"Is that she?" Mel whispers.

Ty shrugs. "It must be."

"Then go – kill her!"

"I need Arri's help," he says, "– so he and I shall stand behind the statue and summon the demon there. It might be better if you stayed back a ways, so that the conjury does not hurt you if I should lose control."

"I certainly hope you won't be losing control."

"So do I – but it is better to be careful, no? Now come, Arri, and be sure she does not see you."

I follow him to the statue, nervously. At first I think Mel will follow, but she clings to the shadowed alley we arrived by, watching us as closely as she can from that distance. The child seems not to notice us at all. Then we are safe behind the statue, hidden from her eyes.

I want to whistle to Snake, but I am afraid to make so loud a noise. Instead I purse my lips and breathe the sound of the whistle, leaving my tongue too low for the sound to come out. It is the closest thing I can have.

"Do you really need my help for this?" I ask as quietly as I dare.

"Not for the conjury," he breathes back; "but if you can use your nature talent to make a fissure in the ground, so that the flower cannot reach us as easily, please do so."

"I will try," I promise doubtfully, "but I don't think I shall be able."

"Then try."

Now he takes a small pouch from his belt and hands it to me. "Here are the twenty gold she gave me to kill Therrin's mother. I have no doubt she will notice something is wrong before I am done; when she does, please throw her this pouch. She has more right to it than I, and it may distract her."

I don't like the idea of giving her anything, but I nod.

"What will the demon do, if not kill her?" I ask.

"Distract her," he whispers back. "For fifteen minutes. That must last us. Now let me work, and be sure she does not touch me until I am finished."

I nod. I stand a little beside him, where I can see him and Mel both, holding the bag of gold. I close my eye and fix my attention on the cobbled ground before us, trying with all my strength – in vain – to crack it. Through my left, ever-open eye I watch Ty, and I watch Mel.

He draws a symbol in the air, and then another; and then he takes out the blue ribbon of Mel's that I gave him, and holds it before him. He draws another symbol.

Now Mel watches us more carefully, her eyes narrowed, wearing an air of puzzled dismay. Her mouth moves silently; then it seems she grasps what it is Ty is using as a focus, for her eyes open wide with alarm. She screams, loud and shrill: "WHAT ARE YOU _DOING_? _NO!_ STOP! _STOP HIM!_ "

The scream hurts my ears and pierces my mind. I stop trying to split the ground – all my efforts have had no effect at all – and instead throw the bag of gold her way. She makes no move to catch it, and it bursts open as it hits the ground, spilling a small shower of coins.

I can see Ty pausing briefly as he hears her shrill cry, but now he goes on to draw another symbol as though he cannot hear her. Perhaps he draws more quickly than he did before, but his hand is firm.

Mel glances at the scattered coins, and then she runs toward us. I silently beg Ty to finish quickly. I am so afraid to oppose her. Yet I stand before him, more afraid of what might happen if she tries to kill him before he is done.

As she runs she takes a pouch from her belt and empties a fine gray powder into her hand. She runs up to us, and she grips my arm to hold me still, and she puts her hand with the powder on my shoulder. I try to shrink back and to struggle and to break free of her, but she holds me fast.

"Arrek Suyiol," she hisses. She holds me there for another moment, staring at me with the purest loathing in her eyes. "I lay this curse on you, that you may never forget how you wronged me."

Her fingers dig into my shoulder painfully. I look at her, too stricken with fear to do anything else.

Now at last she releases me, throwing me back. I stumble backward, trying to hold my footing. The powder on my shoulder shakes loose and falls to the ground.

"I swear by Great Haryin, _and on my life_ , that I will see you both dead – nay, you _three_ , you filthy, niddering, dastardly betrayers, you cowardly scum, you ill-conceived _bastards_ , sons of kretchin and daughters of whores! It matters not whither you flee; I _will find you_ , and I will _kill_ you, all of you, _with mine own hand!_ "

She goes on like this for some time, threatening us and defaming us in every way she can think of, and all the while she backs away, slowly, step by step.

I don't know whether to feel afraid or victorious.

Now Ty draws a final symbol, and the demon begins to take shape before him. "Tch," he says. "Think of your language, little flower. Be glad your tutors cannot hear you."

"You shall _die_ for this!" she screams again, and then she turns and runs, fleeing into the dark streets. The demon follows her.

The gold lies forgotten.

This time Ty does not fall; but he does seem very tired, and a little unsteady on his feet. I follow him around the statue to Therrin. The girl has stood up now, perhaps at the sound of Mel's screaming, and she eyes us suspiciously.

Ty shows her a chain, a necklace, with a carven jewel in the shape of a teardrop. It looks black in the moon's wan light, yet – perhaps because of the demon in my eye – I know that it would be red by sun- or firelight.

"My mother's," she says. "You're –"

"No time now," Ty cuts her off. "Follow me." And he totters off toward the port. If he was intending to run, he has failed; but he goes as quickly as he can, weak as he is. Therrin and I follow.

She looks at me curiously as she walks, clasping her mother's chain about her neck. She is a slender girl with thin wrists and a pointed chin. Her cheekbones are high, her eyebrows thin and arched. From the painting Mel had of him, I can see Kerheyin's green eyes in hers, and they look at my glowing demon-eye with interest.

"You're with him, too? You're both saving me?"

I nod.

"I'm Therrin," she says. "Thank you both for not killing me."

I nod again. I would tell her that Ty is saving me as well, but the victory is too fresh. I do not want to think of Mel nor of what I escaped nor how, nor of the death she has promised us all.

"What's your name?" she asks, tilting her head a little to the side.

I open my mouth to answer her, and then I stop.

"Arri," I want to say, but Mel called me by that name, so often. It was the name I gave her, for I had been known by it long before I first left Quiyen, but now I cannot think it in any voice but hers. And I don't want to be Arri any longer. I am stronger now, strong enough to betray her, strong enough to run.

"Arrek," I tell her. "My name is Arrek Suyiol."

~*~

Once there was a kretchin boy who was being chased by a noble, who wanted to kill him. As he ran he whistled to Snake for aid, and Snake listened.

He wrapped up the boy in his coils and swallowed him down, and then he took the form of a small brown snake, so that he was hidden. When the noble ran by he thought nothing of the little snake curled up on the street. He ran by without seeing him.

Now the noble was very angry at having lost the boy, and prayed to Haryin Two-Faced for aid, promising his own blood in return. Haryin thought this a good deal, and so he agreed, and came up from the darkness beneath the earth, and searched for the lost boy himself.

When Haryin passed the little snake he saw that it was no mortal snake, but Snake himself, and knew that he must have hidden the boy. So he went up to the snake and said: "Has one of your kretchin run by here fleeing one of my nobles?"

And the snake said: "No."

Haryin thought about this, and then he asked: "Has it come to this corner at all?"

The snake said: "Yes."

Now Haryin grew very angry; but the face he showed was calm. He asked: "Where is it now?"

The snake said: "I heard that the noble promised his own blood in exchange for the boy, so I swallowed him up and kept him here. If you bring your noble hither I'll give him up, and we can share the reward."

Haryin's hidden face was laughing, because Snake would give up one of his own, and because he thought he could trick him. As soon as he gave up the boy Haryin would take his prize, and leave nothing for Snake. So he agreed to this bargain, and went to fetch his noble.

While the Two-Faced god was gone Snake spat out the boy, and told him to hide in wait; and then he sewed a doll that looked just like the boy, quick as the flick of his tongue, and he swallowed that down instead.

Haryin told the noble that the boy had been eaten by a snake, and brought him thither. The snake said to the noble: "The boy is stuck in my throat. I will open my mouth for you, and you can pull him out." And he opened his mouth very wide, wide as only a snake can do.

The noble peered down his throat and saw the doll, but he thought it was the boy he was chasing. He reached down and held on to the doll's hair and began to pull it out. But then Snake closed his mouth, and sank his fangs into the noble's arm. So Snake took the noble's blood, and poisoned him so that he must die; and so the boy was saved, and he whistled to Snake in thanks.

And because the noble had seen only the doll, Haryin's bargain was unfulfilled, and he could have nothing at all.
Part 2

~*~

Curse

She shies away from me, afraid. She does not look at me again. Her eyes run from mine.

She whispers a question: "Is that her? Then go – kill her!"

Now her eyes turn away, she looks at something – not at me, never at me – she raises her lip and narrows her eyes. Eyes of loathing, of the purest contempt. She says: "I certainly hope you won't be losing control."

The violet moon sets all the world alight, but she is clothed in shadow. She is distant and hidden, clinging to her dark safety. But her eyes are on me, on us, watching, watching, always watching our every move. She stays back in the shadows and she watches. And her face twists with a puzzled hurt, with dismay – her mouth is moving silently – she is so hurt, betrayed. Her eyes are wide with understanding and horror. She opens her mouth and she takes breath and she screams, she screams, loud and shrill she screams in the night, high and piercing, and it resounds in my mind, and it surrounds me and it pierces me and it is all around, her scream is all around me.

She is there before me and I ask her a question and she turns away; a thousand times she turns away; she will not speak to me, nor even glance my way. And now she hits me, again and again she hits me, and it hurts and slow blood is trickling from my shoulder. My blood is turned to fire. And she smiles at me, oh how she smiles, and she says: "Now come, Arri – you can go a little faster than _that_."

No. No. I will fight it. I will fight it. I struggle against the binds of my mind, and I come awake at last, panting and shaking, cold with sweat, afraid of the blackness around me. The ship is moving, moving, and its motion does nothing to settle my fearful stomach. The blackness is moving. It is _moving_ and it will not stay still.

A curl of my hair – unbound for sleep – clings damply to my cheek. I brush it back. My hands are shaking and my breath is unsteady and I am _afraid_. I will not think of it. I cannot think of it. I cannot and will not think of it. My thoughts return unbidden to the dream, but I stave them off; I will not think of it. I will not think of it.

It is all in a box and I have locked it and hidden it and buried it and burned it and now I am running away. It is gone. The smoke is creeping, creeping, rising into the sky; but it is behind me and I will not look back, I will not look back, I will not think of it.

My stomach turns. The ship is moving, always moving. It worsens the fear – but no; I will not think on the cause of that fear. I pull off my eyepatch so that I may see in this blackness, and I run up the stairs as silently as I can, and to the side of the ship, to spew over it. The vomit tastes foul and it burns in my mouth. I take some water from the ship's stores to wash out the taste and clean my face a little; I hope that Ler will not object.

The fresh air on my face calms me a little, but the ship's motion will not cease. I long for earth beneath my feet again, solid and dark and immovable. For now I sit by the side of the ship, with my back to a barrel of water, so that if I must empty my stomach again I shan't have as far a way to run.

I am afraid to sleep again – I will not think why – but my eye will not stay open. All the ship sleeps. It must be early in the night, a long time before they will wake, and I am so tired, and I can do nothing but to lean against the barrel behind me and let my hair fall over my demon-eye and listen to the waves moving, moving.

Time and time again, I begin to fall asleep; but I will not. It shall not happen again. It shall not, even if I must stay awake till morning.

~*~

My new clothing is clean and fresh. Though the long coat is of leather (wonderfully soft and warm), the trousers and the shirt are woven; and as they have never been worn, they are harsher than what I am used to against my skin. Ty said they will wear through in time, if I am so keen on holes.

I bear this new clothing now, and in the day I must bind my hair at the nape of my neck to hide its length, and whenever I might be seen by a stranger from off the ship I must wear the eyepatch to hide my new demon. I do not look like kretchin any longer. Ty said I am no longer kretchin, and I almost want to believe him, but I know that it is only a disguise. I remember who I am by the harsh feel of new cloth against my skin, and by the stray curls of my hair so short that they will not be bound, and by my fear of things or people I don't know.

There is a crew on this ship, besides Ler and Rih; they are not many, but they are always nearby. Their names were given to me when we came aboard, but slipped my mind almost at once. I would not look at their faces. Too much happened before that (I will not think of it, I will not) and I was afraid of them as I am always afraid of anyone I do not know. I think that fear has worsened. I will speak with Ty, because I know him already, and I will speak with Therrin and with Rih because they are both friendly and eager to know me; but I keep my distance from Ler's crew, and they keep theirs from me.

I spend my days by the side of the ship, where I mustn't run far to spew into the sea if I must. Ty remains near me, though his reasons are his own. He sits still and silent, watching the waves.

It is not long before Ler and Rih and Therrin come to him, all together, for an explanation; and I listen to their talk, hoping that it will distract me from thoughts of things I must not think of and calm my stomach.

"Thank you for saving me," says Therrin; "but why did you?"

"You had better start at the beginning," says Ler, crossing her arms. "I have been waiting too long to hear this story."

Ty explains. He starts at the beginning. I have heard much of it before, but I listen all the same, glad to think of something other than my own plight.

"Some six or seven years ago I agreed to give up my life on this ship in favor of wandering Thilua alone, and on foot. I took the chance to learn about any legends I could. This was one of those I heard:"

He tells of the gate to another world, hidden somewhere in the sea. He tells of the time one thousand years ago when _something_ , something mighty but now forgotten, came through it – and he tells that this force was driven through the gate by a man of that other world. That man set the thing to destroy the city under the sea, which still glimmers beneath the waves but now can do no more than glimmer.

The people of Thilua hoped to defend themselves, and so the most talented among them went to meet the thing in what is now the stone plain. They came from the Mountains and from the Desert and from that place where they gathered; and there they were joined by others from the strange world, who had followed the thing and the man who controlled it through the gate, and hoped to destroy him here. So there was quite a gathering of them, all with their own talents, and together they bound the thing inside a temple and set it to sleep for a thousand years. Without it the man was easily slain.

The spell of binding killed nearly all who helped to cast it, and was less merciful still to the land around it, which flattened and died and turned all to stone. This is how the stone plain came to be, Ty tells us. Some of the people who lived there fled to the Mountains or to the Desert, but many more died. Those who could not flee were turned to stone, and by the time one hundred years had passed their bodies had vanished into the endlessly flat land, so that nothing at all was left to mark that they ever were.

The few who had aided in the binding and lived knew that their spell could not last forever: there was one among the strangers who had the power of prophecy, and she spoke that the thing must wake in one thousand years' time. It would be woken – and freed – by an orphan of both worlds, one born of the guardian, so she said. The thing that was bound would call to this person, when the time came.

The strangers from through the gate took this knowledge and returned to their home, and they were never heard from again. The Thiluans took this knowledge and fled to the Desert. They saw that the stone plain was stopped at the river, and so they called it the River Saluyah, for Saluyah means guardian in the old language. They hoped that the river might save them from whatever bane their binding had wrought. And they built a city there, to defend against the thing which was to wake in a thousand years, and this they also called Saluyah.

Now the prophecy is all but forgotten, though the time has nearly come for it to pass. Not even the Namers in the temples remember that Saluyah was built only to defend against that thing which may soon wake.

Ty found this legend very interesting, for many reasons, and he hoped to learn more, perhaps even to see it fulfilled. He decided to search for any sign of this orphan of both worlds – and he thought that perhaps the "guardian" was the city of Saluyah, so he centered his search there. But he had no luck with it, and though he did not forget to keep an eye out, he was soon turned to other tasks.

Some two or three years back, he spoke to Aharyin the Bard in search of more legends. I start as I hear this, knowing that few who are not kretchin will speak to Aharyin; but Ty has surprised me many times. Perhaps it is because he does not hail from the Mountains that he does not understand that kretchin are not to be spoken to, not to be learned about, not to be understood.

Aharyin told him of a noble bastard in Saluyah who was blessed by Snake – just as he told me, and all the kretchin in Therwil, and perhaps all kretchin all over Thilua. Snake is a kretchin god. It is important if any noble is blessed by him, even a noble bastard.

The thought of a noble bastard blessed by Snake intrigued him, and the mention of Saluyah reminded him of the thousand years' prophecy. He wondered if perhaps the "two worlds" were the world of nobles and that of commoners, and if this might be that child, but he thought this unlikely enough that he did not pursue the tale – until he met me.

I do not like to hear this part of the story. It must be rife with mentions of _her_ , and I do not want to hear them. Still, I am quite near him, and I cannot avoid hearing. I turn my demon-eye to the limitless sea, and I sit very still, and I hope that the words may wash over me without striking.

He tells how he found two wanderers in the Desert, "a young noblewoman and a slightly younger boy dressed as kretchin," attacked by an insect. I will not remember. I will not. I will treat this story as though it had nothing to do with me. I must.

He summoned an elemental of wind and sand, and saved the travelers. The noblewoman was impressed with his skill at conjury and asked him to summon her a demon, and to act as guide and bodyguard until he did. At first he would not agree, but he learned that she wanted the demon to kill the woman who had born her false betrothed a child. So he saw that the noblewoman was after the mother of that famous noble bastard, and so he agreed to escort her to Saluyah, because he was curious.

He soon learned that both the nobleman and his lover were dead, and his suspicions rose. He visited the temple at which the child was born in order to learn more.

He tells what he learned of the child's mother, of her strange appearance, of Kerheyin's devotion to her. Therrin is eager to learn all she can of them, for she knows that she is the child whom _she_ wanted to kill, and so she knows that Kerheyin of House Lithuk must be her father, and the stranger from the sea her mother. She wants to know everything.

And Ty tells her all he knows – that the woman's hair was white as snow and that her eyes shone silver, that she could not or would not speak, that she arrived in Saluyah by boat, and so "the fools thought her Anarian, as though Anarians were not as human as they." He tells her that the birth was difficult, that it killed the woman. He tells her that the Namer was asked to give the Sea-Father's blessing that the mother find her way, and to cast the body into the River Saluyah.

He tells her that Kerheyin swore to love her for all eternity, and that when she was dead he took the babe away. To his aunt, Ty surmised. I remember hearing that an aunt of Kerheyin's wed an assassin of another House and lost her nobility, but I try to quench that thought as soon as it comes, not wanting to think of whence it came.

When the child was safe in this aunt's arms, he must have returned to the temple, and somehow left his servant and steed behind – or perhaps it was the servant who took the child away – and Kerheyin walked to the River Saluyah and drowned himself therein. By the time the servant was able to find him and pull him out of the River and bring him home to his mother who is a healer, it was too late.

"That is all I know of them," says Ty; "might I continue?"

The child was blessed not only by Snake but by another power, unknown to the Namer. Ty heard this and remembered that the thing trapped in a temple deep within the stone plain was to call to its Chosen one, and he could see that it was not at all unlikely that the mother had come from through the gate; and so this child was an orphan born of both worlds and in Saluyah, the guardian city.

Knowing this, he saw that he had done a wrong in saving us (no, them, it must be them; I am not a part of this story, I cannot be, I will not be), for the noblewoman intended to kill this child. If he had not meddled she might have died in the Desert. In saving the strangers he had doomed the child who was Chosen, and so doomed the prophecy. This was a wrong that needed righting, he says. Now he traveled with them only that he might betray them.

So with them he journeyed to find the child, first to Qualin and then on to Quiyen, whither they learned that it had been moved. There he learned that the child was certainly not all of this world, for she aged far more quickly than a human child, and was hardly a child at all anymore. He had been nearly certain before, but now he knew beyond a doubt that she was the one Chosen by the thing in the stone plain.

And that child was Therrin, and the kretchin boy was me (no – no, he was Arrek, he was only Arrek), and to save them both he fled with them to Ler's ship. The rest, everyone knows.

So Ty finishes his story, and there is a silence as they think on what we have heard. At last Ler speaks: "So, Therrin, you're this Chosen one. Will you travel to the stone plain to set free that which is trapped?"

She does not answer at once. She sits and she looks at her hands, and at her skirt, and at the planks beneath her, and at the waves that carry the ship.

"I... I do not know," she says at last. "I _am_ curious to see what sleeps in that temple. But now that I know whose child I am, I would seek out their homes, and learn more about them – particularly my mother, who came from that other world. I would so like to see it!

"Also it is death to venture into the stone plain without a better idea of one's purpose. I do not know _how_ to free this thing, whether I would or no, so perhaps I ought to learn more before I attempt it. Perhaps there is something I could learn in my mother's world. So I would journey _thither_ , if I can: to the gate between worlds; and if this means I cannot free that which sleeps, perhaps I am not the child of the prophecy after all."

"We cannot take the time to bring you thither by ship," Ler says; "but we shall take you to the Island, and the gate will not be far. _If_ you are able to pay, we can provide you with a boat and supplies with which to reach it."

"Thank you," says Therrin. "But I don't know how to find it."

"I will guide you thither, if you would have me," says Ty. "I, too, would know what lies beyond the gate."

"Then I accept your offer of aid, and thank you for it," she says.

There is another moment of silence. I hang in it, afraid to fall, with the ship still moving all around me. Then Rih turns to me, saying: "And what of you, Arrek?"

I fall.

His question fills my mind and I don't know what to say. I cannot go to Anaria. I cannot go to the Island. I cannot return to Thilua. I cannot remain here. I begin to shake my head, to cower, to hide, to hope that they will forget me that I must not answer; but no. I must be strong. I am Arrek now and I will be strong. I whistle to Snake for strength and I make my voice as loud and as steady as I can, and I say to them: "I do not know."

"Come with us, then!" Therrin says smiling. "Surely one more among our number will help, if only so we have an easier time of it watching our backs. And perhaps your strange eye will be of aid to us."

"Likely," says Ty. "The demon is not fooled by tricks of light. It sees what is there."

"Thank you," I say, so glad for a place to go that I don't stop to consider. "I hope I can be of aid to you."

So it is decided: they will go to the Island for a boat and supplies; and thence they will travel to the gate between the worlds, and pass through it; and in this other world they will seek knowledge of the thing which sleeps deep in the stone plain, which Therrin is to wake. And I shall go with them.

~*~

She steps out of the shadows and stands before me, hiding me from sight. She points away, down the street. "The kretchin ran that way!" she cries. "Quick, it's getting away!"

Her lip twitches up in a smirk as she turns to face me. She looks over me without seeing me. She starts when I speak to her, blabbering my thanks, but soon the smirk is back. "What do they call you, kretchin?" she asks. "I'll take care of you. Don't you worry."

My shoulder is alive with pain, my life seeping down my back and down my arm.

"You'll come with me, won't you?"

Her eyes are full of betrayal, and she is screaming, screaming...

My sight bursts into colored stars, and I can see nothing, nothing, only her, only her smile and her eyes the color of storm. "Have you learned?" she asks. "Will you listen now?"

Her scream echoes through my mind, loud and fierce and shrill. My eye is weeping, bleeding, leaking. There is nothing but her scream. I am nothing. There is only she: her flowing golden hair, her flashing gray eyes, her smiles and her anger and the scar that makes her real. There is only she.

I wake up weeping, wishing beyond wishes that it could help to claw my eye and its demon partner from my skull. But I have been blind, and it did not stop me from dreaming. All I can do is weep, and cough up the churning in my stomach, and whistle to Snake to protect me, to save me, to cleanse my mind from all this memory and allow me at last to forget.

~*~

For the first few nights, I sleep in my own bed in the blackness below deck. I share the room with Therrin and Ty and one of the women whose names I don't know at first. Therrin tells her goodnight every time we go to bed, so that at last I cannot help learning that her name is Lin, but I do not speak with her and I spend no more time below deck than I must.

Every night, I dream of things I dare not think of, and I must run to the side of the ship to empty my stomach and await morning without sleep. At last I don't even try to use the bed anymore. I do not move from my place by the side of the ship at all, except at mealtime or when I must use the pot.

I try to stay awake – I try not to sleep, even when night has just fallen and all is still. I must keep the dreams away. But weariness is taking its toll on me, and in the dead of night when no one is there to speak to me and distract me and keep me awake, I slip into sleep against my will. Each time, I awake from nightmares.

So my sleep is meager and it is frightening and horrible and I cannot think of it; and my waking moments are filled with weariness. My blind eye closes without reason and against my will – but my demon-eye has no lid to close, so I am never without my sight. I am glad of this, for I can still think of that which I see so long as I am able to see it, and I cling to that sight in the hope that it may save me from slumber.

At mealtime all the crew – and we guests – gather together at a long table in the kitchen to eat. I eat a few bites each time – I still remember how my mother scolded when I ate too little as a child – but I cannot bring myself to finish a meal. The motion of the ship might spoil my appetite on its own, and the nightly dreams only worsen it. Instead I watch the others eating and listen to their talk.

Even when we are all gathered together to eat, Ty does not speak much with the crew. Nor do they speak to him; they speak easily amongst themselves or with Therrin, but they leave Ty and me alone.

I ask him about this one day, but all he says is: "They know me from the past, and they know that I would rather be alone." Perhaps they can see that the same is true of me, or perhaps they do not speak to me because I am kretchin. Yet Therrin is nearly one of them already. She spends her time conversing with the crew and helping them with their tasks around the ship, cooking for them and learning to sail. When she is not working she stands at the prow of the ship, surrounded by sea-mist, or she runs up the mast to see far and wide, or she dances lightly across the deck. She takes easily to this life, although she was brought into it suddenly and under fear of death.

She speaks with Ty and me as well, eager to learn more about us – and about herself. She asks me if there is anything more that I know of her parents. I don't like to think about it, and I shake my head.

"I was with Ty," I say. "I heard everything that he did, and he has told you all he knows."

"There must be something more you remember."

I think. Yes, maybe there is. "Only that your mother smiled when she heard of the strange blessing on you."

"Then she must have hoped that I would free the thing," Therrin says. "I hope I may succeed, that I do not betray her memory.

"And my father – do you know anything more about him?"

I don't like to think of it. I start to shake my head.

"But you were traveling with his betrothed – surely she told you something!"

I shut my blind eye and look down and away from her and I stop breathing. There is a wall in my mind and she cannot get through it. There is a wall in my mind and it will seal it away. I shake my head, no longer knowing what I am responding to, trying only to make her leave, to make her stop asking, to kill the memories that plague me. Is it not enough that I must dream of this past?! Must she torment me while I am awake as well?

I can taste iron at the back of my throat.

I will not look at her, but I hear her muffled gasp and I see her hand fly up to her face. "I'm sorry, Arrek," she says, her voice half a whisper. "I didn't know."

I don't know how she knows now, and I cannot ask, but I am grateful for her apology. I nod and try to put it out of my mind. I do not look back up at her.

She does not ask about _her_ again, nor does she delve too deeply into my past. But she continues to speak with me, and with Ty – perhaps more on account of friendliness, now, than curiosity. She tells me of herself: of the brief childhood she spent thinking she was to be a servant, of her love of climbing and dancing and exploring, of her mother Rillik's beautiful singing, of the things her father taught her. She is so friendly and open with me that it is hard to be uncomfortable in her presence.

She does ask me about Snake, knowing now that she is blessed by him. As a servant-child she has never heard of him. She confesses that she has never had much regard for the gods anyway, and that she has avoided temples. But she listens to my stories of Snake with interest, and she laughs at them and says she is lucky to be blessed by such a god. "It seems he succeeds at everything he attempts," she says. "Perhaps, with his blessing, I too can succeed at my task."

"I hope so," I say, politely. In truth, I cannot begin to fathom the importance of her task, though I have agreed to help her with it. The prophecy means very little to me. All that matters is that I can follow her for a while, that I don't yet need to find a place to belong.

~*~

"I have something for you," she says. Her eyes are full of fear and hate and her dagger flashes. Pain trickles down my cheek like tears.

She laughs. "It's nothing _you_ must think of," she says. "You wouldn't understand anyway; you _are_ only kretchin after all. Don't trouble yourself with it."

She reaches her hand to me, to give me the food – her hand flies – she hits me, scratches at my face, pushes me down. The stone hits me hard and fast. She twists her beautiful hand into my hair and she lowers her head near my ear and whispers: "I will find you. And I will _kill_ you, you filth." Her scream fills me, surrounds me, pierces through me. "Stop! STOP! _STOP!_ "

Stop. Stop, stop. Stop this, stop this dreaming, let me wake. I tear through the dream and wake to cold night air, weeping and shaking, afraid beyond fear. I whistle to Snake: let this end, let me forget, let me stop dreaming. Let me die, if that is all I can do; but only let it end. I cannot bear this much longer.

~*~

I am neither sleeping nor eating as I ought, and it is taking its toll. The world grows less and less real beneath my fingers, and my head always swims even when I am sitting still and alone. But the dreams are there, always there, lurking beneath my eyelid every time I sleep, and I must keep them away at any cost. I must not sleep, no matter how weary I may be.

Therrin is the first to say something. "Will you not eat more?" she asks when I push away my plate.

Therrin has been cooking many of the meals; this is something she learned from the man she called father, and it is one of the many things she has been doing to help the crew. "Therrin's cooking may suffice to pay the way for all three of you, and for the boat as well," Ler has said – there is the problem of payment solved. And Therrin is glad to help.

Now I fear that my small appetite may be an affront to her skill in the kitchen, and I would eat more if only so that I do not offend her; but my stomach turns at the thought, and I shake my head. "I'm not hungry," I say. It is not quite a lie.

Rih is next: he comes to speak with his cousin whenever he has no other tasks, and he often includes me in their conversations. He is delighted with my demon-eye, saying: "You _are_ the best among all conjurers. None other could do such a thing – only my own cousin!"

But he is less happy to see my face after I have been on the ship for several days. "I've seen snowdrifts no paler than you," he says. "There are always those who don't take well to the ship's movement, but that sickness lasts two or three days, at most – and you've been looking worse and worse. Tell me, have you slept at _all_ since you came aboard?"

I have to smile at the tone of his question. It is easy to smile at Rih – he is always laughing himself. But I don't know how to answer. I shrug, and I say: "Not very much." I don't like to think about it. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to give the dreams another chance.

"Is there a reason? Lin is a healer, though not a strong one – but perhaps she could help you."

"No!"

He looks at me, confounded.

"No," I repeat. "No. There's nothing wrong." I am afraid, so afraid. What if the healer could make me sleep? What if she charmed my body so that I could not fight the sleep any longer? I must stay awake. I must stay awake so that the dreams cannot reach me.

Yet at last the dreams reach me even so. I can see that it is a dream – my demon-eye sees so differently from my old one that I can see that it is only a vision, nothing which my demon-eye sees, only a memory – but _she_ is there, she is there before me, she is _here on this ship_ and she smiles and reaches for me and it makes no difference that she is not real. She is _here_. I scream.

I hold up my arms frantically to ward her off and I shrink back further against the barrel at my back and I clench my blind eye shut and I turn my head away and I try to flee from the vision.

Now they are here, they are all here; they must have heard my scream. Ty has his hand on my arm and Therrin is kneeling before me searching my eyes and all the crew are here, they are here and they are watching.

My breath is coming short and fast and I can feel the tears trickling down my cheek and my lips and hands are tingling and she is here, she is here, I am so afraid.

"What happened?" Ler asks, her voice crisp.

There are voices all around me but I cannot listen to them, I cannot hear them. I wish I could close my ever-seeing eye so that I might know that I shan't see _her_ again, but I cannot. My stomach hurts and spasms but I have eaten so little that it cannot empty itself again. I clutch at my head and I try to forget the world around me.

The demon can always see but I cannot fix my attention on what it tells me. I cover that left eye socket, so that all I can see is my own hand (curse this eye that can see even in darkness!) and the red that shines through at the seams where my fingers meet. I breathe in quick, sharp bursts, feeling my breast jump with every breath.

Ty's hand is on my arm and I don't know if I am grateful to know that he is here and real or if I want to shrug him off. I haven't the strength to, so it makes little difference. I can't feel so much at once, so many different feelings. His hand and the barrel and the planks beneath me and the light breeze against my skin, against my clothing – it is too much, I am overwhelmed.

I am shaking, my knees clenched together tightly, my fingers pulling at my hair so that some of it has freed itself from its binding and some of it has torn from my scalp. I can feel the rough edges of my fingernails digging into the fleshy part of my right palm and the small part of my mind which I can still hear and is not overwhelmed with fear wonders if I have yet drawn blood.

Then another small part of me remembers the time when I was within myself like this and I woke to a bloodied shoulder and _she_ bloodied it and I am nearly overcome with the desire to vomit. I mustn't. Not here and not now – I must stay within myself – I cannot acknowledge the world around me enough to find the edge of the ship, that I might spew over it into the sea. My belly is empty besides. Still, my throat spasms and I worry that I shan't be able to hold it in.

The voices try to break into my barrier but I will not let them. I will not. I cannot.

I am all alone inside myself. I am all alone in the darkness.

At long last I grow aware that the only sound I can hear is the eternal movement of the waves beneath the ship, and that my breath has slowed, and now it is lassitude I feel. I try to fight it. I will not sleep. I will not.

I open my eye and I unclench my hands and I let go of my hair and I sit up against the barrel again. I take my hand away from my demon-eye and I see that there are bloody crescents in my right palm and that strands of dark brown hair have been torn from my head and wrapped around my fingers. It is twilight now, and the deck has been abandoned. Even Ty is gone. I hear voices from the kitchen, so perhaps they are eating there beyond the door.

I will not sleep. I must keep myself awake. I stand and I drink a little and I walk around the deck, once, twice. The motion of the ship no longer upsets me. It is only the dreams.

I am sitting back in my usual spot, fighting to stay awake, when Ty returns. "Feeling better?" he asks.

I start: I did not hear him come. In answer I shrug.

He sits down nearby, keeping his eyes on my face. "If this goes on it may well kill you," he says; "and Ler has been patient, but Ahl especially is irked when anyone perceives a danger he cannot see himself."

If only it ended, it wouldn't be so bad if it _did_ kill me. At least it would be over. And yet – if I must die, I would die for any other reason. I don't want even my death tainted with this.

"Tell me what ails you," Ty says quietly.

I cannot. I cannot speak the words. I will not even _think_ the words; I cannot speak them. Yet I cannot simply refuse, and he sits calmly and awaits response.

I shake my head, but he does not move. His eyes are still resting on mine, expectantly, patiently.

I draw breath, but I let it out again without speaking, not knowing how to answer, how to tell him what he asks without saying more than I can. My breaths are shaky.

"My dreams," I manage at last.

He waits.

"Every time I sleep," I say. "Every time without fail. I will not sleep. I – the dreams, I can't let them in..."

He leans to prop his chin on his hands, but says nothing.

I have no choice now. There is nothing else I can say. I must force out the word. " _She_ is there," I say, my voice half a whisper, beginning to weep again. "My dreams are of _her_ and they will not cease. I cannot sleep. I cannot let in the dreams. They will not stop, they will not stop..."

"The flower?" he asks, frowning. I shrink back at the word, but I nod.

A long moment he is silent. Then he says: "When I conjured that last demon, I had little thought to spare for what was happening around me; but it seems to me that I heard her speak of a curse. Could that be?"

Hating the words as they come from my mouth, I say: "She was no healer."

"I know," he says. "I saw her blue spells often enough."

He forces me to remember. I run through that last day in my mind, though I want nothing more than to forget it forever.

"Did she say such a thing?" he asks when I am too long in responding. Against my will I nod.

"Tell me what happened."

I whistle to Snake. Help me come through this. I must be strong.

"A gray powder. She held it to my shoulder." She looked at me. I must not think of her eyes. I mustn't. I don't want to know. (So filled with hatred and betrayal, loathing that stabbed into my soul like daggers.) "She said my name. She said my true name and she said she cursed me."

"And?"

I don't know. I don't remember. I don't want to remember. My memory is full of holes. Already. So soon. It has been so short a time and already I am forgetting. I _want_ to forget, but it scares me a little how well I have been able to. "I don't remember," I say. "I don't know."

He is silent, thinking. At last he says: "Rih is a healer whose talent runs with curses. He cannot use it well, nor does he much like to, but perhaps he will know what is happening to you." And louder he shouts: "Rih!"

Rih comes from the kitchen, holding a knife in one hand and a rag in the other. "Yes?"

"Can you spare a moment?"

"Of course." He ducks back into the kitchen and returns shortly with his hands empty, drying them on his trousers. "What is it?"

Ty tells his cousin what I have told him, and asks: "Is there any way someone with no talent to curse could have laid a curse on Arrek?"

Rih's brow is knit with something that looks like dismay. "Yes," he says. "I've seen it often in the cities lately. A gray powder, you say?"

I nod.

"Twenty-two gold and thirty copper in Quiyen when we were last there. It's the newest fashion – curses that even commoners can afford, if they save up for them. The curse itself is simple. The most difficult thing for the healer making them is being certain it can be used on anyone and applied only by touching the powder to the victim, and speaking his name.

"It is, as I said, a very simple curse. All it does is make victim dream each night of the one who laid the curse on him. In the case of a commoner who cannot buy the curse without long deliberation, that is enough to curse them with guilt and remorse: the victim's own mind ensures that the dreams center around the time when he wronged the buyer.

"In the case of a noblewoman with the gold to spare – well, perhaps she wronged Arrek far more than he ever wronged her. Then it would be a nightly torment, nothing more. If she wanted a better curse, I'm sure she could afford it."

He eyes me, looking for a response, but I will give none. I cannot think of it. _I will not._

("I hope fifty gold will last us; I couldn't take more...")

"How can it be lifted?" asks Ty.

"It can't," Rih says. "I have never heard of a curse being removed except by the caster – in this case, the one who made the powder. There are enough of them now that we couldn't find the one she bought this from, even if we had the time to search the city. It must run to its finish: the noblewoman must touch Arrek again and formally remove the curse."

"That won't happen," says Ty. "She swore she would kill us if she sees us again."

Please no. Please don't let her find us. I whistle to Snake. Please, spare us. I will take any death but that one. Any death at all.

"Then there's nothing that can be done."

"There must be. Arrek may die if this does not end, and soon."

"Even if we _did_ find the caster, all he could do is change it to end more quickly. A curse is made to stick. It can't be just taken off like a dirty shirt."

Then there is no hope. I cannot live this way. I cannot. It must end, there must be some way, there must.

If the dreams are taking me now even in waking, perhaps the only way to flee them _is_ to die. It would be simple enough. I must only leap overboard and hope that I can drown before they rescue me.

"What if you combined your talent with another?" Ty is asking.

Rih shakes his head. "I can't think of any way. Look – I don't think it can be removed. I am nearly certain that it can't. But you're the great conjurer who restores sight to the blind where a healer could not. Perhaps you can think of something."

"Perhaps," says Ty. "If there is a way, I will find it."

Then I shan't be killing myself yet after all. Ty must have his chance.

~*~

"I will find you," she tells me. "I will find you, whithersoever you run, and no matter who hides you. I will find you and I will kill you, I will _kill_ you, _with mine own hand!_ "

She is screaming, screaming. She sees the betrayal and she stabs at me and my eye is bleeding liquid pain. She smiles and she hits me. She laughs and she turns away and she whips at my shoulder with her switch and when it breaks she cuts a new one. She casts her spell and the rabbit dies. I feel its death and she smiles at me and she laughs and she gives me its broken corpse to carry.

"I will kill you," she laughs. "I will find you, and I will kill you."

She is screaming. High and shrill in the night she screams. In a world of whispers and shadows she screams loud and bright, and my eye bursts in my shoulder and she smiles at me and she screams and she will find me, she will find me wherever I am, she will find me and she will kill me and I will die. Please, no. Please, let me wake. Please, let this fresh night air and this hard barrel at my back be real. Please, let my dreams fall to nothing. Please, let me never sleep again.

I whistle to Snake with shaking lips. Again and again I whistle. He must protect me. He must, for nothing else can.

~*~

My decision to wait before I leap overboard is tried sorely by the arrival of a storm. The wind blows hard against the golden sails, pushing the ship in the wrong direction, and the rain comes down so hard that it stings when it hits me. I shield my face from it, but I will not move from my spot.

The pitching of the ship brings back the upset in my stomach in full. I cling to the side of the ship and I vomit over it, glad that the wind blows away from me. When my belly is so empty that it cannot be emptied again, I sit miserably with my back against the barrel, shielding myself from the rain and waiting desperately for this to end.

All around me the crew are running back and forth and shouting to each other over the wind and thunder, trying to keep the ship under control; and through their shouts and the sound of the storm I hear Therrin's laughter. She loves the storm. She stands at the prow of the ship, her wet skirt and hair streaming out before her in the wind, her arms spread wide, laughing with joy.

"Isn't it _wonderful_?" she cries. "See the sea and the sky and the wind all around! Isn't it beautiful?"

I don't think it wonderful at all. Maybe Therrin is mad. The storm is horrible, and I would just as soon _not_ endure it. But I must be strong. I cower and I whistle to Snake and I am nearly mad myself with fright and tears and misery, but I do not take the leap.

"So long as this wind blows the wrong way, it's only hurting us," Ler calls up to her. "Now come to safety or help us control the ship."

"Why the ship?" Therrin calls back.

With my nature sense I can feel hers as she puts it to work: it seems she has a nature talent as well, and far stronger than mine, and it seems that it runs with winds and rain. It is the _storm_ she seeks to control. The thunder soon quiets, and the rain slows, though it does not stop entirely. The wind holds strong, but its course is righted, and we are on our way to the Island traveling far faster than we were before.

I hate this strong wind, but if we can reach the Island more quickly, I am glad of that. Ler and her crew are nothing but glad of the change in weather, and quite grateful to Therrin for changing it. "When you've done what you must, you are welcome to return to this ship," Ler tells her. "We'd be lucky to take you as a member of our crew."

Therrin thanks her, saying: "I love this ship, and I love the sea. I cannot agree yet, without knowing what awaits me; but if I find I can return, I very well may."

~*~

She reaches into me, plunges her fingers into my flesh and pulls the heart from between my ribs. She smiles as she pulls it out, saying: "Of course you'll do it, won't you, Arri?"

It is black and lifeless and cold. She holds it between two fingers and wrinkles her nose. "Filthy kretchin thing," she complains, and she throws it in the river, and wipes her hands. There is fear in her eyes, wild and staring, and she cries: "Arri, come, let us flee! Quickly! I will find you, and I will _kill_ you!"

Her dagger flashes. Her spell strikes me in the back and everything is pain. She smiles and tells me: "You are _my_ dog and I will take care of you." She hits me and I fall.

"I will find you," she tells me. "I will find you, and I will kill you. You cannot hide."

She turns away from me and I am all alone, crying in the darkness, trying to whistle to Snake as well as I can through shaking lips.

~*~

The wind does not cease. I wait for it. I wait for Ty. Either the wind must stop, or he must find some way to free me of this curse – and soon. I cannot wait like this. I cannot live like this. Something must stop.

At last Ty says: "I have an idea, though I don't know if it will work." He tells it to Ler, and apparently she agrees it is worth trying, for soon Ty and Rih and Ahl are all standing before me, eying me warily. Ahl is the married man on the ship, the one who was annoyed at my screaming when nothing was there, and he has a weak talent for conjury himself.

Therrin and the rest of the crew are there too, watching, to see how it will go. I hate their eyes on me, but I cannot flee.

"What are we doing, then?" asks Rih.

"Can you make us see the curse?" Ty asks.

"Certainly." He does. The demon in my eye seems not to know how to interpret this: there is something on my skin, covering me, moving, and I know that it is the curse, and I know that it is black, but it does not look like blackness. It hurts my mind to look at it.

"It's not solid or anything," says Rih. "It's just blackness."

"Good enough," says Ty. "Now Ahl, if you can: make an elemental from this curse, and lift it from Arrek."

At first Ahl does nothing. He says: "As soon as I let it go, it will only fly back to him; or if it does not, the curse will stay wherever it lands."

"That is why I shall summon a demon and bind it to the curse, as soon as it is no longer with him," says Ty.

This is the third conjuration of some size he will have done in very little time. I hope it is not too much. I don't know how hard it will be for him; I know nothing of conjury.

Ahl draws a few symbols, and the curse comes away from me slowly. It seems loath to let me go, but it is pulled off bit by bit. I can feel it moving. The parts of my body that are clean feel new and fresh and naked, and there is a tingling in the parts that are still cursed.

At last I am free of it and it floats above me, a cloud of the strange moving blackness that does not look black.

Now Ty draws his own symbols in the air around him, and as he does the curse flies down to the deck and it takes a new form: a young woman wearing a dress, but all black, so black that she looks like a flat shadow seen against the sun. But the demon in my eye knows that she is as round and as real as _she_ ever was. For that is what it looks like: like _her_ , like her shadow.

I cannot bring myself to look away.

"Is that the curse, then?" asks Therrin. "Hello, Curse!" She waves at it, but the curse gives no response.

"It won't answer," says Ty. "Yes, that's the curse. It has no voice, and no true will. It has nothing but an instinct to come to an end, to finish. It can do that by attaching to the noblewoman it resembles, I think, for I expect she dreams of herself each night already. But it has no way to find her, except to continue to follow Arrek.

"It is still bound to him, I think. But it shan't attach to him again. It is safe now."

"Make it go away," I whisper. The demon in my eye sees everything around me, but only the curse seems real in my mind. It looks like her. It moves like her. It does not breathe, and when it walks the lengths of its strides don't match the distance it covers, but it places one small foot just ahead of the other and it swings its shoulders a little just as _she_ always did.

"I can't," Ty says with a touch of ire in his voice. "I can't tell it where to find the flower, and until it finds her it cannot disappear. Think of it this way: it may be of use. It has no mind to be fooled by numbers or directions, so it will remember whatever it is told once, and may know the way even if all the land looks the same. It needn't eat or sleep, so it can always stand guard. And if the flower _does_ catch us up, it will slow her before she reaches us. It is a good defense, if nothing else."

I shake my head. I look away. I will not look at it. I must forget it is there. It looks so like _her_ that I cannot help but to think of her when I see it. And I must not think of her. I must not. I must forget.

But the dreams are gone now. Sometimes she still flits through them, quick and horrible, but she is no longer the only thing I see, and she does not always wake me even when I do see her. I am still afraid to fall asleep, but after a while I am able to use my bed again.

The curse-thing follows me, so that I cannot help but to see it. It is never more than ten paces away from me. I try to look away, for whenever I look at it I am so afraid that I feel sick. If I could close my demon-eye, it might be easier to wait blindly for land; as I cannot, I turn my gaze upward much of the time, or out at the sea.

The first night after it was removed from me it stands in the corner of our room, silent and dark as a shadow. I don't dare blind myself with the eyepatch while it is there. At last I wake Therrin, and beg her to help me; she speaks to it on my behalf, asking it to stay outside this room at night.

At least it listens when spoken to, though I myself will not speak to it. It departs silently, and it does not show itself in our room again. I am still afraid, but no longer so afraid that I cannot sleep, weary as I am.

With sleep I grow better accustomed to this ship, and the wind ceases to sicken me. Perhaps I have no reason to live, but now – so long as I do not look at the curse – I no longer have a reason to die. So I do not leap overboard, however afraid I may be. I must be strong, I tell myself. I am Arrek, and I am not hiding, and I will be strong. I was strong enough to run; now I must be strong enough to live.

But I am very afraid, and whenever I see the curse I know why it is, really, that I am not leaping: not because I wish to live, but because I am afraid it might follow me.

~*~

The Island is a thickly forested land, shrouded in mist. Many of the trees are ever green, but those that aren't are already turning colors, and there is a chill wind in the air. We approach it from the backside, for the port in front is "for foreigners – mostly Desert traders."

I am glad to have something solid beneath my feet again, although I know it won't last. We are here for only a few days, to ready ourselves for the journey. I don't want it to end. I am afraid of this Island, but I have no wish to return to the waves.

Therrin wants to see everything, and Ty has things to buy for us. They ask me to come with them, but I refuse. I don't know this place and I don't want to be lost. I ask instead for a place to rest, and am shown the house in which Ty lived as a child, wherein we shall be staying these few days. I am given a warm bed in a small and empty wooden room.

I am all alone, with no Therrin to help me, so I whistle to Snake and send the curse to wait outside the room myself. I feel sick speaking to it, but it is the only thing I can do to keep it away. I must be alone. It must not watch me.

I curl up among the soft blankets and watch the mist through the window and wait. Better not to follow them on this strange Island, I think. Better to rest here, all alone, where it is safe. We shall leave so soon – I mustn't even try to acquaint myself with anything outside this room. It will be far away within a few days, and I doubt I shall ever return.

Through the small window I see the mist and the wind in the trees and the little trickles of water that run down the glass. I watch them run together and bleed down the pane. It looks so cold. I wrap the blankets around myself and I whistle to Snake for comfort; he gives it to me. It is as though I can feel his coils around me, always with me.

I am glad of this time alone, this time to simply be, without the waves or the _dreams_ or the people, to be nothingness, to rest. I am glad to lay still my fear and my thoughts and every feeling I might have.

But my heart still beats within my breast. In this silence I can feel each beat. I might lay still my thoughts, but I can yet feel my heart; it has not yet given up all hope of life. I may have no past left (I cannot think of it, I cannot), and no future (what is there for me? I am nothing but kretchin, and not even that, anymore), and nothing to live for, but I must endure. I must wait until my luck turns, until I find a place for myself, even by chance. I must only wait. And if even the waiting takes all my strength – I must be strong.

When they return, Ty tells me that Ler and Rih are sleeping on the ship tonight, and leaving us this house for as long as we need it. It will not be long.

Ty is warmer dressed now, and Therrin, too, has bought new clothing at Ler's prompting. "You can hardly hope to travel far in that skirt, especially by foot," she said. "Better to find trousers while you can; they may yet speed your way."

Indeed none of the people of the Island wear skirts, Therrin tells me, and better clothes were easily found. She wears trousers now, tucked into her boots, and a loose black shirt, and Rillik's necklace around her neck as always. And there is a small leather satchel looped around her shoulder, to carry whatever she might wish to keep close at hand.

The next day we pack everything we can think of: a great deal of food, a few blankets, a length of rope, and a little money. Ty borrows it from his family, claiming it as further payment for Therrin's cooking, and because it is only very little they do not protest this.

"I don't know what coin they use on the other side of the gate," says Ty. "No doubt ours will be strange to them, and the Anarian silver just as strange; so we must avoid paying in coin if we can. But I shall take a little of every sort I know, to be sure." So he takes a few gold coins and a few copper, and some strange silver coins that must be Anarian. I have never seen silver used for coins before.

Also Therrin and I are each given a knife. I am loath to take mine, though I know I may need to defend myself. I can only think of Yuit's failed attempts at teaching me to fight. "Even if I take it, it won't help me," I tell them. "I can't fight. I don't know how to use it."

"Take it anyway," Ty says, and presses it into my hand. "It may yet save your life, even if all you can do is hold it out and hope that the enemy runs into it. We don't know what awaits us in the other world; we must take every measure we can to be sure of our safety."

So I swallow my doubts and take the knife. The weight of it feels strange on my new belt, a constant heavy sign of the deadly sharp blade I carry, with which I might kill someone if I only knew how.

I try to forget it, as I try to forget the curse, as I try to forget the past. And I try to forget the future: I am afraid of that other world, for I don't know what awaits us there. I try to think only of the moment, or better yet of nothing at all.

A mere two days after we landed on the blessedly solid and still Island, Ler and Rih wish us all luck and we set off again, on our way to find the gate of legend.

The boat Ler has lent us is quite small: it can hold us three and our supplies – no more than we three can carry walking, for we intend to abandon the boat once we reach this gate – but it could not hold much more. It has oars as well as the golden sail which marks it as one of Ler's, but Ty warns us that it would be a very long way to row, so Therrin sets a strong wind behind us for much of the time.

Perhaps it is because I have grown more accustomed to the sea, but now the sickness is not so strong, and I am glad of the wind. It means that we shall arrive at new land more quickly. I may fear the other world, but at least we shall be able to walk again instead of rowing. My feet have grown restless here, and I have no room to pace.

In the evening Therrin sleeps earlier than we, so that Ty and I may keep rowing long into the night; in the morning she wakes earlier than we, so that she may set a wind behind us while we yet sleep. In the day we all row together, along with the wind, trying to make better time. At night we drift. Here the curse proves its usefulness already, though I am loath to admit it – it knows in which direction the gate lies, following Ty's instruction before we left, although all the sea around us is the same and we cannot watch which way we drift while we sleep. We follow the line of its black arm, trusting that it will not deceive us.

I don't like it, but Ty packed none of the tools Ler uses to find her way at sea, and he seems quite certain that it has no use for deceit. I push it to the back of my mind, try not to think of it.

Therrin loses her strength quickly from keeping a strong wind behind us for so long, although I think she is quite a talented wind-caller. "Once we arrive, I shall not use my talent again unless I must," she tells us. "I haven't the strength to do this much longer."

We do not speak often. The boat is too small to allow for comfort, and Therrin is not alone in losing her strength. My arms hurt from always rowing, and we can hardly lie down to sleep, so we are all of us wearied and uncomfortable by the time we arrive.

Despite all my fear, I am glad to reach our goal, glad to leave the boat behind, glad to reach solid and open land. I have never been so glad to walk.

The thing we sought rises out of the sea long and narrow: a stone path, no wider than my arm is long. The far end of it is perhaps as tall as Ty and half as tall again, and far enough away that I can't see clearly to the top of it. The near end goes on farther than I can see, dropping away steeply beneath the waves.

Beside this path a spire of rock grows out of the ocean, and here we tie our boat and empty it of supplies. We stand on the path with our booted feet whelmed by water.

"The legend says we must walk the entire path – all of it that is dry," Ty tells us. "The gate is at the end of the path, and it would not admit us if we did not begin here, so it says. But we have little enough choice as to where we begin."

"Then let us walk," says Therrin. She leads, and Ty and I follow her. It is several minutes' walk to the end. I am very glad to stretch my legs, but the ground feels strange under my feet after so much water. It is solid and still, but I can still feel the waves.

(Every step forward is another step toward the end of the world...)

Now I can see the gate ahead of us: at the very end of the path is a stone arch, beyond which I can see only the sea at first, but as we keep walking it begins to change. It seems to me that there is a veil before the arch, thickening with every step we take, and every so often it sparks with yellow-green light.

"What do you see?" I ask them, unsure if it is only because of the demon in my eye that I can see these things.

"The gate is a stone arch, with only the ocean beyond it," Therrin tells me; "and you?"

"Green sparks," I answer, suddenly afraid that it isn't real, that I am dreaming again. "They grow brighter by each step that nears us to the gate. Nor can I see the ocean beyond it any longer, though I can't make out what _is_ there."

"Really?" She looks at me. "What I wouldn't give for an eye like yours! What does it mean, do you think?"

"Perhaps only that the gate is working," Ty says.

Perhaps that I am going mad, I think. Oh, I do not want to cross this threshold, to step into these sparks. But I have said I would come with them and now I must hold to that promise. I will be strong. I will come with them and I will give them what aid I can.

Therrin stops briefly before she steps through, perhaps to gather her courage. She takes a last quick look at the ocean all around us and walks under the arch. To me it seems that the heavy veil wraps around and swallows her, and then she is gone.

I whistle to Snake and follow.

There is the feel of lightning all around me, and a tingling that shoots through my limbs, and for a few moments even the demon in my eye can see nothing. There is only darkness around me, veined with yellow-green.

And then I am through, and suddenly I can see again, and everything is light, and my nature talent is overcome with a powerful sense of life. The gate behind us is no longer a stone arch but one made of living wood – a trellis of interlaced branches, overgrown with leafy flowering vines. It glows gently in the same yellow-green color of the sparks, though that glow ebbs as I watch.

Beside me are Therrin and Ty and (to my quiet dismay) the curse (Why must it follow me even here?). We stand in a lush green clearing, filled with brightly colored flowers. It is warm here after the autumn of our own world, and it is very still. The leaves on the great trees that surround the clearing are silent, untouched by even the slightest wind. The trees themselves are larger than any I have seen before. Even the three of us together might not reach around one.

But there is something moving: small, sparkling points of light, which drift around, pale and glimmering, although there is no wind to carry them.

Therrin beside me laughs in delight. "This place is better than I had dreamed," she says; "it is so bright! So full of life!" Even Ty, who saw the splendor of a noble house without emotion (but I must not think of that, I must not), seems awed: he looks around with open interest, and something that almost looks like reverence.

It is so strange here, so strange. I whistle to Snake for comfort. Would that I had something to hold, to cling to, even something as small as my old wooden charm! But I lost it when I fled Quiyen, and could never find another. (And her blue ribbon is gone – no, NO, I must not think of that, _I must not._ )

Then there are words in my head, only they are not in my own voice but in high tinkling tones, and they are not words but meaningless strings of sound. I fall to my knees and I put my hands to my head. What is this? What has taken control of my mind?! I whistle to Snake and I hold my head and I wait for it to pass.

Then the sounds are gone, and the foreign thought in my mind speaks without words, only in meanings: and it tells me to follow. I shake my head. I will not listen. I will not listen to this. This cannot be real.

"Come, now, Arrek," Therrin says kindly. "Let's go."

I shake my head.

"What is it?" asks Ty, and I tell them: "In my head, there was a voice, it told me to follow but it cannot be real, it can't be, I am mad, I have lost my mind... I hear voices where there are none..."

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I quiet under its weight. He says: "It is real, for I heard it too." The contempt is still in his voice, as it always is. He mocks me with every word. He mocks the world around him. But he helped me. Maybe he doesn't mean it, not really.

"And I as well," says Therrin. "Now come, let us follow. Perhaps they know something of my mother."

For a moment I am still too afraid to stand up, but she smiles at me, trying to calm me. "There's nothing to be afraid of," she assures me earnestly. "I'm sure they won't hurt us. Perhaps that is only their way of speaking."

"Whose?" I think but I do not say. As I come with them, I find out: we are led by three of the drifting points of light. Now that I look at them more carefully, I see with my demon-eye that they are small winged beings who shine from within, though they are so pale that I can nearly see through them.

This world is so strange. But it is for Therrin that we are here, and she is delighted by its strangeness; and though I do not like or trust anything I see here, I will be strong and I will endure it. I must.

There is nothing else I can do.

As we walk away from the summery green clearing, the wood quickly grows cold and bleak. Autumn's chill has caught us up all at once. The bright colors are gone: all is gray now, or nearly gray. The trees and the ground and the sky all have the same dead color. The ground is barren, and the trees bear no leaves.

Ty runs a hand across one of the great dead trees, and a fine dusting of something like ash comes free and swirls in the lifeless air. And it _is_ lifeless: I can sense my own life, and Ty's and Therrin's, and the three glimmering beings that lead us; and behind us the gate, where there was more life than I have ever felt before; and ahead of us, in the distance, another life, thin and meager; and that is all. The forest around us is dead.

And even Ty and Therrin are meager and fading in my mind. I fear this deadness. I fear that my nature sense is fading without reason, dying, that I might lose it as I lost my sight.

"It is cold as stone," Ty says of the tree. "In fact I should not be surprised if this place looked very much like the stone plain in twenty years or so. It is a dying land."

"Then we must find some way to stop this," says Therrin, her lips tightening with determination. "I will not see my mother's world brought to ruin, if I can save it."

Ty snorts. "What will you do? You know nothing of this world, nor of how this bane came to it."

"I intend to find out," she says.

At last we reach a little cottage. It is built into a great rock – unless it is a great tree? Here they look nearly the same. It is overgrown with strings of dull gray moss, but there is light from the windows, wan, hardly warmer than this desolation around us.

The wordless voice in my mind tells me to stay; and the glimmering beings fly away, perhaps back to their gate. We are left alone, the three of us and the horrid shadow.

The door opens, and an old woman steps out. She is dressed warmly against the chill, and her head and shoulders are covered with a cloth, and her face looks old, very old. She grins without teeth and ardently jabbers words I cannot understand, and ushers us into the little cottage. I don't want to follow her, but I must follow Therrin and Ty, and they allow themselves to be ushered.

We are sat down at a little table inside. Things are not quite as gray here as the forest outside, but neither are they as bright as our own world. There is something wrong here, something missing, something dead.

A fire burns merrily in the hearth, heating the bubbling cauldron hung over it and filling the cottage with the smell of food. It is a pale fire, yet brighter than anything else I see here. The walls are lined with shelves, and these filled with bottles and bowls of things I do not recognize.

Therrin interrupts the woman's swift speech, touching her elbow. "I don't understand," she tells her. "Your words mean nothing to me."

The woman frowns at her and is silent.

Therrin looks to Ty now: "Do you understand her?"

"No," he says. "It is not a language I know."

The old woman looks us over again. She nods – perhaps to herself – and fills three wooden bowls from the cauldron, and sets one before each of us. She speaks again: only one word, now, again and again, nodding at us encouragingly.

"Thank you," says Therrin with a polite nod, and eats. Ty is quick to follow. I am loath to eat this stranger's food – I do not trust her after all – but all my life I have survived by begging and stealing, and I _am_ hungry, so I swallow my distrust and eat of the soup before me. It almost seems to spark on my tongue with a strange flavor I have never tasted before.

And I have tasted even noble foods – but no, I must not think of that.

"And now can you understand me?" asks the woman; but she does not speak our Thiluan Common, only the same meaningless jabber of before, and yet I know what she is saying. I whip up my head to stare at her, and whistle to Snake. I must be dreaming this. It cannot be real.

"How can this be?" asks Ty, frowning – and he, too, uses the strange tongue. I whistle again to Snake, afraid. Perhaps I am going mad after all. I must be.

"Then it still works," says the old woman. "I'm glad; that was nearly the last of it. You speak the shared tongue now, strangers, which can be learned by any who eat of the food of this world."

"Any? Then surely the animals can speak it as well as you?" Ty's voice is the same as always, filled with scorn and doubt, but his words are strange. And yet I can understand him. This cannot be.

"Once, that was certainly so. But there is a bane on this world, and that little which still grows has lost something it once had. It cannot be said to be of this world. It can hardly be said to be food, though it certainly sustains those who live here – if they can be said to live."

"But surely – when hunting –"

"Ah, yes. When we all spoke the shared tongue, there was a code we all followed: we must never use the shared tongue to lure our quarry nearer, nor must we pretend that we have any intention but to harm it; and if we _are_ the quarry, we must not beg for mercy. We may run or hide, or even bargain for our lives, but we must never use the shared tongue to beg the hunter to let us go. After all, if we left every living thing alive, we should all die of hunger.

"Besides, not every animal wishes to speak, having the choice. Many are happy to live with their instincts, understanding the words we speak but not the meanings behind them."

I am still too flustered by the strange sounds I hear and understand to pay much mind to what she is saying about this shared tongue, but this I can understand. Many times I have done this very thing. When I am in a certain state of mind I cannot know what people are saying, even if I hear and understand each word they speak: I cannot or will not think long or well enough to know their meaning. It was like this in Qualin just before we left the well _no I must not think of it I must not._

(And she hoped to abandon me and then she handed me off and I never believed it was true because I could not comprehend it, although I heard every word she said.)

Now I listen to them, to what is happening around me. I try not to think of the strange words they use, only of what they are saying. I listen in the hope that listening will root me to this present and stave off the past.

"And the bane on this world – how did that come to pass? And what is this world?" asks Therrin.

"That is a sad tale, and an old one. A thousand years ago we lost our names. These are the Unnamed Lands now, child – that is all we know to call them.

"A thousand years ago, the dragons still flew over these lands. There was one among them, by the name of Karr, who made a pact with an ambitious human man. So the man rode about on the dragon's back, and named himself King; and because he wielded Karr's power, the people accepted him. Some even began to worship him, as King and as Savior, for he brought a peace and unity they had never seen before.

"For a while he seemed to care for the people, but he was always building his power. He built a white castle, far to the Northwest, and there he lived; and he had three treasures crafted, which he bound both to the kingship and to Karr's soul. When this was done he had the dragon under his complete control, and was able to betray the terms of his pact.

"Karr could not rebel while his master held the three treasures, but the other dragons came for him. They could do nothing. The King was very powerful now, and Karr forced to obey him; and the dragons would do nothing to harm their captured brother; and so they were all driven to a great cavern far to the West of here, and there they were sealed in sleep.

"Thus began the bane that has been spreading across our world for the past thousand years. All we who lived in this world lost our names, and these became the Unnamed Lands; and slowly, all turned gray and cold and lifeless.

"Now the King grew mad with his power – madder – and he flew with Karr through the gate to the other world – to _your_ world – in the hope of conquering it and adding it to his realm. There were those of us who saw that he had imprisoned the dragons and so cast a bane upon our world, and that he was evil; and so we followed him, to bring him down."

Here Therrin interrupts: "'We'? Then _you_ lived a thousand years ago?"

"Yes, yes," says the old woman. "I'll come to that. This is not my story. Now listen:

"The people of your world had never seen a dragon before, and they were afraid. One of their greatest cities was destroyed at once, so they gathered to defend their world against further attack. Thus we had their aid, and together we were able to put a sleep on Karr and bind him to a place in that world, beneath the ground. When he was gone we found it easy to kill the mad King, and put a stop to his evil.

"We knew that we must not kill Karr, for he was – aye, he _is_ – the only hope for the restoration of our world. He and his rider must free the other dragons. But we knew also that if the wrong person freed him and took the kingship we might have gained nothing by killing the old tyrant. So we wove our spell in such a way that Karr himself must choose a new rider, a Prince or a Princess of our Unnamed Lands, and that this rider must have the three treasures in order to free him, as they will also need them to free the others.

"But as we did this a seer among us saw what would be, and so we knew that it would be a thousand years before Karr could find his Princess, an orphan girl born of both this world and the other. The people of that world were glad to learn this, for they were certain of Karr's evil, and might well have killed him were we not there to stay their blades. They were glad that he should have no chance to destroy them for the next thousand years. But we were dismayed. The land all around the place where we bound him turned flat and gray and dead, and we knew that this fate awaited our own world as long as it was without dragons and without a name. We did what we could to make it last a thousand years, and it has lasted; but it is almost dead now, and we must have our Princess _soon_. We cannot flee.

"The only things which mattered to us now were those things necessary to free the dragons. The first thing we did was to preserve the gate. We had to be certain that its magick would not fade, so we preserved it exactly as it was: it was summer when Karr and the King flew through a thousand years ago, so it is summer still, there. Indeed, not one night has fallen.

"Next we took the three treasures and hid them away. We had to be certain that _only_ Karr's chosen one could find them, so they were well-hidden, and only one person was allowed to know where all three of them can be found.

"I was chosen to be that person.

"So that I might tell the Princess the way when she came, I was given protection and long life – and that is how I have lived these thousand years, though it is long past the day when I might have died. I have stayed near the gate, and whenever anyone comes through it the fairies who guard the gate bring that person here, to me.

"And you have come through, and you have been brought here. But you are only the second people to come through in a very long time – who are you?"

"My name is Therrin Shiaran – of House Lithuk," says Therrin. "I must be the person you speak of, the orphan of both worlds. I came seeking my mother's people, but now that I see how this world is dying I hope to help in any way I can."

The old woman eyes her, but does not respond. She turns her eyes to Ty and me.

"Ty," says Ty.

"I am Arrek Suyiol," I answer quietly, almost against my will. I do not wish to speak to her, nor to anyone in this broken world. And at this worst of moments I notice that I am not wearing my eyepatch. The old woman says nothing of the demon, but her eyes linger on it.

My mouth forms the strange sounds of the shared tongue, though I do not mean to make them. I know I could speak my own Thiluan Common if I should need to, but if I speak without thinking it comes out as this – and I have no control over my tongue. It makes these sounds I have not heard before this day. I want to tear it out of my mouth, but I must be strong, and I must not draw attention to myself. I bite down on it and try to hold still now.

"And she?" asks the woman at last, looking at the curse.

(Still there, it is still there and it looks so like her.)

"That's only Curse," Therrin says after a moment. "Pay her no mind; she will live until she ends, but that is all she does. She cannot speak."

The old woman grunts and turns her gaze back to Therrin. "I do not deny that you look very like the people you claim as parents; but you must prove that you are their child. You understand that I must be careful. The treasures _must not_ fall into the wrong hands."

"What proof can I have? My mother died before I knew her."

The old woman thinks. At last she says: "There was something I gave her before she left, which didn't come back with her – a small round stone, reddish-brown, with a certain mark..."

"This?" Therrin takes it from her satchel. "It was my mother's? I never knew; but I have always had it, and always kept it with me, as long as I can remember."

The woman examines the stone. The mark is a deep, curved scratch. I can't see it well from where I am.

(Something is wrong here, something is wrong with this world; something is missing.)

"Yes," she says. "This is it. Here, keep it – it may help you yet."

"How? What is it?"

"You do not know its power? I suppose the Wind People have always had little need for such things, but perhaps your mother found some use in it all the same. Hold this in your hand, child, and you will understand any spoken words you hear, in any language. But be careful: it gives you no talent for speech, only for understanding."

"Thank you," says Therrin, accepting it back. "It is a great gift. But tell me: who are the Wind People? And what do you know of my mother?"

"They are your mother's people," the woman says. "They are pale and have shining eyes, and they live on cities in the clouds and sail through the sky on great ships. They can speak with winds, and know thoughts without speaking. They are a gentle people, and their greatest fault is a pity for all things bound to land. They live only some twenty years – perhaps you may live longer, as your father was human, but I do not know how long.

"They live a ways to the Northeast, but you must not seek them out. You must allow _nothing_ to distract you from finding the treasures and freeing the dragons. You are our Princess, Therrin Shiaran of House Lithuk, and you are our only hope."

Therrin frowns, but nods. "All right," she says. "If that's how it has to be. I can visit them later."

"Your mother was nameless," the woman goes on, "as we are all nameless. She knew the great prophecy, and went through the gate in order to learn more. She was given the stone by me, and something more by the fairies: a little bottle she carried around her neck, which she was to shatter if she was ever near death and needed rescue.

"For perhaps two years we heard nothing from her. When she shattered the bottle at last, the wish she sent us was to bring back her lover along with her own body. The fairies – all except a guard left behind – went through the gate to rescue her, and found her body wrapped in cloth and floating toward the sea; and her lover's body they stole from the house of his family, for he had drowned himself; and they took them back to me, and I passed them on to the Wind People, that they might mourn them as they saw fit.

"Since then we have known that their child must be the Princess, and we have been eagerly awaiting you. You must save us, Therrin Shiaran of House Lithuk. Find the treasures, and free Karr, and give the dragons back to our world."

"I will do all that I can," promises Therrin.

The woman looks at me and at Ty, who has been listening with interest to her tales. "What of them?"

"They're with me," she says. "Of course I shall let them go if they wish it, but they have saved my life once already for no reason except that they wish to see the prophecy fulfilled. I trust them with my life, and with the fate of this world; they shall not betray us. And I will not travel alone, unless I must."

The woman grunts: "Hnh. Maybe. Perhaps, because they are from your world, it is as you say; but you must not be so trusting of the people here. The fate of the world depends on you, and the people will not like this. Some will be jealous of your power, and of Karr's, and will hope to take your place as Princess only that they might repeat the mad King's life. Many will not trust you, a stranger to this world, and will guide you astray so that they might try their own hands at your task. You must be careful to tell no one who you are, unless you must; and to tell _no one_ where the other items are, nor whether theirs is the first you've found. And you must _hurry_. I do not know how much longer this world will last."

"I will do as you say," Therrin promises. "What must I know?"

"Swear that you will tell no one of what you hear now, all of you. _No one._ "

"I swear it," says Therrin.

"I will not betray this world," Ty vows. "Therrin is the Princess, so you've said, and I do not seek to usurp her, nor to abandon this world to death."

I have listened to all she said, though I did not understand much of it. I don't want to speak. This is not my world. This is not my story. But I know that I must, so I appease the old woman: "I will tell no one," I promise in that wretched unknown tongue. And I will not. I do not lie. And I have no reason to betray them; the fate of this world means so little to me. It is already broken and fading. I don't like it here. I don't like this world.

I have only the vaguest idea of what a dragon is, and that only because it is a part of the shared tongue. I don't like this strange knowledge which I have without learning it. I cannot know what is in my head because it belongs there and what is there only because I ate of the old woman's soup. I wish I had not done so. I wish I had eaten only the food from my own world, where I belong. But perhaps I do not belong anywhere, now.

The old woman says: "You must find the three treasures. Only the Princess may carry them, and you must keep them with you always, and be certain they are not stolen nor even touched by the wrong people. You must retrieve them in the correct order, for without the first you may not find the second, and without the second you cannot find the third. When you have found all three, come back to the gate, and go through it without returning here. Even I may betray you, if I am tempted by the three treasures gathered together and brought before me."

Therrin says: "I understand."

"The first treasure is a necklace through which you can see magick, particularly enchantment. It would be easy enough to make a copy, so you must test it once it is yours, to be sure you are not being deceived. It can be found to the West, where it was being held by a necromancer who ruled a dead city. No doubt he is dead now; but he knew his duty, and he must have made certain that his children would fulfill his task, or else set some eternal servant to do so. When you find him, or his substitute, you must tell him you were sent by the woodland witch – for that is what I once was – and you must give him this, so that he knows you as the Princess."

The witch gives Therrin a small animal skull, with a mark scorched onto its forehead. She puts it away in her satchel.

"Here is that dead city," says the woman, showing us on a map: "and here we are now. I can help you arrive there more quickly. I cannot take you to the city, for the one you'd be riding must not know that the treasure is there; but I can have you brought to this wood, quite near the city."

"Thank you," says Therrin. "We are glad of your help."

"And we of yours.

"The second treasure is here, in this lake to the South. If he gives you the chance, you must ask the necromancer for help in arriving there more quickly; but you cannot give the lake as your destination, for he might seek the second treasure for himself. Tell him you must find this village, here. It is near enough the lake that you can walk thence.

"The treasure is a silver chalice. There is a small dragon carved on one side, quite near the rim; by that you may know it. The Princess – the Princess only – can fill the chalice with only a touch and a thought, and the water it holds will separate your thought from your body when drunk. It is a dangerous thing to use, and if you do you must use the necklace to find your way back.

"When you are at the lake, and know where the treasure lies, you must speak these words: shree ara vyanin."

"Shree ara vyanin," Therrin repeats. "Shree ara vyanin. I will remember."

"When you have the second treasure you must follow this river Eastward, and give this hillock as your goal, should the people of the lake ask it. North of that hillock, here, to our East, is the wood in which you may find the third treasure. It is a black knife, and it can cut through any enchantment, even that which holds Karr sleeping. Magick will not affect it, and your necklace will not see it. You must use the chalice to find it, for this treasure is guarded only by solitude.

"Thence you must travel West, back to this wood, and go straight through the gate. The fairies will guide you through. In your own world you must find the dragon, as quickly as you can, and free him, and bring him home."

~*~

The witch tells us that we have no time to dally, so we leave at once. Therrin puts the map away in her satchel, and we follow the old woman from her cottage, to find the one who will help us come nearer the necromancer.

Therrin is glad to save this world of which we know so little. I am glad to help her as I can, for she has been kind to me, but I cannot bring myself to care whether we succeed. Whether it is saved or not, this place can never be home. It is broken and horrible and dead. But for now I have no home, no other place to go, and I will be alone wherever I spend my time. I may as well stay here, and help her.

The witch's help is a great wolf, large enough to carry the three of us easily on his back. It seems he too has eaten some of the true food of this world, for he speaks to us and asks us whither we would go. Therrin shows him the forest we seek on her map.

"Is your first treasure there then, Princess?" he asks. His voice is rough and deep. He sounds and looks and feels and smells almost real, but there is something missing, as there is something missing from all this world. Maybe it is only his name. I do not know.

"No; but that is whither we travel. Will you help us?"

"Yea, I will. I will leave you near the edge of that wood and come no further. Now climb upon my back and let us run."

He lies down, and we clamber onto his back. Therrin waves to the woodland witch, and thanks her for her help, and bids her farewell.

"I will help this world as I can," she promises. "You shall have your dragons."

"Make haste, and do not fail," the witch replies.

Now the wolf leaps up and runs, and we are carried with him. I hold fast to the great beast's warm fur, and close my eye, and I wish I had something I could hope for. I do not love this strange world, and yet – when Therrin has done what she must, I do not know whither else I can go. I cannot even think of it.

I whistle to Snake and I wait. I wait, always I wait. There is nothing else I can do.

"How is it that you speak the shared tongue, now that the food of this world no longer grows?" Ty asks as we ride.

"The woodland witch gave it to me – she has kept a store of it."

"She is your friend, then?" asks Therrin.

"Yea; but there is no one in all the Unnamed Lands who does not respect her, for she has given up her rightful death to help us all. Without her living to guide the Princess, the dragons should sleep eternally and never wake, and the Unnamed Lands turn all to even stone. We few who live long for the joy of that living, yet we can only fade away."

Now that I have grown more accustomed to the bleakness of this world, I can see faint touches of color within the gray. The bark of the trees is not gray but brown-gray, and the vines are not gray but green-gray, and the stringy moss which hangs from the branches is indeed yellow-gray. And whatever is missing from this world – it is not only the color. I have seen gray before and it was as real as anything. There is something else, some vague thing wrong with all this world, something gone. I cannot understand it.

All these shades of gray pass by almost before I can see them, for the wolf runs very swiftly. One day's run for him might well be a week's journey for us on foot, perhaps yet more. The curse runs beside him: its legs grow long and thin and deformed, so that it may run with a long, leaping stride that keeps the pace easily.

I whistle to Snake, wishing it might fall behind.

As always when it walks, it seems to move forward too quickly for the length of its strides, so that it gives the strange impression of gliding over the ground without touching it. And yet – aside from its hideously deformed legs – it looks so like _her_ that all this seems immaterial. Even to glance its way twists my stomach with fear and sickness.

I close my eye again and turn my head to face the other way. I mustn't look at this _thing_ which shadows me. I mustn't.

"Tell me," says Therrin: "do you know anything about the Wind People?"

"Nay," rumbles the great wolf beneath us. "Nothing. They do not much care for creatures of the earth."

At length he asks: "And what is this black shadow which follows you and runs with me now?"

"Nothing," I whisper into his fur, so quiet he may not hear me. "It is nothing, nothing." It is not there. It is not there. I will not think of it. But I know that I am lying.

~*~

A single day's running brings us near the edge of the wood, and here the wolf leaves us. "There lies the Eastern edge of the wood you seek," he says. "It may be an hour's walk for your small legs, but it is not safe to sleep any nearer." For already it is night. The cold gray world has grown colder still, and darker.

"You shall not see me again," says the wolf. "Farewell. Find your treasures, and bring us our dragons, for we shall not live much longer without them."

"Farewell, and thank you!" Therrin cries after him as he runs into the night; and then he is gone.

Long into the night I lie awake, afraid to sleep here in this cold strange world, with the curse so near me. I watch the sky, and am frightened anew as the moon comes forth from behind a thick cover of cloud: for the moon is silver here.

When sleep comes to me at last it is cold and empty, and I awake from it barely refreshed; but at least there are no dreams this night.

~*~

When morning comes we make for the forest, and it is midday before we arrive. As soon as we are among the trees I am almost overcome with a sharp, meaningless fear – something is _wrong_ here (Yes, there is something wrong with all this world, I know, but this is _different_.). The trees are hung with thick moss almost more green than gray, and the light that filters through it is touched with that green, and the trees themselves are nearly white (as bone, as silver moonlight bone). And there are _things_ here. I cannot see them, but I can hear movement in the leaves, and I _know_ that they are here.

My nature sense has been dulled by this world, I think, and yet I can sense things here. But they are not lives. I do not know what they are. Maybe they aren't there at all; maybe I am mad. I should not be surprised if I was. I am losing myself in this strange world of dim grays and bright thoughts in my mind and words I speak without learning them. I am losing myself in my forgetful frightened mind.

"It's wrong here," I tell them, in our own language, for I will not use the shared tongue unless I must. "It's all wrong."

"I don't like it either," answers Therrin; "but we must reach the city, and this is the only way thither."

I will be strong. I bite back my fear and follow her.

When at last I see one of the things in the trees, I nearly scream. I hold back at the last moment, remembering that I may be dreaming as I was on the ship (even that I _must not think of_ ); but I clutch at Therrin's arm in my fear, and I stare at the grinning face without blinking.

"Is it real?" I whisper desperately. "Can you see it?"

Therrin looks, and she draws in a sharp breath. "I see it," she says.

Ty draws his sword and steps before us. "Begone!" he says, thrusting his blade at the ghastly medley of bones and rotted red flesh. It sits on a branch out of his reach, but as he attacks it gives out a high, wild shriek and swings away.

Now I am all the more afraid of these woods, but I know I must be strong. I must be. I fold my arms and clutch at my elbows to keep from trembling. I try to breathe slowly. My sight darts around the trees, always looking for another threat, but the sounds of the others fade to nothing in my mind, and I am so calm on the outside, so calm, that I hardly know nor care what they are saying and doing beside me.

At last we are through the forest, and we pass through a swinging gate through the city wall. I am glad to have that unwholesome wood behind us, but this empty city is hardly better. Many of the houses have nothing more than hanging cloths for doors, and these are tattered with age; and through them I can see no one inside, as there is no one on the streets. The city is empty and lifeless. All the same I wear my eyepatch now, afraid that we may yet meet someone.

A place this colorless and dead is hard to see through the black veil over my sight.

"Where are the people?" asks Therrin, frowning.

"Perhaps they are gone," Ty says. "This is a dying world after all."

The palace of the necromancer must be in or near the center of this city, we think, and set out for it; but the streets are round and twisting, and we quickly lose our way. For a long time we are all alone on the streets. The first sign of life we see is no life at all: there is motion in the back of an alley, yet I can feel nothing from it with my nature sense. As we step closer I can see that the thing is nothing but bones. They have the shape of a large dog, sniffing at the ground for food, but there is no flesh nor fur on them; and yet they hold their shape, and move with the grace of life.

Though its eye sockets are as empty as its skull, it seems to notice us at last: it looks up at us and raises its tail, and leans down with its forepaws, and snaps its jaw in the air with a motion very like barking. Yet it makes no sound at all. It has no voice.

"It moves like a living dog," says Ty. His voice has an odd tone to it, almost of awe. He kneels and holds out his hand and clucks his tongue. "Come," he calls to the pale dead beast before us.

I whistle to Snake. What is this? Perhaps a conjurer could use a cleaned carcass as a focus for a demon, and so animate the lifeless bones; but I very much doubt that they could seem so much alive, so like a real dog. I do not know the ways of this world. I don't know what this dog is. But I cannot feel it with my nature sense, so either I have lost my talent completely in this strange world or it is dead, despite its movement.

It cocks its head and trots toward us, holding its tail low and wagging it. Its toes click softly on the cobbled street, but otherwise it is completely silent. It stands before Ty, as though to sniff at his face, and he scratches its polished cheek gently. It wags its tail.

I whistle again to Snake. I don't understand this. How can he treat this thing as though it were a living dog? It does not look dead, if only because it moves, but neither can a being made all of bones be living. It is not a real dog. I don't know what it is. I don't want to know. I want to leave this dead world behind me.

Now Ty is murmuring softly to it, and stroking its head, and scratching behind the spot where its ears might be, if it had any. It leans into his hand as though it were real, and glad of a warm hand and a friendly voice. Therrin watches this, and I don't know if she is uneasy or curious when she asks: "What is it?"

All at once, before he can answer, there is a wild laugh behind us. Fear shoots through my veins, and I spin around to see an old man with a thick gray beard swinging a large dead fish by the tail. His eyes are wild and bright.

I could not feel him – I could not sense him with my nature talent – I could not feel him at all.

The bony dog stalks out from behind Ty. It looks at the old man and it lowers its head and its tail; perhaps it thinks it is growling, though without hearing its voice I cannot be certain. It barks its silent bark at him and runs away down the street with its tail between its legs.

The old man ceases his wheezing laugh and breaks into coughing. When he can speak again he does – though I cannot understand his words. Odd snatches of his speech are in the shared tongue of this world, but most of it seems meaningless.

"What is he saying?" Ty asks Therrin.

She takes the round stone from her satchel and holds it in her hand, and listens.

"Much of it has no meaning," she tells us at last. "He is raving. He speaks of these Unnamed Lands – he says 'we must have our names' ... 'who are we, who are we?' ... 'we cannot name our own children, for there are no names left to give them' ... 'we are losing ourselves' ... 'soon we shall all fade away' ..." she sighs and shakes her head. "More of the same."

He is mad, mad. Mad as I am. Who am I? Soon I too shall fade away.

"A pity we can't ask him the way to this necromancer's palace," muses Ty in the shared tongue.

It seems that this word is one of the few that the old man knows, for he eyes us more sharply. "Palace?" he repeats. Therrin nods eagerly.

He descends back into a fit of crazed mirth, clasping the dead fish to his breast like a long-lost child. I can smell it from this distance: it has been dead for some time. A part of me wonders how long it will be before it falls apart in his arms. I am sickened at the thought. My stomach turns, and I look away for a moment before I grow too nervous to leave the man unwatched.

Now he is back to babbling. Therrin translates: "He says that the palace is the part of this city that is most alive, and that it is the only reason the city still stands. And it has life, or... death? I'm not sure... It is there," she says as he points, "those domes in the distance; and he fears the necromancer. He fears this world, and the death that awaits it. No; the... this makes no sense."

"Does he say how to find it?" asks Ty, and Therrin shakes her head. "I can't make sense of his words. He wants to know if we are servants of the necromancer..." She shakes her head again, looking at the old man.

He leaps up and dashes off, pulling the dead fish behind him. His crazed laugh echoes through the streets, echoing and fading.

"After him!" cries Therrin. "He may yet lead us thither!" We run after him, following the olid wet trail of his fish. But I am slow and nervous, and the old man is quite nimble on his feet, and soon enough we lose him in the twisting streets. Still it was not all in vain: we are near enough the domes of the palace, now, that we can make our way thither easily.

The palace is surrounded with a deep moat, so deep that I cannot see clearly to the bottom, even with the demon in my eye to help me. All I can see is a glint of white (as of bone – but I do not know if that is the demon's knowledge, or if I am eager to see bones in everything in this city of the dead). I can hear nothing but a faint scratching noise and the wind in the tattered door-hangings as we cross the narrow bridge, but here the air begins to feel more alive, less dull. I can breathe more easily. I can also feel the strangeness of this world more sharply, and I whistle to Snake for comfort as Therrin raps on the door.

For a long moment we wait; then the door is swung open by a pale, black-haired woman perhaps a little older than Ty. "Who are you?" she asks at once in the shared tongue.

"I am Therrin," says Therrin bowing. "I am here to see the necromancer – is that you?"

"You have a name," says the woman. "This is... new. No, I am not the necromancer yet, though the rite of union grows nearer."

"What is the rite of union?"

"Something an ancestor of mine began a long time ago. He thought he had a reason to live for a thousand years or so, and with the rite of union he shared his children's bodies after he died, to be sure that he could fulfill whatever task he thought he had. He is with my father now."

"Then I would see your father," Therrin says.

"And why do you think he would see you?" There is arrogance in her voice – but she cannot know I am kretchin. I am dressed as a commoner and my hair is bound back and I do not know if kretchin even exist in this strange world. Surely they must have been the first to die when the bane came.

"I have something for him from the woodland witch," Therrin answers, patting her satchel. "He will know what that means."

"Come in then; and wait here. Guards!" calls the necromancer's daughter.

The guards wear full armor, but their faces beneath the steel helmets are only empty skulls, watching us silently, gripping their spears with gloved hands.

The palace is dark and scarcely furnished, lit by flickering green torches and high, small windows. A part of me wonders what this strange green fire is, but a greater part wants only to flee. I do not like this strange world, and I do not like this palace. I whistle to Snake for comfort.

Once before I was told to come inside a place like this, and left in an entrance hall to wait while the girl who opened the door for us went to fetch the Mother of the House. I try to quench the memories as they come, but that was too much like this, and I find I cannot stop the flow of thoughts. The servant did not trust us at first, as the necromancer's daughter did not (why have they no servants here? Is this city truly so dead, and this palace?); and _she_ showed her arm with its scar, I must not think of that Chinlar scar that I know so well, no, I _knew_ so well, I _do not know anymore_ – as Therrin said she'd been sent by the witch, so that the one who opened the door would let us in.

And she introduced us and she said I was not kretchin, and I knew that I was, oh, I still am; and she could have saved me long before from the misery of my world if she had only wished it, for she was skilled with lies. Mother Lithuk believed her, though I was only the same kretchin I have always been. But she was content to leave me. She loved my misery as she loved my wretched eagerness to please her. Her servant! As though I would serve her! Yet I would, I know, as well as I could, and indeed I _did_. I hate it now. I hate myself for what I did for her. I must not think of it. I must not.

I was so in awe of the luxury around me that I tried at first to see everything, but at her rebuke I tried instead to see nothing at all. Now I look around in open defiance of this past. At the same time I don't want to know. This isn't my world, and the less I know of it the better. I don't want to grow accustomed to it. I don't want to think this is home. It can't be, ever. I have no home.

All I see is dark blocks of stone and bright green silk arras, and the strange torches, and the dead guards with their fixed grins. It is not nearly so rich and colorful as that place was, that mansion. A part of me would be more comfortable here, in this darkness; but no, it is not my world. (Nor was that – no noble mansion could ever be a part of something I'd call home.)

Ty stands with his arms folded, straight but calm, his face stoic, his lip raised just slightly in the faint derisive smirk he wears always, wherever he is. _She_ was pretty and demure and proper and perfect and it was a lie, it was all a lie, she was horrid inside, she delighted in my suffering and she would rather lie than tell the truth even when the truth might serve her better, and she worked so hard to look harmless and I believed her, she was the best person I knew, _everyone_ believed her. And now the curse is standing there looking so like her and _I cannot forget._

It follows me, it follows me, she will find me and she will kill me.

"Arrek?"

I am holding my breath and clenching my stomach, trying to ward it off, trying to block off the world and my mind and my memories and this _place_. And chewing on my fingers, scraping at the nails with my teeth, trying to distract myself with the pain, trying to stop it. And it will not stop.

My breaths are short and sharp and uneven and my mind is filled with confusion. I don't know what to think. I don't want to think. My thoughts are circling, circling, running into each other and breaking each other apart.

Therrin puts her head near mine, and whispers to me in our own language: "I don't know what happened to you or where, but this is different. We're not in Thilua, Arrek. You've never been in this palace before, and you've never met this necromancer. Perhaps he won't be so bad. And whatever you're thinking of – it shan't happen here."

She is right, of course. _She_ isn't here. _She_ isn't here to hurt me. And this place is very different. She can't get me here. She can't. But I am still afraid.

And Therrin – how does she know? I try to hold still, try not to show my fear, but I am shaking and I am almost in tears. I long for Silwen's comforting arms around me, or my mother's, or for a charm to hold in my hand, or even a scrap of blanket to clasp closely to my breast.

But I must appease her, I must make her think I'm all right. I nod, watching her silently through my eyepatch, and I try to calm myself, so that I shan't show a weakness before the necromancer. I must be strong. I look down and I whistle to Snake to calm myself and I wait. Snake will protect me. Snake is with me. Wherever I may be, he is between me and this strange world.

He must be.

At last the black-haired woman appears at the top of a stair, and calls down to us: "Come up, then. Follow me." We follow. It is easier to think of the present now that we are moving, and things are happening, and the skull-faced guards are following us silently with their hands on their spears.

We are led into a great throne room, hung scantly in bright green. The throne itself is carved in twisting shapes of iron, and occupied by a thin old man with a long gray beard.

Therrin bows deeply; Ty nods, and I follow his lead. I want to keep my head down, afraid to meet the old man's eyes – for I am still kretchin – but I am more afraid not to watch him, afraid he will do something, so I raise my head again almost at once.

"Are you the necromancer?" Therrin asks.

"Yes," says the old man.

"I was sent by the woodland witch. She told me to bring you this." And she takes the little skull from her satchel, and presents it to the old man. He takes it and examines the scorched mark between its horns.

"So, you are the Princess he has chosen," he says in a voice as old and weary as all this world seems to be.

"I am. I am here for the necklace."

"Hnh. A moment. Would you care for some food? We have apples – you can understand us, so they must still be real."

"Thank you," Therrin says. Each of us is given a fruit, round and ripe, dark red. I don't want to eat mine – I don't want to eat any more food of this world, even if it is real – but I don't want to offend these necromancers, so I bite into it (I must not remember the food I was given before, fit for the servants of nobles, I must not). It tastes real and fresh and alive. My mouth tingles with the taste and life and power of it, and the same strange taste that the witch's soup had.

Perhaps I can see why such fruit as this might bestow the eater with strange languages. It is difficult to believe that all this world was once so.

It still feels wrong.

"And that one?" he asks, gesturing. I don't need to follow his motion to know whither he points. I stiffen and I look straight ahead and I try not to listen.

"She's not real," Therrin explains; "she's only a shadow. She'll have nothing to eat. Pay her no mind." I am truly grateful to her for answering this question when it comes, that I mustn't.

The necromancer gives a tired grunt, and when we have finished our apples he says: "So, perhaps you are our Princess. You must at least fit the prophecy, if you have the witch's confidence. But that does _not_ mean you are strong enough to control the dragon."

"As I see it it isn't as much a question of controlling the dragon as of helping him; and if he chose me to do so, he must think I am worthy," Therrin says. I am a little surprised at her tone: I didn't think she was so sure of her role. Perhaps she is determined to see this through now that she has started, or perhaps she is bent on saving this world because it was her mother's.

"It may be as you say; yet you still must have the strength to fight, if it comes to that. Who knows what may happen before you reach the dragon? And why should I give you the thing you seek if I do not _know_ you will succeed?"

"Your world is _dying_ ," says Therrin, her green eyes (so like Kerheyin's, like the painting, _I must forget the painting_ ) aflame with passion; "you might be glad that there is hope. Who will save the dragon, if not I? Whom would you give the necklace? We haven't the _time_ to prove my worth. _You_ haven't the time. If we dally too long, who knows if this palace will still stand when the dragons _are_ freed? – this city? – this _world_?"

"All I ask is a quick demonstration, that we might know you are not as helpless as you look."

Ty's lip twitches beneath his thin beard – a motion so small that I might not have seen it at all, but for the demon in my eye. With one hand he grips the hilt of his sword; with the other he makes a gesture behind Therrin's back, where the necromancer cannot see.

The torches flare up, scorching the high ceiling. I jump, afraid, but I hold back from crying out. The daughter, too, jumps – then it was nothing she did? It must have been Ty, I think. But it was his power, then, and not Therrin's.

The old man smiles, even laughs (is he mad then? Is he mad?). "All right," he says. "Perhaps you do have some small power; or perhaps I ought not to have given you the apples. I will help you, as I swore a thousand years ago that I would do, and then I may rest at last and leave my children and my children's children to their own lives."

He stands, and hobbles to a wall behind his throne, where he mutters and makes motions I cannot see; and then he comes to us and gives Therrin a pendant on a gold chain. It is a clear green stone perhaps half as long as her finger, cut and polished, with a gold rim.

She takes it and looks through it before she does anything else. At first she looks around the room; then she looks directly at me, and gasps. "I can see your eye!" she says, "– though it looks different."

I know by the thin black veil over all I see that I am wearing my eyepatch, so it must be by the power of the stone that she can see it. Then it does work, as the witch promised, and is not a copy. I try to be glad for her.

Now she thanks the necromancer for his aid, and puts the chain around her neck, and tucks the stone away under her shirt.

"It is you who are helping us," he says in response. "If there is anything more we can do for you, we are glad to offer aid. Is this the first of your treasures?"

"That I can't tell you," Therrin says, taking out the map; "but we'd be glad of it if you could help us reach our destination more quickly. Here it is: this little village."

"Is another treasure there?" he asks. She shakes her head. "No," she says, "but it is whither we must go next."

"I thought there was no time?"

"That _is_ our destination," Therrin repeats stubbornly. "Can you take us thither, or must we walk?"

"It would be a long walk," says the necromancer, "and you're right: we haven't that sort of time. All right. I can lend you a bird, one of our larger hawks, though I'm not sure it'll last to the village. The spell fades with distance under this bane, so perhaps it will die before you reach it. Still, it will be much faster than walking. Perhaps you can be there by tonight. Will you show them the stables, daughter?"

The woman nods stiffly. "Follow me," she says, and we follow.

As we walk she says: "I do not trust you, strangers. You are not of this world; that much is clear, if only because you have a name. I did not know my father had this treasure, but he oughtn't give it away so easily. How do we know you're really the Princess? What if the witch was wrong?"

"Whether I am the Princess or not, I will see the dragons freed and this world saved," Therrin says through her teeth. "The prophecy has saved my life and brought me to this world, but it is not my reason for helping you."

"I would steal that little necklace from you if I could, and go myself to free the dragon," the woman tells us; "but you have shown that you are able to defend yourself, and I don't know where to find the other treasures. So it seems I am forced to trust you, against my instinct. I will help you, because if you _are_ the Princess, I must; but I don't help you willingly."

"It is enough that you help us," says Therrin.

The hawk we are given is quite large – large enough for the three of us to ride – and, like the dog in the city, it is made all of bones. Seeing it, Ty asks the woman: "There was a dog very much like this in the city, without flesh nor fur. Was it yours?"

"No," she answers as she saddles the hawk. "They are... around. There are not many living things left in the city now, only a handful of madmen living by the river; but there are dogs and cats and rats which do _not_ live, made of bone. I don't know how they came to be. It may be they once belonged to the palace, and ran away many years ago.

"There; now your hawk is ready to fly, and knows the way. Fly fast, strangers. If you are deceiving us, may you plummet to your deaths; if you are not, hurry, and bring us our dragons while we still live."

~*~

The great bony hawk flies fast and far and high. The air is thin here, and cold. I nestle into my coat and hold my face down to shield it from the bitter wind, and I whistle to Snake to protect me.

I don't like this; I am far from the ground, and there is nothing at all beneath me but a collection of long-dead bones and a thick leather saddle to keep our legs from slipping between its ribs. The long thin arms, hardly wings at all without their feathers, beat through the air without pushing it. I wonder how it is that the bird remains aloft, but perhaps it is better not to wonder too much.

I sit and I wait and I try not to look down at the land below passing us by. I try, also, to pay as little heed to Therrin as I can, for she delights in this feeling of flight. "To think that my mother's people are always so high above the ground, flying!" she says. "Isn't it wonderful? I would fly like this whithersoever I went, if I but could!"

We are moving very quickly, and very far from the safe shelter of the ground. I whistle to Snake again and again, though I fear that he cannot hear me this high up, and I long for the time when we may land. I have never liked heights. Anything could see us, and hurt us, and the very wind might throw us down, and the gods are far away, far beneath us. And it sickens me to look down and see the ground such a long way off.

Night is cold around us when we see the village beneath us at last. "Is that it then?" asks Therrin, looking back; and the curse, sitting on the end of the thing's tail, nods. The bird begins to slow in its flight, as though to land. But the beat of its wings falters, and it stretches its neck upward and opens its gray beak in a silent cry.

"What's wrong?" Ty asks. I don't know whom he's asking – perhaps the bird itself. But it can't answer any longer. It seems the spell which gave it life has ceased to work at last, so far from the necromancers' palace. The bones fall apart and lose their shape, and we plummet toward the village amid a rain of dry bones and thick leather.

The wind of the fall whips the breath from my throat. I must not scream. I must be strong.

Therrin cries out, and gropes in the air for something to hold to. She yells something and I cannot hear her words. Then there is a wind below us, bearing us up, slowing our fall; and while we still land hard between the falling bones, we are alive and unharmed.

I am glad, so glad, to have the earth beneath me again. I whistle to Snake and I kiss the gray dusty ground and I lie flat, afraid even to stand, afraid it will drop away beneath me if I give it any chance.

There are voices around us, voices I can't understand. I turn onto my back so that I can watch. Therrin has sat up now, and Ty stood, and we are in the midst of the village; and the villagers are gathering around us, staring at us almost fearfully, perhaps even with hatred. They are as gray and colorless as everything in this world, and look hardly alive.

I cannot feel them with my nature sense, but I can feel nothing with it here, in this world, anymore. It is faded and gone. I am afraid. I remember when I lost my sight – but I used my sight less than this, far less. It is all cold and empty around me and I am all alone. I can feel Ty and Therrin – but barely. I'm not sure if they're real or if I only make myself think I can feel them, to preserve what mind I have left. I whistle again, afraid of these lifeless people.

Some of them have short hair, but they cannot be kretchin. They look like commoners, but for their cropped hair and their dead faces.

"What do they say?" asks Ty, and Therrin again takes out her little stone, and holds it, and listens. Her eyes are bewildered and afraid. She takes my hand and tugs at it, trying to make me stand. "Up, Arrek," she says, her voice desperate, almost pleading. "Stand up."

I don't want to leave the ground, but she looks so afraid that I must. I whistle to Snake and push myself up. My side is sore from the fall, and my right hand a little scraped, but I can stand easily enough.

"They're afraid," she whispers. "They're afraid of your eye, Arrek, and of Curse, and of all of us because we fell from the sky and they don't know what we are... and the bones..."

The bones that fell with us and all around us have shrunken down to the size of ordinary hawk-bones; but they were large enough when they fell, and now they are scattered all around the street. I shouldn't be surprised if some of them went through the thatched roofs, before they shrank.

Now Therrin's hand tightens around mine in sharper fear. "Run," she says.

We do not move, perhaps too startled at the suddenness of her command.

" _Run!_ " she cries again, and turns and runs down a street, still gripping my hand with surprising strength. I am pulled with her. At first I only follow, afraid to lose my arm, but her fear is catching, and soon I am running with her, away, and Ty is running with us; and the villagers are pursuing us, yelling, some of them brandishing bright burning torches.

As always in this strange world, the merry orange firelight seems more alive than anything else, though it is not as bright as the fires of Thilua. The streets are alive with its shadows, but it is bright enough to light our way. Our pursuers are fast behind us.

At last we can run no farther. It is a small village, but there is a high wooden fence at its border and we are trapped against it. Therrin wheels to face the dark shapes approaching behind their fire, putting her hand to the knife at her belt. I whistle to Snake for help, for direction, for comfort.

Ty seizes Therrin beside me and heaves her over the fence, and then does the same to me. I land hard. I am too startled to be glad, but I still know we must flee, and I push myself up. In a moment Ty leaps over the spiked fence himself. We are fortunate that he is so tall.

"Which way is the lake?" Therrin asks urgently. The curse points, and we follow the line of its black arm, running through the gray fields, hoping to lose them in this darkness.

At last we find a place where the land forms a small bowl, and here we make camp. This night we light no fires, afraid to give any sign of where we are. We leave the curse to keep watch. "They wanted to burn us," Therrin tells us now. "They think we are a part of the bane on this land, and that we bring their doom. They hoped to save themselves by burning us."

To the curse she says: "If they come near, distract them, or lead them away, or try to lead _them_ to make noise to wake us." It nods its understanding. I don't like to put my life in its hands, but we must rest, and I suppose it does have reason to keep me alive until _she_ comes to find me.

I try not to think of that. I try to forget.

~*~

When Ty lies still as though asleep, Therrin comes to me and whispers in the dark: "I'm sorry."

I listen.

"I know you don't like it here," she says. "This world. I love it and I want to save it, and I don't understand why you're so afraid of it, nor why it reminds you of a past on Thilua – but I know that it does, and that you are, and I'm sorry for taking you here."

"How?" I ask. I pull at my fingers, distracted.

She laughs nervously and shakes her head. "I don't know. The witch said that the Wind People can know thoughts without speaking – maybe it is because my mother was one of them that whenever someone near me thinks or feels something very strongly, I feel it too. It has always been so. And your fear has been very strong, so that I cannot help but to know it. I feel it as though it were my own."

I draw up my knees for warmth. It is very cold without a fire. I shan't sleep well tonight, if I can sleep at all.

She is watching me carefully, but I will not meet her eyes. I don't want to give a response. I don't know what to say. I don't like to think of my thoughts in her head, my feelings laid bare for anyone to see. I don't want to think about it.

"You know that you may leave if you wish," she says. "Not here, of course – and we haven't the time to take you back to the gate before I have all three treasures – but when we're back home. I am glad to have you with me, but if you can't come with me any longer, I understand. We can help you back to the Island, maybe..."

Is she so eager to lose me? Does she want me gone? Have I done something wrong?

For a long moment I say nothing. I don't know what to think of her. She was kind to me; she let me come with her when I had no place else to go. Is that already gone?

Perhaps she didn't mean it. Perhaps she offered to take me with her in the hope that I'd refuse.

Or perhaps my thoughts, that she has listened to without my knowing, are proving a distraction. Perhaps she wants me gone so that her head will clear. Perhaps she cannot live with this deadness that lies all around me, in this vague and broken world, in my cold unfeeling skin, in my fading mind.

At last I shake my head, hoping beyond hope that she will accept my answer: "I have no place else to go. As long as you will have me, I will stay and help you as I can." And I whistle: Snake, if you hear me, let her not cast me off. I don't know what I'd do. I don't know whither I'd go. I have been thrown away too often; I have no one left to trust.

I don't like to think of my thoughts in her head, but better to share those thoughts than to be left all alone without a home or food or even a place to rest.

"I thank you for your help, then. I only thought to be sure."

Thank you, thank you. I whistle again. Perhaps I don't like this world, perhaps I am always afraid of it, but all the same I am relieved that I must not leave again. It seems I am always, always leaving. But now I can stay for a while. I hope she is not lying. I hope she won't yet find a way to lose me. I hope Ty will save me if she does – I hope he would choose to.

I cannot rely on them but I have no other choice.

"It must be terrible," I say. "I can only know my own thoughts, and often that alone is already too much." It is so now. My head is pounding. The thoughts come slowly but they threaten to overcome me. I don't want to talk to Therrin. I don't want to think about what all she must know about me that I try so hard to keep hidden. I don't want to think.

"It is, sometimes," she says. "To be afraid of things I do not fear, or angry at myself for another's sake – that is terrible. But I can't control it. Sometimes I feel what others do; sometimes I do not. There's nothing I can do."

"I am sorry that you have felt mine," I say.

She frowns, and shakes her head. She says: "I think it is I who must be sorry. Now come – let us sleep, and hope we can find the lake in the morning."

I nod, and I watch her go, and I shiver and wait for morning. It is very cold. I would rather rest warm in my tunnels, nestled into a bed of old clothing, even with all the filth and stench around me. But I can never do that again. Never.

I curl up against the cold of this bleak world and I shiver and I wait for morning, and perhaps at last I fall asleep, though it is a sleep as cold and colorless as all the rest of this world.

~*~

We reach the lake by late morning. It looks real and alive, a welcome respite from this dead world. It has begun to ice over, but only at the edges, and there is movement in its depths. But as always there is something _wrong_ with it, something missing. I feel it more sharply in these places that look real, for they do not _feel_ alive but only broken.

"This must be it," says Therrin: "only the treasures could keep a place so alive in this world. Do you see anything, Arrek?"

"There are shapes in the water," I tell her: "very large shapes. If they are fish, I'm sure they could swallow us whole. But they are too deep to know we are here, I think."

"Perhaps you'd better be sure it's here, as the witch said," Ty prompts her.

"Yes, of course," Therrin says nodding, and takes out the green necklace, and looks through it at the lake, frowning. At last she says: "There – under that hill – there is something there. But I can't see it clearly. Perhaps the lake extends under the hill? I hope we shan't have to swim in this cold!"

"We'll see," says Ty. "Now, the words –"

"I remember!" She tucks the necklace back under her shirt, and stands at the edge of the lake, and calls in a clear voice: "Shree ara vyanin!"

For a moment nothing happens; then the great shapes beneath the waves turn toward us. I begin to be afraid, but when they break into the air I see that they look almost human, with laughing faces and bright eyes. _Almost._ Their mouths are filled with long thin teeth, and their webbed fingers are tipped in long nails like claws, and below their naked waists they have no legs but dark shining tails like those of fish. And there is something wrong with their eyes.

I take a step back from the bank, afraid of them after all. I wonder if I am going mad at last: surely this cannot be.

"Who calls us?" they ask in the shared tongue.

"I do," says Therrin. She looks a little surprised, but her voice is calm. Does she see this madness? Surely not.

"And who told you the words by which to call us?"

"The woodland witch, who lives North of here."

"And why did she tell you the words?"

"There is something I must have – it is there, beneath that hill, and it has been there for a thousand years."

"Oh! Are you the Princess, then?"

"Long have we waited," they say, speaking by turns. "Long have we wished to know what is hidden there."

"But we must not enter the cave without the Princess –"

"We must not!"

"It is the first thing we are taught."

"It is forbidden."

"But now you are here, and at last we can see what it is we have been guarding! We'll find you a way to enter the cave without drowning, nor freezing in this autumn chill."

"Don't leave!"

Perhaps half of the strange fish-people dive back underwater. Those that remain watch us curiously.

"You look like one of the Wind People, except for your eyes," says one of them; "your eyes look human."

Therrin answers: "That is because my mother was one of the Wind People, and my father was human. What do you know of my mother's people?"

"Oh, we haven't seen one of _them_ for hundreds of years. They stay where they are, now, afraid to leave their clouds and find them gray and stony when they return. And _we_ cannot leave our lake."

"And what of _his_ eye?" asks one of them, pointing at me with a long curved claw. I burn with shame, noticing only now that I have forgotten to wear my eyepatch. I did not think we would be meeting people here, and now the demon in my eye is bare for them to see.

I don't want to answer. I am afraid of these strange fish-people and I am afraid of the shared tongue they speak in and I am afraid of this world. I don't want to say anything. I shake my head and look down.

The silence grows long and painful. At long last Ty says: "It is a demon which acts in place of an eye."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That was not his question to answer. But I am grateful to him for answering it. I was already in his debt. How can I ever repay him? I have nothing.

"That one does not have eyes at all," says another, looking at the curse.

"She doesn't need them," says Therrin.

I don't like this lake. I don't want to go under the hill to find the treasure. But neither will I stay here alone. I must come along.

Now the others return, bringing with them a great turtle, perhaps as long across its shell as Ty is tall. It speaks in the shared tongue, with a slower, older voice: "The world is dying around us, and if whatever is hidden may help you to save us, I am glad to bear you. Come and climb onto my back."

So we are to ride this strange beast. But not a beast at all; she is something else, something more, something with intentions that go beyond food and shelter, with great thoughts of the state of the world. I whistle to Snake. I don't want to touch her. I don't want to come nearer the icy lake.

But Therrin thanks the great turtle, and steps onto her shell, and Ty as well, and so I must follow. It is wet and cold and slippery. I grip the bony edge fearfully. Why have I climbed on the back of something which could never know me? What is this; what strange nightmare have I fallen into? I want to keep myself. I want to be all alone and sealed away in blankets.

I have always liked animals, but perhaps what I liked about them was their ability to _be_ without thinking, to know without words, to speak without voices. The animals _here_ who have eaten the sacred food of this world and who know the shared tongue are different. They are like humans in a different shape, and I am afraid of them as I am afraid of all strangers. I don't trust this turtle. I don't want to ride on her. But I haven't a choice.

The witch said not all animals who have eaten the true food will speak. Some remain animals. Some do not have the minds of humans, whatever they may understand, whatever they might be able to speak if they wished it. Some do not wish it. I would feel better among these. Sometimes I am one of them.

"Hold tight, children," this speaking turtle says, and swims into the lake with mighty strokes of her flippers. The fish-people escort us, and there are so many of them swimming around nearby that the water is alight with glittering scales and flowing tresses. They laugh and chatter among themselves happily. They look so content. I am so afraid of them.

Now we pass under the bank of the lake, and we are beneath the hill. There is no light here, but the demon in my eye can see well enough: the walls of the cave are lined with crystals, and in the center there is a little island just large enough to hold the silver chalice.

"Oh, it's pretty!" cry the fish-people, who must be as able to see in darkness as I. "To think we stayed away from a place so beautiful!"

"I shall be glad when the thing is gone, for then we can play here in this pretty place, as we do in all the lake."

"Yet the thing itself is pretty too! Perhaps we could keep it after all?"

"Humans, can you see in this darkness?"

"No," says Ty shortly. He seems ill at ease for once. Perhaps the many voices and plashing movements of the fish-people make him unsure in this darkness. They echo strangely against the crystal walls; without my sight I'd have no idea where they are.

"I can see but glints," answers Therrin; "but Arrek, you can see, can't you?"

I nod. Then, remembering that she cannot see me, I say it aloud: "Yes."

"Do you see it, then?"

"Yes."

"I am bringing you thither," says the great turtle beneath us.

We are almost to the little island when one of the fish-people snatches the chalice away. "See, it is a pretty little cup!" he cries. "Why should we give it away? It was in _our_ cave; it is _our_ toy. Seek your treasure elsewhere, Princess!"

"Yes, yes, seek it elsewhere!" they all cry as though we could. "This is ours! Perhaps, if it has lasted a thousand years here, it mayn't break as quickly as our other toys; we shan't give it up!"

I tell her: "They have taken it. They have it." I have lost it; I don't know where it is now, beneath this icy black water.

Louder I say, "Give it back!" but my voice quavers and dies. I have never known how to make demands. As a child I let my siblings have whatever I was playing with whenever they wanted it, and if I had nothing left, that was how it was. I was often too afraid even to beg, and preferred to steal for food, although I was bad at it and easily caught.

And I hate this language that twists my tongue into words I have never learned.

"Why should we?" they ask. "It is ours! It has always been ours! It is in our lake!"

So are we. Are we but toys of the fish-people, then? For what reason did they bring us here to this dark cave? I cannot help but to think of their sharp thin teeth and long claws tearing into our flesh and the cold black water stained red with our blood. I try to put the image out of my mind.

"Come now, children," says the great turtle: "shall we guard the Princess' treasure for a thousand years only to refuse it to her when she comes at last?" – But isn't she one of them?

"Yes! Why not?"

"Fools," says Ty. He has been oddly pleasant since we arrived in this world – perhaps he was too curious to be cruel – but now the biting tone is back in his voice. "Do you think keeping it can save you from destruction? This lake may be more alive than all the world around it, but the bane will spread to it in time, despite the chalice; and by then it may be too late for the Princess to save you, and you'll be doomed to fade away and lose your love for life – what you have left of it. Is that what you want?"

For a while they don't respond. They stare at him with wide eyes, stricken. Even these strange laughing fish-people will listen to Ty.

"You will die if Therrin is not allowed to free the dragon," he repeats. It doesn't sound like a threat. Indeed, he sounds almost amused to think of them dead. But he always speaks like this, always, always.

"She has a name?"

"She will bring back the dragons?"

"She will bring back Karr?"

"She needs this little cup to save him? And them? Are you sure?" Their voices are uncertain, now, almost afraid. Ty wrought so great a change in them only by speaking. I am no longer afraid of them. Now I almost pity them, these little living parts of this dying broken world.

I wonder if they even know they are broken.

"Yes," says Therrin firmly. "I need the chalice, and if you give it to me now I will bring Karr back to this world, and save the dragons."

"Oh."

"Here, then." One of them swims up to the turtle and holds the chalice aloft. I take it from her and give it to Therrin, and she puts it away in her satchel. "Thank you," she says.

"Tell him hello from us! And tell him to visit us here!"

"After the others are freed. That comes first."

"We're glad that awful King is dead now. It was so sad what happened to Karr."

"No one must betray a dragon. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. But see what he did to our world, even after he died."

"Everything is dying. Everything, for one human man's cruel ambition."

"How could he do that? To Karr? How could he?"

"He was a cruel man."

"I hope it will be enough to bring the dragons back. I hope they will stay."

"Is there anything more we can do to help you help Karr?" they ask.

Suddenly they are so helpful and so serious. It is hard to think of them playful and laughing as they were before. Maybe I am remembering it wrong. Maybe they were like this from the start.

Therrin nods in the darkness. "Yes," she says. "I cannot see my map in this darkness, so I cannot show you; but there is a little hillock just North of a river that flows Eastward from this lake, and that is whither we must travel next. Can you help us reach it more quickly?"

"I will take you thither," says the great turtle, and Therrin thanks her.

"Is another treasure there?" ask the fish-people, and Therrin tells them no.

"Why do you go thither, then? I don't think the ghost is usually very friendly to visitors. Not like us at all."

What ghost?

"What ghost?" asks Ty.

"Surely you know. What else could you want there?"

"He was buried there, a long time ago. He hurt some woman when he was alive, and she cursed him –" I shiver. "– to haunt the knoll by night, until she forgives him."

"She can't, of course. She's long dead. But _he_ doesn't know that."

"Maybe you'd better sleep somewhere else."

Therrin thanks them for their advice. "Still, that is whither we must go," she says.

"Good luck, then! Farewell!"

"Hurry back!"

"Set them free!"

"I will," she promises, and then the turtle bears us away, leaving the fish-people behind.

~*~

The great turtle bears us down the river, winding Northeast through the land. It is a long way, and we must be a heavy burden, but she swims fast and easily and without complaint, and the current helps us along. Water washes over her shell and against my feet and legs, so I that I am soon shivering with cold.

The living colors and the freshness in the air fade as we move away from the lake. Now it is the same bleak world it was before, cold and gray and dead. It is calming to have this deadness around me instead of the sharp strangeness of the living places. It is better when it knows it is dead.

I don't like being so close to this turtle. I don't like her. I don't trust her. I sit on her shell clasping my knees to my chest, and wait in shivering silence till we arrive, hardly daring to move. My arms – still sore from rowing – hurt from holding my knees up so long, but I don't want to relax them here. I don't want to take more space than I must. I don't want to be nearer to her.

Therrin speaks to her as she swims. I don't like to listen – my dislike for the shared tongue is only growing – but I cannot help but hear, and I know it must be better to know everything I can about Therrin's task, so that I can be of aid to her. But most everything the turtle says we have heard elsewhere before. And I do not trust her.

The curse swims beside us, drifting through the water blackly. I think it must move the way my memories move. I never saw her swimming, so the curse does not move its arms. It floats along with its face underwater (would that it could drown!) bobbing up and down with the movement of the waves. It looks like thin black paper. But it is still she, it still looks like _her_ and I cannot look away.

At last we are near the hillock, and the turtle stops and lets us climb off onto the riverbank. I am relieved to be standing on the ground again, but I am intensely aware that this is not the ground I want to be on, not my Thiluan ground that I have loved all my life, but a strange gray dying ground not even in my own world.

The turtle bids us good luck and farewell, and swims back toward the lake with Therrin's thanks. I am glad to see her go, to be alone again among the dusty gray grasses. Ty and Therrin are all right. I don't mind _their_ nearness.

Now we follow the curse to the hillock. It knows the way. It always knows the way. It looked once at Therrin's map and now it knows where on the map it is and which way to go to find anything else. It has no mind to be confused by directions, Ty said. So we follow it. We trust it not to lead us astray. We trust it to know things it ought not to be able to know.

"Shall we sleep there after all?" asks Ty. "I might like to see this ghost – but I won't go against their advice unless you agree."

I have some idea of what a ghost is, but I think this is only because of the shared tongue. I think this but I do not know it. Perhaps I heard of such a thing before. Perhaps not. Either way I don't want to see it. I don't want to see anything. It doesn't matter. I will do what they choose.

"I don't know," says Therrin. "There must be a reason they advised us not to. But – I am curious too, and perhaps there is a reason the witch chose it as a landmark. It may be that she meant for us to see it. Curse can keep watch, and be sure we are safe."

I don't want to put my life in the curse's hands, but I say nothing.

It is already dark when we arrive at the hillock with its crown of tall stones. We build a fire between them, and eat from our stores, and lie down to sleep with the stones at our backs. I am afraid, but also very tired, perhaps too tired to know what it is I fear. What sleep I have had in this world has done little to rest me.

So my eye has closed, and I have almost begun to fall asleep, when suddenly I wake again. I hear or feel something – what it is, I don't know – and I sit up and tear off my eyepatch, and I whistle to Snake, and I look around to see what woke me, what brought this fear rushing through my veins.

I see nothing.

Therrin and Ty are awake too, and they are both looking at a spot a little to the right of the smoldering remains of our fire. But there is nothing there, nothing at all but gray earth and gray grasses.

"I am Therrin Shiaran of House Lithuk," says Therrin.

"To whom are you speaking?" I ask, looking all around the circle of stones in fear. "What is there?"

"You don't see him?"

"Perhaps because the demon sees only what is there," Ty offers. "Perhaps he isn't, after all, real."

They keep talking but their words mean nothing to me because I can't hear the answers to their questions nor the questions they are answering. I am afraid of this blindness, this deafness, as I am afraid of this world.

It all means nothing to me. I cannot understand.

Have I truly gone mad, then? Is that why I cannot see this person to whom they speak? I have seen many strange things since we came here. I have seen living bones and I have seen people who looked like fish beneath their waists. And I have heard things I cannot know. I have _understood_ things though the words were meaningless sounds.

I must be mad, then. That is the only explanation. These things cannot be real. They cannot be.

They must be speaking Thiluan Common as they always have. They must be, else I could not understand it. It must be my own madness which twists their Common into strings of sound I have never heard before.

It must be my own madness which makes me see fish-tails instead of legs, and bones instead of flesh and fur. It must be.

I laugh to myself, quietly, under the sound of their talking to the air. I am glad that I know what it is, at last, that I understand. The smile stretches my lips and my cheeks and it hurts. The laughter feels strange in my chest. I am unused to laughing. It bursts out of my chest like a quiet broken cough. I feel like I'm choking, dying. I can't breathe.

I stop suddenly, with unsure breath, and find that I am moaning almost silently in the very back of my throat. I don't know why I'm not weeping. I want to claw out my eye. I pull at and twist the skin on my hands and I scratch at it so that it hurts and itches and I don't want to stop, I want to scrape away the hurt. I must stop before I lose all my skin. I can see it in my mind, my hands worn raw, bleeding red stumps without skin, rotting and falling apart. I mustn't do that. I mustn't.

Instead I run my fingers through my hair – unbound for sleep – again and again, tearing through the knots and twisting in new ones. Hair winds around my fingers like a net, holding me, trapping me. I want to scream. I want to weep. My breath is shaking.

I don't like it here.

I want to go home.

Surely, no matter what the demon can or cannot see, I ought to be hearing what they hear. Surely if my mind was whole I'd hear the questions they answer.

Maybe the demon cannot live here, in this bleak world. Maybe it will die soon, and I shall be left blind again. And Ty won't be able to make me a new one. He almost died the last time. And his talent doesn't work here. It can't. None of ours can. Mine has been fading, more and more, the longer we stay here. It is dead, except when we were at the gate, and there it was overwhelmed, so that my nature sense was nearly singing, and I couldn't feel anything anymore because I could feel so much.

Maybe that was only because it had had no time to fade yet.

When we were in the necromancer's palace, and Ty made the torches flare up – it was enough to scare me, and it was enough to scare his daughter, and enough to make the necromancer himself see reason, but still: I think he could have done better, elsewhere. I doubt he did something so little when he could have made an elemental to truly frighten the necromancer. He has never tried to hide how strong his talent is.

What did the necromancer say – that he oughtn't to have given us the apples? Maybe the rare true food of this world strengthens talents. Maybe the death of talents is a part of the bane on this world.

Maybe this world has had too much wine.

And when we fell from the dying great bone-hawk, Therrin cried out and then there was a wind that slowed us. Therrin is a great wind-caller, but still we landed painfully hard.

And then the villagers wanted to burn us with their flickering orange torches...

I try not to think of that.

But my own talent is dead here, truly dead. I cannot even feel Therrin or Ty anymore. Maybe they're not here. Maybe I am dreaming all this. I don't know. I can't feel them. I can't know that they are real.

Maybe all the colorless grays I have seen here are only because the demon in my eye is dying, because it cannot see the colors. Maybe I shall be blind again, soon. And this time I shall be blind forever, without even my nature sense to guide me.

And there has been so little to smell here in this world, and it is so silent, and everything is like dust beneath my fingers. I am losing myself. I am losing myself and I am losing my hold on the world. How long will it be, then, before I am one of those lost to this bane? Maybe I shall turn to stone, cold and silent, and then I shall sink into the gray dirt and this will turn into another stone plain and I shall be lost forever beneath it.

I think how it might be to be lost, to never feel anything at all. To never again be afraid of the future or afraid of the past. To never again be sickened by the sight of the curse. To never again feel the pain when I lose whatever is close to me. To be cold silent stone, to never know it even when I crumble.

My gaze falls on the curse, which sits watching me. I don't like it. I don't like it _watching_ me. I want to look away whenever I see it because the very sight hurts me, in my belly, in my mind. I don't want it here. I don't want it anywhere. I want it _gone_ and _dead_ and _away_ from me.

I can't look away from it. I can't think of anything except its end. Almost without knowing what I am doing, I draw the knife from my belt – it has been weighing heavily on my mind ever since I received it – and stab at the flat black imitation of _her_ before me.

I can't feel anything. I can feel only rage. It burns like a fire in my mind, sealing off thought. Is this what hatred feels like? Is this what it means?

I wish it were _her_ my knife slices through and not only this copy. I wish _she_ were dying before me. I wish my knife were pulling through her skin and her blood were flying and she were screaming (and her pain is the fox's pain, she looks like it when she dies) and I wish she were sorry for what she did to me. I can picture it so well. I can see her flesh laid bare in my mind. I can see her face full of fear and pain and remorse. I can see her tears. But I don't want to. I don't want to know. I don't want to see her ever again. I don't want to see her even in my mind, even in pain, even afraid and hurting and paying for her crimes. I want her _gone_.

The curse's shadow-flesh reforms around my blade, unscathed. I can't hurt it. Of course I can't hurt it. It isn't alive. It isn't anything. It's not there. I don't want to think about it. I drop my knife and I fall to my knees and I put my head in my hands and I weep. My shoulders heave with every sob and I am shaking and hot itchy tears are spilling down my face and I feel naked and alone.

I don't have a charm anymore. I have nothing. There is nothing with me. There is nothing I can cling to, nothing and no one. My family are far away and they have cast me out and Mother must be dead by now. And I could do nothing. I wasn't even there. And when I _was_ there she wouldn't listen, she wouldn't even see that I was there, that I was real. And she cast me out. She didn't want me and she didn't love me and she left me and now she is gone, she is dead, she must be, and I could do _nothing_. I miss her. I miss them all. I want her back. I want her arms around me warm and comforting. I want her voice, when I was little and she still tried to soothe my fears. I want even her scolding that so frightened me, so long as she'd be _here_.

I try to hold in my tears but I can't stop them.

I remember (no I must not remember I must not) when I stumbled into Therwil from the Desert and I found myself an empty room and I sat there and I would not think and I was as cold and as unfeeling as stone. I would not think of how my mother made me leave. But I was too afraid and too lonely and sad to move, so I sat and I did nothing and I thought of nothing. I didn't even try to find food until I could wait no longer for hunger.

And then _she_ came and she saved me from that stupor and I don't want to think about her, I don't want to, she did not save me but hurt me, she came and hurt me and I trusted her because I needed someone to trust. And she betrayed me, she hurt me, she used me and then cast me aside like a dirty rag (but only a noble would cast aside a dirty rag; as long as it is still soft it would be a good addition to my bed).

I don't want to think about her. I try to block off the thought, the memory. I want to whistle to Snake, but I can't control myself, my face, my lips, my breath. I can't. Maybe he can hear the whistle in my thoughts, in my mind.

Maybe he can't.

Even in Anaria, the gods are strange gods who live among the stars instead of under the earth. If Snake's sacred coils do not reach across the sea, how could they reach through the gate into these Unnamed Lands? This is not Thiluan soil beneath me. It is meaningless gray dust. Snake cannot lie beneath it. He is gone. They are all gone, all the gods.

I am all alone.

~*~

I don't want to wake up from the gentle empty darkness that is sleep. I want to stay here, lying still, with the hair that has fallen over my eyes helping my eyepatch to filter out the harsh gray dawn. I want to be swallowed up by the earth and left to darkness.

But this is not the earth I would be swallowed by, I remember. I must find my way back through the gate. I must live till then.

I sit up and pull off my eyepatch. We aren't inside the circle of stones on the hillock anymore. I can see the shape of it behind us, but here there are only thin gray grasses that crumble when touched. Ty and Therrin are eating, and the curse sits beyond them, looking away, keeping watch.

"Good morning," Therrin greets me, and hands me my breakfast. I look at it listlessly. My belly hurts, and I don't want to eat. I'm not hungry. "How much food do we have left?" I ask.

"Enough," Ty answers. "We shan't have to eat anything that grows here."

I look back at the food.

"Eat," Therrin pleads. I take a bite and chew, grind it down between my teeth. Swallow. My tongue feels thick.

Once I was kretchin and I was always hungry and I was always glad of food. Sometimes it was hard to eat because my stomach turned with fear, but at least the taste was good. And I was glad of even the smallest portion because it was anything at all, and I was so hungry, always hungry.

Now I am fed three times each day. Now the food tastes ashen in my mouth. I don't want it. I don't want anything.

I have been away from my home too long. I can no longer even say I am kretchin; kretchin would be glad of any food. I don't know what I am anymore. I am nothing.

I don't remember coming down from the hillock. I don't remember putting my eyepatch on again. I don't know how we came here.

I don't want to ask.

I finish my portion and bind back my hair. The world is gray and lifeless all around, except for a thick darker stripe ahead of us. I gesture to it with my chin, because it is the only thing that is different. "Are we going that way?"

"Yes," Therrin answers, and we are on our way.

Ty tells me what happened as we walk. I listen and remember, although I don't know how much I believe him. I don't know if I want to know. I didn't ask. I don't want to. I don't want to talk.

The ghost didn't like us, he tells me. It didn't like that Therrin wants to bring the dragons back. It – _he_ – wants an end to his nightly hauntings, wants a true death, even if all the world must die with him.

"Of course, he can never have that even if Therrin doesn't succeed, but at least he'll have an end," Ty says. I don't know if I understand, but I don't try to. I won't think. I won't.

"Maybe we can help him," Therrin says. "After the dragons are freed, of course – but the third treasure can cut through magick, the witch said. Maybe it can cut the chains that bind him there."

"Maybe. And maybe he deserves his eternal half-life. Wanting freedom now isn't the same as regretting what he did."

"He's already dead. What more can he do?"

"Point taken."

The darkness ahead is taking form: tall trees, the edge of a forest.

"At any rate he seemed intent on killing us, or at least keeping us awake all night, so we fled and slept elsewhere."

"I don't remember," I say before I can stop myself.

Therrin looks at Ty quickly, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the forest ahead of us. He says only: "I carried you." Therrin says, "You were asleep," but her voice is unclear and she is looking away. When she looks at me I can see pity in her eyes.

I look at the ashen ground beneath my feet to hide the dull shame rising to my cheeks. I can remember nothing of this. I have an impression that I fought them while they begged me to flee, but no true memory, and I don't know how they might have subdued me. They say nothing of how I tried to kill the curse. In fact they say nothing more at all, and the rest of our walk passes in silence.

~*~

This forest is the place I like best of all those I have yet seen in this world. It is alive, but being here doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel so wrong. I can almost see in colors and I can smell and I can hear and it is almost like a normal place in my own world, although my nature sense is still much weakened. Ty's and Therrin's talents have always been stronger; maybe they still are.

The trees are tall and dark, and grow close together; those which are neither bare yet nor needled hold leaves in bright flashes of color, all orange and red like fire. The wet earthy ground is carpeted with fallen leaves and needles. I can smell rain in the air, although I have seen no trace of any weather but thin gray clouds since we came to this world. And there are things moving here, living. There are animals in this forest. There are tracks in the bare mud, and there is a rustling all around – though it might be only the wind shaking drops of cold rainwater from the branches – and every so often I can hear birdsong somewhere in these trees.

I breathe deep. The air is clean and fresh, and chill with autumn. I pull my coat around myself more tightly against the cold and the wet.

"It must be somewhere in here," says Therrin. "The witch said I must use the chalice to find it." She takes it from her satchel, and holds it and looks at it. It is full now, suddenly, with something clear like water. I remember. The witch said the Princess could do this, could fill it with only a thought. I remember.

"It's cold as ice," she says, shivering. "I hope I can find my way back. Wait for me here."

She takes a swallow of the liquid, and falls. Ty catches her by the arm and lays her down more gently; she lies there as though asleep, or dead. I hope the witch did not betray us. I hope she will come back.

I sit down on a half-rotted log to wait. There is wet green moss on it beside me, and behind it is a cluster of small white mushrooms. I touch them. They are cold and wet and real, not at all like the ashy gray world outside this forest, but my fingers feel dead as they brush against them.

Ty sits across from me, on a big rock, leaning back against a tree. He watches Therrin's body without expression. She looks hollow, like an unfilled bowl. Her fingers are still curled around the stem of the silver chalice, which is as empty and dry as it ever was. But it must have held something, else what did she drink?

I wonder whither whatever filled her has gone. I hope it will come back. I hope it is finding what it must learn, learning what it must find.

She is still breathing before me, but barely. I remember when Ty lay still like this and I thought he might die. I don't think Therrin can die now, here. If anything, she is already dead. There is something missing from her, something gone. I watch her, afraid to look away, afraid that her shallow breaths may cease.

At last her eyes open. She sits up at once and says: "Curse! It is this way," pointing. I stand up from my log, and we walk in that direction.

"What happened?" asks Ty with interest as we walk. "What did it feel like?"

"The drink was ice-cold," she tells. "I thought I would be put out like a flame. Then – I was standing beside you, beside myself, for at the same time I could see myself lying on the ground. I tried to say something, but you couldn't see or hear me. So I walked away. It was very much like a dream. In a way it was wonderful – I was freer than ever before – I knew I could fly if I wished it – but it was also very strange."

I shudder, listening. It sounds like a horrible feeling, losing one's body as she did. I am glad that the silver chalice is reserved for the Princess of this realm, that I must never endure such a thing.

"I spoke to a tree, knowing somehow that it would listen," she goes on, "and it answered me. It told me – no, it _showed_ me – where the treasure is. Then I came back; at first I couldn't find my way, but the necklace was still with me, and when I looked through it I could see something – like a thread of shining silver – which I followed back to my body. And then when I touched myself I woke up."

I am glad I did not have to see this speaking tree. I only hope Therrin knows whither she is leading us.

"Here!" she says at last, as we come to a great tree larger than any I have seen before. Its crown towers high above us, filled with twisting round branches and little black hollows where birds or squirrels have nested before.

"Here," she says again, patting the ground between two great winding roots, and she starts digging in the cold earth. After a moment Ty crouches to help her, and then I join them, digging with my hands. It is cold and wet and it stings my hands where I scratched open the skin.

At last Therrin feels something hard in the wet dirt, and carefully pulls it free. It must be the third treasure: a knife sheathed in black leather, maybe as long as my forearm with the hilt. It is all black, even when she draws it from its sheath. Its hilt is wrapped in black leather and its blade is of obsidian, with a jagged edge. I shiver seeing it. I can picture that edge sliding against my skin so easily, cutting through me. The very thought hurts. I have to look away.

"I hope this will be enough to free him," she says, fastening it to her belt behind her other knife.

"That's all three treasures, then," says Ty: "we can go back through the gate. Curse, can we reach it today? – Tonight?"

It nods.

"Which way?"

It points, and we follow.

The dark and living forest turns all dusty gray again, but I don't dislike it quite as much now. Maybe it is because I know we will soon be back home. We must spend only a few more hours in this fading world.

Therrin asks us to hurry, because her world is dying around us and because her treasures will be safer in our own world, as less people might hope to steal them there. I hurry gladly. I don't want to stay here any longer than we must.

Night is all around us when we arrive at last at the green living circle of summer around the gate; but it is day here. It is still the same day that Karr and his King flew through, I remember. We step out of the night and into the day, and the fairies float all around us.

In the shared tongue, they speak into our minds: "Do you have the three treasures?"

"I'm not to tell you," answers Therrin.

"And we are not to let you through without them. You must save Karr, Princess, and quickly. We cannot allow delay."

"We must go through now."

"You must go through only if you have all three treasures, and will proceed directly to the place where he is being held."

Therrin frowns. She says, "The witch warned me to tell _no one_ how many treasures I had collected. She did not say to tell no one but the fairies."

Their tinkling laugh sounds in my head. "Do you think _we_ will claim the kingship? No, Princess, that is your task. And we will not hinder you: you have our word.

"Now tell us: do you have the treasures?"

She bites her lip and nods. "Yes."

"Well done, Princess. We offer our congratulations. We give you and your companions the power to step through the gate."

There is the feeling of lightning in my veins again, and the gate glows in my demon-vision. I follow Therrin and Ty through, into that sparking veil. Darkness surrounds me and then spits me out, into a cold rainy night. Oh, how I have longed for this bitter windy cold! I whistle to Snake (he is here, he is here beneath me, he is here with me again – thank you for bringing me through that world alive – thank you for not forsaking me) and I kiss the wet rock beneath me. Again and again I whistle. I am so glad to be here. I am so glad.

This world is gentle, neither sharp and overwhelming nor dead and gray, and my nature sense is working normally again: I feel Ty and Therrin beside me, and I feel the fish in the ocean below us, and I feel the gentle life of the world all around me. And the gods are beneath us. We are back on hallowed ground. Wherever we may walk or sail, so long as we are on this side of the gate we shall never be truly alone, for the gods may listen when we call them. And even if they do not, we are _close_ to them at least. We are not alone. I whistle again. Snake, hear my call. Snake, hear me. Snake, know that I am _here_ , that I am back in the world to which I belong.

I don't see nor feel any response, but in my mind I can feel his coils wrapping around me in comfort, welcoming me home.

Above us the sky is dark and cloudy, rent by flashes of lightning. Far away behind the stone arch that is the gate, the sky is clear, and there are stars, and the violet moon that I have always known. The sea around us is alive with rain and wind; high waves dash violently against the stone path, sometimes washing over it and mixing saltwater with the rain.

Therrin loves this weather, I know. The last time we encountered a storm at sea, I thought she was mad for loving it. Now I think it is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen. I would endure a thousand such storms – I would have my body torn to pieces by the winds – I would drown in these waters a million times – I would be burned all away to ashes by the stabbing lightning – if only I could die _here_ , on this side of the gate.

I would laugh aloud with delight, but I cannot spare the breath, nor will I change the hold of my lips. If I make a sound, any sound at all, it is a whistle to Snake. Thank you, Snake, for bringing me home. Thank you for letting me see this moment. I was not lost to the bane of the Unnamed Lands, and though that may have been more Therrin's help and Ty's than yours, thank you for being here _now_.

Snake, I am glad to be home.

Above my whistling is the constant heavy drumming of falling rain (it stings when it hits me; isn't it wonderful? I can _feel_ it!), and the breaking of the waves against the rocks, and the claps of thunder, when they come. I can hardly hear Ty's shout: "I hope the boat has survived this!"

I don't want to move yet to find it. I am lying on the ground, as low as I can be, as near as possible to the gods, and I am kissing the salty wet path beneath me between my whistles. I am embracing the ground, and the entire world, as well as I can with my short arms. The world is too large to clasp to my breast, but I try. I don't want to let go.

"Come on!" Therrin yells near my ear. I can see that she is grinning, but her voice is urgent. "We can't well camp here on the path! We must go to the boat!"

"We can't well camp there either!" Ty yells back.

I press myself to the ground, and give a last whistle, and a last kiss. Now I stand. There is fresh sea air all around and the scent of rain. The water is frothing and the air is wet. Those strands of my hair too short to be bound back are clinging to my sodden face.

The path is slick with water from sea and sky. We hold hands tightly to keep from falling as we walk down its curves toward the ocean and toward the spire of rock to which we bound our boat. Several times I slip and nearly fall; when they see that I am the least sure-footed among us, I am moved to the center of our line, with Ty on my left side and Therrin on my right. I grip their hands as tightly as I can, afraid to let go, afraid the water on our hands will let us slip apart.

The path is narrow, and our deaths await us in the storm-ridden waters below. We walk slowly and carefully against the buffeting wind, and at last we reach the bottom of the path to find our boat overturned but undamaged. We right it and load our supplies, standing to our knees in swirling water.

"Now what?" Ty shouts against the wind. "We cannot rest here, nor set sail in this weather!"

"We can't wait!" Therrin shouts back. "The Unnamed Lands are dying! We must reach the stone plain!"

"Thilua is that way," he says, gesturing wildly; "but we can't be sure of where on the coast we'll land, if we set out now – nor whether we'll land at all! This storm may well kill us!"

"I'll use my talent to keep us safe! The storm is too strong for me, but I can at least direct the lightning away from us!"

Ty looks as though he would protest, but perhaps he thinks it isn't worth shouting over the storm. He raises and lowers his head and shoulders in a sigh, shrugs, and nods his agreement. We climb into the boat.

Therrin must fix her talent on keeping us safe from the storm, so our only means of reaching Thilua is to row. Ty is the strongest among us, so he takes one set of oars while Therrin and I share the other, and we row with all our strength. My arms still know the pain of rowing. Has it truly been only three nights since we first reached the gate? I feel like I've been gone forever.

The storm rages around us. I don't know if we're moving forward at all, but the stone path rising out of the ocean is quickly lost in the waves, and now there is only water all around us.

At last Ty shouts: "We cannot keep rowing like this! You _must_ use your talent, Therrin!"

She shakes her head. "The storm is too strong! I cannot calm it!

"Then direct it! We have no choice!" I don't think I have ever seen this much passion in his dark eyes. He looks desperate, almost afraid. He has always been so calm – I wonder that this storm could change that. "Curse! Show her the way!"

The curse points its flat black arm. It wavers as though viewed through smoke when the rain passes through it, but always reforms unharmed.

Therrin shakes her head, biting her lip. "I haven't the strength," she cries.

"We shall all die if you do not! _Do_ it!"

Therrin shakes her head again, but she closes her eyes and drops the oar. Ty quickly spreads the sodden golden sail for her, though the wind fights to tear it away.

I can feel her nature sense with mine – it is strong, and it takes hold of the storm around us, seizes it and twists it to her will. The rain slows and the wind quickens, pushing into the sail and sending us toward land. We skim over the stormy waters so quickly – too quickly – never before have I seen a wind this strong. I duck down my head and whistle again to Snake.

No – it is too much, she cannot hold it. The wind stays with us, but as the power passes out of Therrin she swoons and falls forward in her seat.

Ty pushes her up, but she will not wake. We leave her and wait for the wind to bring us to land. I try to stay awake, to see whither we're going; but it is late and I am tired, and now that the rain has slowed a little it isn't long before I fall asleep.

~*~

I wake at last to a throbbing pain in my skull. I am lying belly-down, with my face turned so that my blind right eye is nearer the ground, on a flat gray stone beneath a rainy gray sky. The fresh clean rain tastes good when it trickles into my mouth, but hurts as it strikes the back of my head.

I have never much cared for any gods but Snake (what kretchin would?) but now I offer a brief prayer to Rain-shaker, in thanks for this rain; for the rain is all that assures me that I am home, and not in those wretched Unnamed Lands.

Now I sit up – my ribs hurt as I do, but not enough to stop me – and I look around. I am sitting on a flat gray shore. Rain is pooling on the even stone, and rain is falling from the cloudy sky (that, at least, is a textured sky and not as flat and colorless as even the sky was _there_ ), and rain is feeding the deep green sea, which laps gently at the shore. This is no storm, only a steady rain.

Ler's boat has been dashed to pieces. Scraps of wood litter the shore; the glittering golden sail is lost to the deep. Ty stands to his waist in the sea, searching it with his hands.

Therrin lies a ways away, limp. I make certain she is still breathing before I look away.

My ribs are sore, especially on the right side, and my right elbow stings when I move it. I strip off my coat – I am very cold without it – and pull up the sleeve of my shirt to see: I have a small, shallow, but bleeding wound. The shirt and coat are undamaged, though stained.

Now I feel for the painful spot on my head, and find that it hurts even to touch my hair lightly. I think I ought to forgo the binding today. There is no one here to see me anyway, no one to call me kretchin, no one to hurt me and bring me back to _her_ (but I must not think of her, I must not).

I lick my lips and whistle to Snake. They taste salty.

Ty turns to see me, and comes out of the water holding one of our packs.

"This is all I can find," he says grimly; "and now that the water's gotten into it, I don't know how long we can make the food last. We had better find the temple soon."

I nod and stand up, donning my coat again. My right ankle feels a little strange, but it holds my weight easily enough, and the feeling quickly passes as I walk to Therrin. Still, I remember how that leg was hurt in the Desert, and I am afraid. I must not lose the ability to walk again. I must not. I try not to think of that past, and look instead at the still girl.

She was always pale – but was she always _this_ pale? I whistle to Snake. It must be the rain on her face that makes her look so sickly.

"She hasn't woken yet," he tells me.

I nod again, and look around, and wait.

The curse – I wish I hadn't looked for it – is standing near the place I was lying when I woke. It is looking away, at the even stone all around us, stretching in every direction but that of the ocean as far as I can see. This must be the stone plain, then. It is a bleak and desolate place, though it is all the better for the rain, and not as forsaken as the Unnamed Lands.

At long last Therrin stirs. She coughs and sits up and looks around. Her fair hair is plastered to her skull with the wet, and her eyes are strangely bright, and her face looks waxen.

"Is this the stone plain, then?" she whispers hoarsely. "Gods, but it's cold here."

"Yes," says Ty, approaching us with the lone pack. "We crashed here while we slept, and the boat was destroyed. These are all the supplies we have left, and they've been in the water."

"Then we must find Karr," she says. Her voice is so weak that it pains me to listen, her eyes bright with passion or fever. "We must succeed."

"If we don't succeed we shall likely die," Ty agrees. "Unfortunately I don't know where we are – Curse might, but even if it does, I can't give it a direction. I don't know where in the stone plain the temple is. It's near the center, I think, but that's hardly enough to find it by."

Therrin pushes herself to her unsteady feet. "I can feel him," she whispers. "I can feel him calling me."

She totters off, and we follow.

~*~

The walk seems endless. There is nothing but unceasing rain and even stone all around us, as far as I can see, and nothing changes however far we walk.

Therrin is very sick. This is the price she must pay for reaching beyond the extent of her talent: she succeeded, and she did not die, but now she is very weak, and fevered. Ty says that she ought to be resting, to regain her strength, but there is no place to rest. We cannot find nor make a shelter in this cursedly flat land, nor can we build a fire in this rain. We shall be cold and wet no matter what we do. So it is better to walk: it keeps us a little warmer, and it gives us a hope – however slight – of arriving at the temple someday. It may well be the nearest shelter, if it exists. I only hope we can find it.

We walk as quickly as she is able – she is very weak, so she must set our pace – and we do not stop until night. Then we lie close together, not quite touching but near enough to give each other some semblance of warmth. It is very cold. We lost our blankets, and all our clothing is soaked through. I think the rain must have reached my very bones by now.

My fingers, my hands, hurt with the cold. I try not to move them – moving hurts them more – and I hold them between my arms and my body when I can.

Therrin is very, very hot to the touch. She keeps saying that she is cold, but her skin feels like it is burning. I am afraid for her. The Unnamed Lands may be dying, but their Princess must live. I don't want her to die. I don't want to lose her. I don't want to be all alone.

I hope she will agree to rest and restore her strength when (if) we reach the temple, that she won't run straight back to save that dying world while still so fevered. I hope she will reach the temple at all. I hope any of us can. We have nothing to guide us but the voice in her mind, and I don't quite trust that the dragon is really calling her, that it isn't only her fever telling her so.

But we have no other direction, so we must follow her. I hope against hope that she will lead us to our goal. I hope she knows something I do not.

The food – what is left of it – quickly runs short, destroyed by the sea and the rain. Our bread dissolves and our once-dried meat spoils. In the end Ty throws away the whole pack, saying that nothing remains that we might still eat. "Do you know how near the temple we are?" he asks grimly, but Therrin only shakes her head.

"Would there be food there?" I ask without hope, already hungry.

"Yes, with some luck. The temple was sealed a thousand years ago, when people still fled to the tunnels in times of need. They were always stocked with food and blankets. Perhaps those, too, have been sealed, though I don't know how much has been destroyed since that time."

I cling to this new hope, though hope has never served me well. I must have hope. I have nothing else.

The curse follows behind us, where I am safe from the sight of it so long as I don't look back. But too often it is the first thing I see when I wake, and I cannot forget it. It is always there, following me. Always.

I cannot think of it. I cannot stop thinking of it.

It must not follow me. _She_ must not find me. I must not think of her. I must not think.

I must be cold and still and empty as this vast plain of stone. I must not think nor feel. I must think of nothing at all. I must only follow, and wait, and hope.

At last – how long has it been? – I see something different, something that isn't flat. I turn my head, trying to see it more clearly through the rain.

"What is it?" Ty asks.

I don't know. I don't know if it's real. Maybe I am seeing things again.

"The temple," Therrin whispers. "There it is. He is waiting for us."

I look at it. I can see the shape more clearly now: a simple building, made of three low walls and a roof laid over them. The fourth wall is left open.

"It can't be," I say, shaking my head. "A temple is _below_ the ground."

"It is," she insists.

"It's only the entrance," says Ty. "But it is the temple, else it wouldn't still be standing."

I can't bring myself to nod. It doesn't matter. I don't need to think about it. The thing is shelter, whatever else it might be.

Therrin is so weak by now that she can hardly walk. Many times she has slipped on the wet stone and fallen, so that her hands and cheeks are covered with little scrapes from hitting the ground. Even now she falls as she walks toward the building. Ty lifts her in his arms and carries her the rest of the way. It is not far.

The structure is built of a warm brownish stone, different from that which is all around us, and all along the walls – inside and out – are carvings. I can see the symbols of the eight gods all together, though I don't know any of the other symbols. Maybe this is a temple after all.

It is empty, but it is also warm, and there is a small dry corner into which even the windblown rain hasn't reached. Ty puts Therrin down there. She has her arms around herself for warmth, and she is shaking, and her cheeks are a bright rosy red with fever. I don't think she can do this much longer. We ought to stay here until she is better. It is warm and dry. It is better than whatever awaits us elsewhere, even without food.

The floor is made of the same brown stone, and also carved, and in the center of it is a wooden double-trapdoor. The wood is gray and brittle, with rusted metal handles. It looks very old. Maybe it has been here all these thousand years. Maybe that is the entrance to the temple, and the dragon sleeps below us.

Ty looks at the walls, and runs his hands over the carvings. Beneath his breath he is saying something, whispering to himself, but I cannot make out his words. At last he turns away, and looks instead at trapdoor. "The temple must be below these doors," he says, and pulls at the rusted handle. It does not move.

He sets his feet further apart, and grips the handle firmly in both his hands, and lifts with his back, using all his strength. I can see his muscles straining through his wet shirt. Still, it does not move.

At last he lets go. "It will not open," he says.

"Karr is down below," whispers Therrin. "I must go to him. I must wake him."

"Then we must find another way to open the doors."

For a while we sit in silence, leaning against the stone walls, glad of the dryness, glad of the warmth. I wonder whence this warmth comes. Maybe I have been too cold too long. Maybe I have lost too much feeling, and everything feels warm now.

I look up and see _her_ in the entrance – it cannot be! No, it is only the curse. Only the curse, black and horrible, without a face. I try to stop the feeling that wells up inside me. If I am shaking, it is only the cold. The rainwater that runs down my cheek has turned warm, but still, it is only rain. I will not think. I will not feel.

Not while it is watching me.

At last Therrin takes the necklace out from under her shirt, and holds its clear green stone to her eye to look through it at the trapdoor. "There is something there," she whispers. "There is something in the way, a bubble, a shield, holding it shut."

She is raving. She is mad with fever. I mustn't try to understand. I mustn't listen.

She crawls to it on her hands and knees, and draws the black knife from her belt, and slices through the empty air. I watch her in silence. She doesn't know what she is doing. There is nothing there, nothing at all, and yet she thinks she can cut it.

She tries the rusty handle again, and the doors open easily. But she is weak with fever, and she is only young, and Ty is so much stronger. I don't understand. I whistle to Snake. Why couldn't Ty open it? Maybe it is still closed, and I cannot see that because I am mad myself. It is like the fish-people, like the bony dog. The utter blackness below it isn't real.

"Down there," she whispers; "but I cannot see in such darkness, and we have no lamps nor candles..."

" _If_ they are not destroyed, there will be torches down there, once we reach them," Ty says. "Arrek, your eye can see without light; will you lead? – I can walk well enough in darkness, so I shall take the rear; and Therrin, you'll be in the middle, where we can catch you if you stumble."

She nods.

I don't want to. I don't want to go through whatever was there, whatever Therrin cut through. I don't want to lead the way. I whistle again to Snake, and I try to remember that this is a place of the gods, and that Snake is with me always, and that all I must do is lead the way and tell them what I see; but I am so afraid.

(I remember when I led the way once in darkness and I carried the light and she was so near and she would not believe me and she was afraid and I could not help her and she cried out and my eye, so much pain and it would not go away and I was blind and I could see nothing at all I could see nothing.)

I shake my head, biting my lip. My gaze darts from Therrin's bright fevered stare to Ty's weary – and eager – eyes to the gaping blackness below us to the black shadow of _her_ that has followed me all this way. It is _watching_ me, the curse is watching me and it will not look away. It wants to find her. It wants her to find me.

It wants her to find me and it will do whatever it must. It wants me dead. It wants her to find me and kill me. She will hit me again with her blue spells that turn my blood to raging fire and my bones to wet ice, and she will hit me again with sticks and with rocks and with tightly clenched fists and she will stab me and cut me open and she will poison me and she will _touch_ me with her wretched beautiful hands that I once so loved.

Snake, how I fear her.

I must flee. I must flee her. There is only one way to go. I go into the hole on shaking legs, shivering and afraid, clutching at my arms. My breath comes short and fast. I am so afraid. I don't know if I can speak. But I must try. I must go down, into the depths of the earth, in the hope that she might not find me here, that the gods may protect me.

(She was afraid to go into the darkness. She was afraid.)

"There is a stair, with a wall on its left side," I tell them. My voice is weak and trembling, hardly more than a breath, and yet it sounds loud and strange in the stillness. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to speak. I walk down into the darkness, into the warmth of the temple, looking only at my feet as I place one below the other. I walk on stone steps worn with the passing of a thousand feet, all of them so long ago that I cannot even begin to conceive it. I walk into the stillness with Therrin and Ty behind me, breathing. I walk and I hope I can forget.

(She saw faces and she knew they would kill her and she asked me to help her but I could do nothing.)

The stair winds downward, a very long way. The walls are carved as all temple walls are. I see the Sundancer's symbol often, and the Sea-Father's. But there are places where it comes together strangely, as though the images had been carved first and then stuck together, and there are places where the walls are smooth. It makes no sense.

It is a very large room we are in, very long and very wide and very very deep. The stair winds around the edge of it. I wonder why a temple was ever built to look like this. Maybe the ceremonies were different then.

(The Queen of the Dark-dust came to me in my dreams and she warned me about her and I would not listen. I would not listen. I gave up my life to her, I gave up my life, I was warned and I would not listen.)

I can see the dragon, now, if that is what the great sleeping beast is. I cannot see him well without light, but well enough to know that he lies asleep, his eyes closed, his great wings folded, his snout resting on his forelegs. It is very warm here, a welcome change from the bitter rainy cold outside the temple.

(She thought that I was misleading her, that I was letting her be lost to the darkness, that I was leading her astray, that I had forgotten the path. She would not believe me. She would not listen.)

"There is a sconce on the wall to the left."

Ty feels for it with his fingers, finds it, lights the torch therein with flint and steel. It catches light and burns, flooding the temple with warm light.

(She would not believe that the water shone with its own light and she was astounded when she saw it and she never gave apology for calling me a liar.)

Now I can see more easily. There are no other rooms to this temple, nor any sign of the tunnels. Across from us is a large pile of – something – is it food? Has it survived? I want to look, but my attention is drawn to the dragon, the thing which has slept here for a thousand years, which destroyed the city under the sea, which came from that other world, which Therrin has come to save.

(She said the food would not last and I gave her my rations, I gave her all mine freely, and without hope for reward. She did not thank me. She knew that I would. She relied on it.)

He is a great four-legged beast covered in glittering red scales, with thick leathery red wings. Thick spines perhaps as long as my forearms form a line down his neck and his back and his long barbed tail.

I have never seen anything like him before. His sharp white claws are each as long as my hands, and his great head must be at least as long as Ty is tall. He looks almost like a god in his own right. I can see how such a creature could destroy an entire city, easily.

I whistle to Snake in awe.

Ty looks at the great beast with reverence; the curse (it is still here, it has followed me even here) watches without feeling. Therrin walks toward him on unsteady legs.

"Karr?" she asks in a hoarse voice. "Karr, how do I wake thee?"

She pulls up the necklace to look through it again. Her fingers are trembling. She must rest. We have found her dragon and now she must rest.

(Even after she hurt me I did everything I could for her. Blind, I led her through the caves by touch. Yet she wanted nothing more to do with me, no matter how I tried to make it better.)

("That's repugnant," she said. "Cover it up.")

"There's another shield," she mumbles. Again she draws the black knife and slices through the air. This time I believe her. Something is cut. Something tears, something breaks. Something is released that was not there before. A feeling washes over me like awe, like fear, like safety. The beast before me drives the past from my mind.

Now the dragon's great eye opens. It is a bright emerald green, with a black slit like a cat's and the same green eyeshine behind it, and at least as big as my hand with outstretched fingers.

When he speaks his voice is deep and clear: "Thou'st come at last."

I don't even notice at first that he is using the shared tongue. It doesn't give me a feeling of wool in my head like it did in the Unnamed Lands. I can understand him and it is as though I always knew this tongue.

"I have," Therrin answers. Her knees buckle and she falls, but she does not quite swoon. She looks at him, holding herself up on trembling arms. "I am Therrin Shiaran of House Lithuk," she says. Her voice lilts with fever. "And these are Arrek and Ty and they are traveling with me. And now we can free the others and save the Unnamed Lands."

"Thou'rt unwell," he says, snorting. His breath sparks. It must be _he_ who has warmed this temple, with his very breath. "We will free them – but first, thou must regain thy strength. We will wait here."

"The Unnamed Lands are dying," she protests weakly.

"Time is not yet quite so short. Now come: there is food here, and fresh water, and soft blankets – enough for thy companions as well as thee. Rest now, wanderers. You must have your strength before we take wing."

~*~

Once there was a kretchin girl who was dying of cold. She had no blankets and no fire and no candles, and so she whistled to Snake to save her; and Snake listened.

He went to the darkness beneath the earth, to find the place where the Sundancer dances around his great sun-fire. As below, so above; so the Sundancer guides the sun on its way across the sky, to bring night and day and the turn of the seasons.

There was the Sundancer dancing, as always; and Snake hoped to take a piece of his fire, and bring it to warm the girl. He knew well that the Sundancer would not share his fire. It is the fire of the world, the fire that keeps all alive. It is the Sundancer's duty to protect it as well as to guide it.

So Snake thought instead to steal it, and trick the Sundancer.

He said: "How well you dance! Might I learn to dance as you do?"

The Sundancer has nothing but contempt for Snake, as have all the gods. He said: " _You_ will never dance as I do; but try, if you like."

So Snake danced. He wound his coils around the world, and he swam through the darkness, and he danced the pattern of the stars. He danced as only Snake can.

"I know the dance of the stars," he said, "but I cannot dance the dance of the sun, without a fire."

"Seek your fire elsewhere, Snake! This dance is mine."

"Let me try," Snake said. "Let me but try to dance it, and you can watch and tell me what I am doing wrong." And he danced the dance of the sun, but without a fire it was a dim shadow of a dance, and the Sundancer could hardly see it.

"All right," he said at last; "try with my fire, and I will watch. But be careful; a mistake might bring down the sun, or send it far away into the sky."

Snake agreed, and he took the Sundancer's place, and danced the sun through the sky.

"You know the dance well," said the Sundancer; "I have nothing to teach you."

But then Snake swallowed a piece of the sun-fire, and fled lightning-quick from that darkness. The Sundancer's spear fell short, and that piece of the fire was gone. Snake brought it to the girl, and there spat it out, and she was warmed with the fire of the sun, and saved; and she whistled to Snake in thanks.

But the sun darkened, until the Sundancer could restore his fire, and the rest of the world was turned cold.
Part 3

~*~

End

It is warm and dry here and there is food and we can eat and rest. Therrin sleeps nestled against Karr's flank for warmth and comfort, covered in blankets and moving only for food or water. She sleeps often.

When she is awake enough to listen, Ty tells us stories to pass the time. He tells us the stories from his homeland now, from the Island. He tells us of the shining city under the sea – of the people who lived there, able to breathe the water or to make their own air, and of their love for glass and pearls and jewels and metal and all other things that shine and last forever. They could swim as easily as they walked, and spent much of their time in the water. Some of them made their homes on the cliffs, and loved to dive down to the ocean from these heights, he says.

He tells us a story that came from those people, a story about a piece of fire that was trapped in a pearl. It was lost to a strong current and a young hero among them was sent forth to find it and bring it back. She had to travel all around the world to find it, and she told all the people she met what she was looking for, so that they might help her; and that is how the story came to the Island. If she ever found her fire-pearl she went straight home with it and told no one, for this is not part of the story. Some say that she died in her quest, with the pearl almost in her grasp. Ty doesn't know which is true.

And he tells us about great beasts that live deep below the waves, and about those who have seen them, and fought them, and killed or been killed by them; and he tells us about the Sea-Father, who is greatly respected on the Island. He tells us so many stories that I sometimes think he must have told us everything he knows; but he is always ready with another tale.

Sometimes when Therrin is sleeping he leaves the temple, saying that he needs to stretch his legs, but he is never gone for long. For myself I am glad to stay here, in this darkness and this warmth. I might be happy to remain here forever, with the images of the gods all around me and with Ty's stories to keep me awake.

And though Karr is large and fierce, and could easily tear me apart, I don't fear that he might. He has been with Therrin all her life, in her mind, watching her. That is why they are already so close. And she counts us as friends (so she says), so he will protect us with his life, as he will protect her. He will not hurt me, if Therrin does not ask him to.

(And even if he does – that is a death I would take. The dragon is pure, and fierce, and mighty; he is a force all his own; he has nothing to do with _that_. Even if he ripped me apart with teeth and claws, even if he devoured me, even if he burned the flesh from my bones: that is a death I would take.)

But the curse is still here, and every time I see it I am still afraid. Against my will I think of her and of her vow to kill us. I do not doubt that she will fulfill that vow. She does not give up. When she is thwarted, she finds a new way and she tries again. She will not rest until we are dead. She will not.

Perhaps she is tracking us already. Perhaps she knows already where we are, or whither we shall go next. She will have her revenge. She will kill us all.

And she will not only kill us. She swore that she would kill us with her own hand, and I know she will be certain that we suffer when we die, as she suffered. She will not find it difficult. She has her little blue spells and she has her dagger and her poison and she has all the wealth and all the cunning and all the power of a noble. How could I choose to make an enemy of one such as her?

She will stop at nothing. The might of Karr and of all the dragons of his world might protect us, but if she must kill them to reach us, she will. And she will succeed. She always succeeds.

Not for nothing have I known her all these years. I know her so well. I can see her face in my mind: her golden hair, her delicate chin, her stormy gray eyes, the scar across her cheek. I cannot stop remembering her. She will not leave my mind.

I remember the fervor with which she swore to end the life of Therrin's mother. She will not be wronged. Kerheyin was _hers_ and so his lover must die. Now that same fervor must drive her to kill us, for we betrayed her to save that bastard child.

We betrayed her.

She had been hurting me since I knew her and so I betrayed her and now she will kill me.

I remember how she clung to the light, in the tunnels under Therwil and in the Queen's sacred caves. I remember the fear in her eyes, and the tears. I remember her weakness. Her shoulders shook when she learned that Kerheyin was dead and she clung to me in the darkness and when I failed her she stabbed out my eye in her rage and her fear.

She had so much fear and she always hid it and I never knew.

A small part of me is sorry for her, my flower, the friend I never had. I want to be sorry for her fear and her pain. But a greater part cannot even think of her, not without my stomach clenching in fear. I want to ram my head into the stone walls so that I might stop, so that the thoughts might go away. I think of the pain and of my crushed and battered skull and of my thick blood smeared across the wall and I wish that I dared, for it seems so much better. It would hurt but it would be a clean real hurt and it would be nothing but stone and my own head and _she_ would have nothing to do with it. Maybe I could beat the memories and the thoughts of _her_ out of my head.

I try to think only of such things, to block out my memories. Whenever I begin to think of _her_ , I try instead to picture the walls bleeding from behind the carvings. The blood pools up around us, thick and warm and glutinous. It paints my skin with red. My skin is gone, my pale skin with its freckles and its scars is ripped apart with singing pain and cast off of my hands like thin, torn gloves. Beneath it is redness and spasming flesh and it is falling apart, it is rotting and it is blackening and I am bleeding black sap. My hands tighten into fists and my dirty nails pierce my naked flesh and the blood wells up between my fingers.

I remember my bleeding shoulder and I remember the pain in my eye and the liquid that trickled down my cheek. I remember the light that was the last light I saw with my own eye. I try to think only of the pain. I try to forget what came around it, who hit me, who stabbed me, who hurt me. _That_ is what makes the memory bad. The hurt itself, the pain, the blood, is better. It is so much better and it is strong enough that maybe it can take over my mind and protect me. I hope.

I know that she will kill us when she finds us – and I know that she will find us. Yet it is not death I fear. It is _her_ , it is only _her_ , her voice, her smile, her nearness, the very thought of her.

No. No, I must not think of it. I must not even begin to think of it. I try again to lose myself in the thoughts of pain. My fingers will not rest. I am rubbing at my wrists, scratching, trying to pull away the skin, trying to lose myself before I remember.

A large brown hand covered in rings closes on my wrist and pulls it away. I start, broken out of my reverie, and look up into Ty's face fearfully. His dark eyes are narrowed, his heavy brows drawn together.

"Don't hurt yourself," he says.

I shiver and I give a slight nod to appease him. He releases my hand. I draw up my knees to my chin and loop my arms around them, and I watch the room around me. Ty is nearby, between myself and the hated curse. The Princess and the dragon are sleeping; I can see Therrin's face from here, twisted with fearful dreams.

She wakes suddenly and sits up, gasping, her eyes wild. She must take a deep breath to calm herself before she can stand to fetch some water. She trembles as she drinks it.

"Dreams?" Ty asks.

She nods. "The temple was flooded with blood," she tells us with a shaking voice.

I start. Too late I remember that Therrin can feel my thoughts. I look down at the floor and I bite at my lips and I say quietly: "I forgot."

"What?"

"I didn't think," I say. "I forgot that you would know what I feel."

"Then – that was you?"

I clench my blind eye shut and nod. I cannot help but to see her with my demon-eye, and she is watching me with an air of alarm. She is stronger now but still hot with fever. "Why?" she asks.

I shake my head. I don't know how to answer. I don't have an answer.

"Please," she says, "it's going to be all right. As soon as I'm better we'll go back to the Unnamed Lands and free the dragons, and everything will be all right again."

I shake my head. No. She can't understand. The fate of that world means so little to me. That is not my fear, my reason.

"Listen – listen to me, Arrek." She holds my hand, her long pale feverishly hot fingers wrapped around mine. "We will stop her when she comes, if she comes. She shan't kill us, any of us."

No, please no, don't speak of her, don't let the thoughts in. I tear away my hand and I try not to listen. The curse is _watching_ , always watching. I cover my eyes with my hands. I won't think about it. I won't.

"Arrek?"

"Please," I say (I think of its shadowy blackness, of it spreading, touching me, on my skin, in my mind), "your knife, the third treasure, the black knife, it can cut through anything, can't it? Can't it?"

"I don't –" she starts, uncertain.

"Cut it," I say, begging, pleading. "Cut it apart, kill it, make it go away."

"What are you –"

"The black shadow," I rave, "the curse, the thing which follows me. Please, Therrin. Please, you have the knife; please try."

She is silent for a moment. I drop my hands and look at her: she is shaking her head.

"No," she says. "Remember what Ty said? If the noblewoman finds us, Curse will distract her and give us an edge. And she has proven her worth to us already, by showing us the way. I shall not be sorry to see her go, if only for your sake; but neither will I kill her."

" _Please_ ," I beg, but Therrin only shakes her head.

I can feel rage rising inside me and a part of me wants to hit her, to make her do as I ask, to make her see what her refusal is doing to me. She recoils as though I had. She looks at me, hurt and alarmed.

A part of me is horrified. I can hurt her with only my mind. I can think of hitting her and she feels the blow. I _hurt_ her. I didn't mean to hurt her.

But another part is filled with triumph, because – though I could never have the courage to actually hit her – I am strong enough to hurt someone who won't help me. I made her listen. I showed her, didn't I? She has to listen now. She has to.

But she doesn't. She goes back to Karr's side and she whispers to him. I am afraid that he will punish me for hurting her (I didn't mean to! I didn't!) but he if he does anything, it is nothing I can see. She curls up against his flank again, warm and comfortable, and she does not speak to me again for days.

I return to the thoughts of pain and horror. It is a soothing way to keep the memories at bay. I can rest like this, whenever Ty isn't telling his stories, whenever I am left to think for myself.

At last she says: "Please stop."

I look up at her, woken from my bloody reverie.

"Karr has helped me to shield my mind, so I no longer feel your feelings and I don't see the..." she shakes her head, her face twisted with distaste. No, it is deeper than distaste. I don't know what it is. "Those things you think," she says. "It is better now. And really it's..." she stops, tries again. "It's not my place to stop you. But..." she stops again.

I listen. I don't want to. I don't want to know.

"I still know when you're thinking these things, even if I don't see it myself. I know that when you're sitting there smiling and calm and peaceful it means that your mind is filled with horror."

I am drowning in blood, fighting against the tide. It floods my lungs and stops my breath. There is a fire in my chest and I try to gasp for air but there is nothing to breathe but thick irony blood.

"Please..." Yes, yes. I am listening. I can listen to her voice. I can listen to her voice like fingernails sliding down glass. I can hear her with my ears ripped from my shattered skull and torn to pieces. I can be in both these worlds at once. I have no reason to stop. I won't let the memories nearer.

"I don't know what's wrong with you," she goes on quietly. "You're all afraid and hurt by everything when your eyes are open and you can see what's really there – even when there's _nothing_ bad – but when you see only the horrors in your mind you can be calm and _smiling_ as though everything were all right. In all my time traveling with you I could count the times I've seen you smile with the fingers on one hand, but now you are always smiling with these visions of pain running through your mind."

The temple is collapsing and the slabs of stone are falling and crushing me and piercing my flesh. I am pinned to the ground and I cannot move at all and I am alive with pain. Blood is trickling out of my arms, my sides, my legs. I cough violently and it spurts from my mouth. I am coming apart, leaving myself empty and broken. I want to rip myself open, to feel the skin tear.

"I don't know what's wrong with you," she repeats. She kneels down and she takes my cheeks in her hands and holds my face still so that she can look me in the eye and I cannot look away. I try to shrink away under her touch but she holds me still. Her hands are hot and her eyes still bright with fever. Her face looks older – has she already passed me? I don't know. I can't know.

" _Listen to me_ ," she says, insisting. Yes, I am listening. I am listening!

"I have seen you afraid and suffering and I felt for you. I've seen the fear in your eyes and I know it's real. I can understand that there is pain in your past and that you had to recover."

No, don't speak of it. Don't bring it back.

"But this has gone on long enough."

I want to twist my head away, to escape her steely grip. I want to tell her that she's hurting me. I don't think she knows her strength. But I won't speak.

"I've known you how long now? – Almost a season?" I don't know. It all runs together in my mind. I don't want to think of it. I don't want to think of anything.

"And in all that time, you've gotten no better. Your fears have only been growing. And now this – you're always worse and worse. This must stop."

I try to turn away from her, but her grip tightens. " _Listen_ to me. I don't know just what happened to you, but it is _in the past_. She is not here. You are _safe_ right now. Why do you have to pollute that safety with your fears? There is nothing here that can hurt you! Why can't you just be glad that she's not here, instead of always looking for her behind your shoulder?"

No. No, please no. Don't let them in. Don't speak of that. Don't make the memories come back. Don't let _her_ into my mind.

I want to scream at her, to yell that what she asks is impossible, that it is too much to recover from so quickly, that I don't know if I can ever be better, that she is lucky I am still here at all with the curse always there and _watching_ me. But I am too afraid. I shut my blind eye tightly and I wait in silence until she lets me go.

I hope, now, that we may leave soon. Maybe whatever is happening around me will be enough distraction, then, so that I needn't return to my little visions. I don't want to upset Therrin further. I will appease her if I can. But while we are waiting here in darkness, with nothing to fix our thoughts on but the past, and with the curse always nearby me, this is the best that I can do.

~*~

We leave for the gate as soon as the fever has left Therrin and she has regained her strength. Karr will not fit through the little hole high above us – he tells us that the temple was rebuilt around him as he slept – that is why there are some smooth places in the walls without carvings – so he tears apart the temple with his mighty claws to escape it. It crumbles easily. If not for his long sleep, it could never have held him.

Therrin and Ty and I stand outside on the stone plain and watch as the temple is destroyed. I whistle to Snake, sorry that it must be lost. It was all that the stone plain still had.

"Perhaps life will return here, now that the spell is broken," Therrin says. I hope she is right – I hope we have done more good than harm to this place. The people feared Karr, I remember. They prayed that he would never rise from his prison.

They prayed in vain.

We clamber onto the dragon's back, so he may carry us back. My boots slip against his scales, but I climb carefully and at last I am sitting astride him, clinging to the thick bone-white spine before me. Its point presses gently into my stomach, so that I fear I may be impaled if I lean too far forward in flight, but it is good to have something to hold.

Therrin sits before me and Ty behind. The curse begins to follow us, but Karr thumps his tail against the ground and steps aside. " _You_ may not ride me, Curse that you are," he says. "If you are tied to Arrek as I suspect, you will find your own way to fly."

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I am grateful. "Thank you," I murmur beneath my breath. I do not know if he hears me.

The curse does follow as we fly, drifting through the air as it did through the water – but it is only a small black thing, and Karr is wild and strong beneath me, and I am safe here. It cannot reach me, however near it may be.

He flies fast, beating back the air with his powerful wings. The stone plain drops away quickly beneath us. I have never liked heights, but I like them better now than astride the bone-hawk – if only because I cannot see the ground between his ribs when I look down – and the dragon is a welcome warmth against the bitter wind and icy rain, so I am glad to be near him, even this far from the ground.

The stone plain is nothing but even grayness beneath us, but Karr flies with purpose. He has no need of the curse's guidance, nor of any maps. He knows the way to the gate.

"We must go straight to the cavern to free the others," Therrin says. "We have dallied long enough."

"No," says Karr. "First we visit Ioranne. She has done much for us, and we have but little time to reward her."

"Who is Ioranne?" asks Ty.

"Ioranne is the name that once belonged to the woman you call the woodland witch."

"And why have we so little time?"

"Now that she has done her duty, her life runs very short."

When night comes we rest beneath Karr's wing, sheltered from the frozen wind and rain. It is warm and safe and the black shadow is outside his wing where I cannot see it. It cannot watch me and I must not remember it.

But sometimes the memories flit through my mind, all the same.

It is a much shorter journey than when we came to the temple: Karr flies very quickly, and we walked slowly, checked by Therrin's illness as we were. So it seems a very short while before we leave the stone plain behind us.

When the ocean is beneath us Karr dives close to the waves and opens his maw, swallowing a large mouthful of water and fish. I wonder if it is hunger or thirst that he is sating, or if he is diving only for the joy of it. My stomach drops with the swoop, but Therrin giggles delightedly at the feeling of flight and of sea spray on our ankles; even with his belly skimming the waves the spray reaches no higher. We are safe here on his back, safe from everything, untouchable, protected. Maybe it will be better this time, that other world. It was broken because the dragons were missing, but now I am always near to one. Maybe he will keep me safe from the grayness and the strangeness and the deadness in my mind. Maybe, maybe it will be all right.

I watch the dragon's wake in the water below as he rises again, holding tightly to the spine before me for fear I might fall. I watch the disturbed waves scatter and reform. I watch the sleet hitting the water. My stomach turns – it is so far away, so far below me! – but a part of me delights in this swimming in my head. If I am too dizzy to think at all, I know I shan't remember.

"How wilt thou fit through the gate?" Therrin asks at last. The thought had crossed my mind before, but I said nothing. Karr passed through the gate once before. It must be possible.

"My kind has always found it easier to pass between worlds," he replies. "The gate was built for true mortals. I must only be in the right place to shift."

At long last I see the path before us, surrounded on all sides by water, and the gate at its summit. And there, beyond it, where we might never have seen it had we approached by boat, I see a ship very much like Ler's.

"What is that ship?" I ask, surprised by it.

Ty peers around my shoulder. "Is there a ship?" he asks. "I cannot see in this rain. What color have its sails?"

"Red," I answer.

"That does not bode well," he says. "That ship ought to be in Saluyah at this time of year – although perhaps they've changed their route. Still, there is nothing here except the gate. Someone must have paid for passage here."

My throat tightens. No. I will not think of it. That cannot be. It must be some stranger who heard of the legend by chance and wished to see this other world (though the witch said we were only the second to come through in many years, and the first were Therrin's mother and father). Or perhaps the red ship was blown off course by a storm (though we are far from all land, and the gate is suspiciously near). It could be anything, anything at all.

For now, Karr seems to pay it no heed. He flies to the gate, and as we pass above it I can feel the lightning in my veins – but only briefly, and I see no darkness – and then we are through, easily and quickly. We are surrounded by warm summer and the fairies dance around us, singing their joy. "At last you've returned! At last we can be restored! At last we may let the years take hold of this gate!"

Before my eyes, the summer vanishes – and comes again – and again – and again. The trees wither and die and new ones sprout from the ground, unfurling their bright new leaves. A thousand years come and go within the span of a minute, and now it is cold here, and the flowers of summer are all dead, and the grass – still greener than that outside this circle – is touched by frost.

This world no longer seems quite as broken, now that Karr is here. _It_ is recovering. The other dragons must still be freed, and quickly, but it will grow and live and recover from this bane. I can breathe this air more easily now, and my nature sense is neither overwhelmed nor deadened. It must be all because Karr is so near.

We bid the fairies farewell and fly straight for the witch, as Karr said we must. As we land before her little cottage she runs out to meet us, her aged face creased with worry.

"You've returned! At last!" she cries. "You must fly to the cavern, quickly, quickly! But I am glad you've stopped here – quickly – there is something I must tell you. Come here, Therrin, Arrek, Ty. Come here." She speaks our names gently, as though they were precious and delicate. Poor Ioranne, left without a name for a thousand years! It is no wonder that ours should seem precious to her.

"Come here," she says impatiently as we slide down Karr's back. "Come, hold my hands – hold hands now – I must show you something. There is no time to explain – I must show you." She takes Therrin's hand and Ty's, and they each reach for one of mine, so that we form a circle.

"Close your eyes," she says. "Karr, you'll see this memory through Therrin, yes? I needn't show you?"

"Yes," he says.

I have closed my blind eye but I cannot stop my demon seeing. The woman's urgent air is catching, and I am afraid that we have no time, that we are too late after all. And now that I am hurried, I am afraid of the witch as well, afraid of this circle, afraid of whatever she will show us – more because I do not know _how_ she will show it to us than because I fear the vision itself.

My question is quickly answered as she shuts her eyes and mumbles beneath her breath, and then, suddenly –

It was two days after the fairies told me that the Princess had left these lands with all three treasures, and was on her way to rescue Karr. They came to me again, and called inside my mind: "We have more strangers – from the other world. There are many of them, this time."

"I am coming," I answered, and added to my soup a pinch of the herb that was still, after all this time, real. Then I steeled myself against the bitter chill outside and went to greet them.

There must have been twenty of them at least, all of them riding strange black horses – with tails like lions' and horns pointing back toward their riders – in full barding. They were led by a richly dressed girl of about fifteen years, whose shape I knew at once as the girl called Curse, though she was alive, and full of color.

(I try to fight it. I try to flail about, I try to whistle to Snake, I try to scream. I have no limbs to flail with. I have no lips to purse. I have no voice to scream.

I have no thoughts to ward it off. I can feel my panic, my repulsion, my hatred, my fear; but only through a thick layer of feelings I have no reason to have – surprise, interest, the aching in my old joints. These are my feelings. The rising panic beneath is nothing.

I try to scream but I cannot hear myself.)

I greeted the group and asked them who they were. They didn't understand me, of course; so I fetched a bowl of my soup and offered it to the girl who seemed to be their leader. She eyed me with distrust and gave it to one of the men beside her. He ate.

"Greetings," I tried again.

He yelled something I couldn't understand, surprised, and gave the bowl back to his leader. Soon all the group had eaten a bite of my soup, and all could understand me. Again, I greeted them and asked them who they were.

"I am Melianarrheyal of House Lithuk," said the girl. "I'm looking for someone."

"House Lithuk?" I remembered that name – it was the Princess's. She was Therrin Shiaran of House Lithuk, and hers was the first name I had heard in a thousand years.

"Yes – have you heard the name before?"

I told her about Princess Therrin and her companions: the tall dark swordsman with the contemptuous smile, the quiet frightened boy with the glowing eye, and the black shadow-girl who looked just like her. She listened with interest, and when I'd finished she said: "I must find them. When did you see them? Whither did they go?"

"Who are you to ask?"

"I am Therrin's sister. I must be sure she's safe. Whither did she go?"

When I refused to tell her, she asked me why not; and before I knew what was happening, I was telling her everything. I could feel a spell on me, making me tell the truth, and couldn't resist it. So I told her about the dragons, and the bane on this world, and the treasures, and whither the Princess had gone, and whither she was headed next. By the time I could control my words again, my cauldron of soup was divided between two of her servants – one of whom was to ride toward the necromancer, and the other toward the lake – who were to verify my story, and feed the soup to anyone they met on the way who couldn't understand them, the better to question them. And the girl herself, and the rest of her group, were riding hard toward the cavern.

(I am still trying to scream, to fight, to escape. I have no throat to scream, but now – it is real, I am screaming. I am screaming.)

My throat is raw from shouting. My face is wet with tears. I am sitting now, almost lying, but my hands are still held by Ty and Therrin, who somehow kept hold of me – though I hit them both, by the look of their bruises. Their fingers dig sharply into my wrists at first, but they drop me quickly when they become aware of themselves. I clutch my sore arms to my chest, to my head. I let out a low moan – it hurts, it hurts through my throat. But I cannot keep silent. I cannot bear this. I am still weeping, my blind eye shut tightly but spilling hot tears. I hurt and the hurt is not enough to cleanse my mind. It will not end. I can still think, I can still remember. I can taste the revulsion, the horror. I can see her still in my mind as though I looked her full in the face. I saw her. I saw her and I heard her. I can't blot the memory from my mind. I can't. I _can't_.

I can't breathe anymore. I can't stop breathing. The breaths come short and fast and without air, scraping painfully against my wounded throat, and my chest feels liquid and I am tingling, in my lips, and in my nose, and then all around my mouth and my cheeks and my chin and my neck. And my fingers, my toes, my hands and legs and arms. My head is spinning. There is black on the edge of my vision, where my mind cannot see despite the demon that cannot be fooled by tricks of light. I can feel the air in the bellows of my lungs, pressed out almost before it flows in. I can't stop. I can't. I can't stop it. I try to stop it – no – if I keep breathing like this, if I cannot stop, I know I will swoon – I can't. I try to hold in my breath but it bursts out. I try to slow it but I cannot. I try to loosen my grip – my right hand is clutching my left wrist – Snake, my left hand is so white – so white – bloodless, dead – I cannot let go. I will die like this. I will die. I cannot stop myself. My heart is drumming, so fast, I can feel it, I can feel it a steady throbbing through which I can hardly feel the beats, too fast, it is too fast. I try to whistle but I cannot, I cannot stop the breaths that shoot through me, I cannot purse my lips.

I can see, flashes. I cannot heed the things around me. Single images work through to me, the ashen moss that hangs above the cottage, the twitch of Karr's tail, the shape of the ground two hands' lengths from the witch's right foot. They burn into my mind, into my memory. They burn into me. I cannot close my demon-eye, I cannot stop glancing around, wildly, shifting my gaze from one thing I cannot perceive to another. My eye turns to the sky – do I see it? I cannot even know – and I try to fall, to crouch, to curl up, to stay near the ground, the safety and the sanctity and the shelter of the earth. Gods, protect me. Gods. Snake. Snake, Snake, I cannot whistle, I cannot. Snake, save me. Snake, save me, help me, Snake, empty my mind, empty my memory, change what happened. Snake, my hand, white as dead flesh, let me let it go. Let me feed it rushing blood. I cannot move my fingers, I cannot. I cannot move. I cannot stop it. I cannot make it better. I cannot burn the memory.

Therrin is moving ahead of me, moving. Slower and then faster, slower, faster. All the world. Therrin, Ty, Karr, the witch, the odious black shadow, gods, Snake, all ye gods, it is still there, make it burn, make it die! Faster and slower, the world, time, it will not stay the same. It will not hold _still_.

"Arrek? Arrek! Are you –" No, don't speak to me! I cannot respond, I cannot even listen! My stomach twists as though I might vomit and I don't know what to do, I cannot leave their questions but I cannot speak, I cannot. The breaths quick and sharp cannot be used for words. I can say nothing. My blood is burning. I cannot slow my breaths. I cannot cleanse my mind. She is _there_ , she is there in my mind and she will not leave, she will not disappear, she is there.

Someone is prising my clenched fingers from my deadened wrist, and someone's hand is on my shoulder, heavy and calming but not enough. I brush it off. I cannot heed their words. I cannot heed them when they call my name. I cannot. I surge to my feet – I almost fall – I totter away, away. I cannot even see the gray trees until I almost run into them but I keep walking, running, my legs almost buckling with every step, and always it goes faster and then slower, slower, faster, I don't know where my foot will land, I don't know when, I don't know if it will stay beneath me. I flee them. I flee into the dead broken gray wood – I flee them, I flee _her_ , I flee the sight of her which Ioranne put into my mind, I could not look away, _I could not look away_ , I cannot think of it, I cannot. I flee until my knees cease to support me.

They give and I fall.

I lie flat against the dusty cold ground. I fall into the cold and I breathe and at last it passes out of me and I slow. The cold is all around me and it freezes and calms me. My breaths slow and quiet until I am hardly breathing at all.

For a long while, I lie still. The fire in my lungs and in my mind has burnt out. I can no longer think or feel or weep or breathe.

My fingers are cold. The tingling has given way to liquid numbness. My back is itching with sweat, but I cannot bring myself to remove my coat.

I cannot bring myself to move at all.

It is Ty who finds me at last. "I have him!" he shouts loudly to the others, and lifts me in his arms, and carries me back to the cottage. Karr bites at my coat gently – as though I were a kitten – to lift me onto his back, where I sit between two of his spines, too weak to say a word, too weak to sit upright.

Therrin returns from another direction. They must have both been searching for me. She begins to say something, but she quiets when she sees my weakness now that the fit has passed.

I am slumped over the spine before me, wishing I could lie down, unable to hold on.

They are speaking, quietly. I cannot grasp their words. I cannot bring myself to care. A long time they speak.

Only when Karr speaks do I listen: "We thank you for the warning, but that was not why we came here. We came because you have done much for us, and for this world. For that, you deserve some recompense.

"First: your name was once Ioranne."

"Ioranne," repeats the old woman. "Ioranne. Yes, I remember now." Her eyes have filled with tears, and she grins a toothless smile. Her face folds into its creases. "I am Ioranne. Thank you."

"Second: your time is over. Even if we fly straight to the cavern and free the others without difficulty, _you_ will have faded before we have a chance to save you. Thus I have come to bring you the final gift."

"Thank you," she whispers, weeping openly. "Thank you." He lowers his head and she reaches for him, embracing his nose, and then I feel her life fading, and then she is gone. Her lifeless body falls to the ground, a thousand years too old.

Now Therrin and Ty clamber onto the dragon's back, before and behind me, and we fly on. When I begin to fall, Ty steadies me; but we do not speak.

~*~

That night I am still much weakened, so that I can hardly grip nor eat my supper, and sleep claims me easily for once. By morning the strength has returned to my limbs, and my fingers twitch with nervousness, but my mind is yet empty and still. I eat my breakfast and I climb onto Karr's back and I give Therrin a slight nod when she bids me good morning, but I do not speak. I do not think. I do not remember. It is the same in the days that follow.

We fly west, away from the gate. It is a long way. I watch the world as it goes by – it seems a little more colored now, if only a little, and the sun shines brighter when it shines. It does not shine often. The sky soon turns gray with cloud, and a heavy snowfall hails the arrival of winter. I wonder how long it has been since this world has seen any snow at all. It has always seemed so dry here.

The air around us is filled with whirling flakes, dark shadows against the blank sky, so that my mind grows dizzy with watching them and Karr complains that he can hardly see. They melt when they touch his hide, but they cling to Therrin's hair before me when they land, and the ground below us is quickly blanketed in white. It falls fast and thick.

Ty has taken to telling us stories again, to while away the time, and now with this weather around us the stories he tells are of Feather-touch. She is not often heard of in the Mountains, so I listen with interest to his tales: she is a goddess of cold, of snow, of sleep, of the numbness of the heart; and she is said to appear as a pale woman clad in white, whose dance beneath the earth draws down the snowfall. The feather-soft kiss of wet flakes on our skin is said to be her calming touch.

She can let us forget, can clothe our woes in soft and glittering white; she can bury us beneath her blanket and let us sleep in the darkness of earth. She can keep us safe and hidden and unfeeling.

Ty sings for us the Island-folk's songs to her, and he tells us about the mortals she has saved and doomed, and he tells us that she has a different dance for every type of snow. I listen and watch the dancing flakes and I offer her a prayer of thanks for the stillness in my mind.

At night we sleep in the warm red darkness beneath Karr's wing. I will not sleep until I have given Feather-touch a prayer for safe sleep untouched by the dreams I have fled for so long. I hope she can hear me.

Without the motion of flight to sweep the snow from his wings, even Karr is bedecked by snow when he rests. He looks like a large hill until he stirs and shakes Feather-touch's white blanket from his scales. So we are hidden and safe while we rest – but nothing is searching for us, nothing can be searching for us, there cannot be a need for this safety. I mustn't even think of it.

Sometimes I hear the others speaking of Karr's speed, and of the speed a rider might have in this weather, and of the time we spent wandering the stone plain and then convalescing in the temple; but I will not listen. I empty my mind to the falling snow and the wind of the flight, dreaming of Feather-touch's dance.

So the days pass, until the snowfall abates. When at last we see the great mountain ahead of us, it is only a few scant flakes that float down from the heavens. The clouds above are only a thin veil, and I can see where the sun is behind them – it must be afternoon – but it is only a lighter place in the sky, no true sunlight breaking through.

The mountain itself rises steeply from the snow-covered land around it. The great cavern wherein the dragons must be hidden is perhaps halfway down the slope, and the entrance is just large enough that Karr will pass through it easily. I cannot yet see beyond it. And at the base of the mountain are some twenty or thirty dark moving spots on the snow – steeds, steeds in full barding, and their riders setting up camp – and some of their faces are upturned, watching as Karr spreads his wings above them – no, I cannot look. I cannot see. I turn my demon-eye toward the dragon's bright scales beneath me, and try to see nothing else.

Around me they are speaking. I mustn't listen. I mustn't. "They are here," says Therrin, and Karr answers her: "There's nothing we can do right now. We must hurry. I can feel the others calling us – they are nearly out of time." Perhaps we dallied too long in the temple after all, then. But no, I mustn't think. I am not listening.

"It will take them at least a few hours to climb the slope," Therrin says; "will that last us?"

"I cannot know," says Karr. "Our task may take us that long, or longer."

"It may not take _them_ that long," Ty says grimly. "If any one among them can still use his talent, they might easily send up a single person."

I am not listening. _I am not listening._

"I still have mine," Therrin says, "– but we've been with Karr all this time, and they've been in this world longer than we. Still, we can't be certain if they've lost theirs."

"I know from my time traveling with her that she is determined, if nothing else. If there is a way to reach us before the dragons are freed, she will find it."

I AM NOT LISTENING.

"Stand guard, then," says Karr, and he flies into the cavern.

The mountain looks as though it was hollowed out by hand. The tunnel we fly through is easily large enough for Karr, but I can see corridors to both sides through which no dragon could fit, if they are all as large as he is.

(Cold gray stone on every side...)

"Is there another entrance?" asks Ty.

"None large enough for my kind, but I think there are some smaller holes."

Please no. Please, please no.

Karr lands at last in a strange room. The floor and ceiling and most of the walls are all of the same gray stone, but the largest wall looks like thick bluish ice. The dragon snorts at it angrily. It doesn't melt, even when his flames lick against it.

"They are behind this wall," he growls. "Therrin and I must use the chalice to reach them. It may take a long while."

"I will keep watch," Ty promises.

Karr curls up on the floor, and Therrin sits with her back to his flank and makes certain that she has the necklace and the knife with her.

"I hope we are not too late," she says as she fills the chalice. Some of the clear cold liquid she pours onto Karr's forked tongue; the rest she downs herself. As soon as she has swallowed she falls back onto the dragon's flank, asleep. They both are, asleep and empty.

For a long time I sit and watch them; but they do not move, and there is nothing to watch. My mind shies away from thought, and my fingers itch for something to do. I rub at the skin on my hands and wrists and I bite at my nails and I run my fingers through my hair. I have left it loose – is it finally long enough that I may do so? I forgot to bind it back, that is all – the painful spot on my scalp is long healed.

When I cannot bear it any longer I stand and I pace. My stomach twists with worry, with fear (no there is no reason to be afraid there cannot be, it cannot be). I am still scratching myself, hurting myself, rubbing out the skin. I cannot bear this waiting. Ty is silent, and I very much doubt that I could listen to his stories now, if he were telling them.

With my pacing and with Karr's nearness in this small room – it is only perhaps twice as big as he is – I soon grow very hot despite the ice so near beside me. I strip off my leather coat and leave it in the corner, and I pace. I don't know how much longer I can bear this. I don't know what Therrin is doing; I don't know what (NO I will not think of it) I don't know, I don't know, I can't _do_ anything. I don't know how much time we have. I don't know how much time it will take. I can do _nothing_ to make it go faster. I can do nothing.

At last I can bear it no longer. "I'm going for a walk," I tell Ty. "I want to see where the other tunnels lead." It is a lie – but I must move, I must walk somewhere where I don't always see Therrin's sleeping face whenever I turn.

"Don't go too far," he says. "Yell if anything happens, and I will come."

What could happen? What could possibly happen here? But I nod to appease him. I leave my coat on the ground – I am still hot, and don't want to carry it – and I leave the room with its ice-wall.

I walk without aim through the mountain, taking turns where I see them. My feet are restless; I try to wear them out. The curse follows me. I was so eager to forget it, and it was easy enough when Karr made it keep its distance; but now that we have landed it stays close by, always following. I don't think it _can_ leave me. It is never more than ten or twenty paces away.

I try not to watch it.

At last I come to one of the little holes Karr spoke of, a slit in the mountainside perhaps twice as tall as I am. I fit through it easily. I step outside more for the snow than anything else: I am hot and thirsty and eager for a drink. I lift the snow with my hands and swallow as much as I can. It is colder than I expected, and I empty my hands quickly and hug them to my chest for warmth.

I can see the dark spots below me, the steeds and their riders, much closer now – this hole must be farther down the slope. And there is something moving, climbing the mountain – no – it cannot be, it must be my tired mind seeing things that are not there. I turn away quickly, back into the cave, and put it out of my head.

Now that my feet are tired and my fingers are cold from snow, I find I no longer want to walk. I sit down in a corner, leaning back against the stone. It is much colder here than beside Karr. I long for the warmth of my coat, but I don't want to move. I don't know if I can remember the way back. I don't want to ask the curse – I never want to speak to it, I never want to look at it.

It is _watching_ me. I throw a stone at it – it passes through its black shadow-flesh without harming it.

"Go _away_ ," I say, half growling, half screaming. It retreats to another corner, but will not leave the room. I content myself with looking at the ground where there are no shadows, only even stone. I will not look at it. I will forget it is here. I am alone.

It is very cold here. Is that a sound I hear? No, it cannot be. It must be only the wind in the snow. But I do not like it here any longer; it is too cold, and too close to the world outside, and there are too many strange noises. I ought to leave. I ought to go back to Ty and Therrin and Karr. I ought to help him watch over their sleeping bodies. Surely if I wander long enough I can find the way back.

I put down my hand to push myself up, and I put up my head – and I see a shadow over the entrance.

I sit frozen, afraid to move.

_She_ steps inside the mountain, dressed as elegantly as a noble ever was – with jewels in her golden hair – her cheeks flushed with cold and exercise, her polished black boots caked with snow – her fox-fur cloak draped across her shoulders.

No, this cannot be real. It must be a dream, it must be. She cannot be here. It cannot be real.

Hardly a moment has passed – I don't know what to think – I haven't the time to move or speak – when the curse rushes from its corner, runs toward her, with its arms outstretched. It flings itself at her, embraces her, presses itself against her.

"What! –" she struggles against it but she cannot push it away. It holds her close but her hands push through it. There is fear in her eyes, her hateful eyes that I had hoped never to see again. The black shadow puts its mouth against hers as though to kiss her and it flows into her, onto her, consumes her – her skin is half-covered by black – she screams, Snake, how she screams (Ty must hear it he must he must come to protect me) – and then the black is gone, and she is all alone, panting, her eyes wild.

I push farther back into my corner. I shrink down into the rock at my back, trying to vanish, trying to flee. I cannot flee, I cannot flee, there is nowhere to flee to. The hard wall behind me refuses to yield.

She turns to me, she turns her scarred face to me, she looks at me with cold gray eyes. She smiles her carefully gentle smile. "There you are, Arri," she says, her voice so soft, gentle, forgiving. My stomach twists with fear. Is she real then? Is she real? Stay away, stay back!

"What was that black thing?" she asks, taking a step toward me. I try to flee, scrabble against the rock, but I can go no farther. I shake my head mutely. Go away, go _away_! She cannot be real. She is only a dream. But she is here, she is _here_.

"Are you so afraid of me, Arri?" she laughs. "Whatever for? Come now; come here and everything will be all right. It is only I! Come here now."

No. No, she hurt me, she hurt me so much. I watch her in silence, beginning to weep with terror.

"You look a fair sight," she goes on as she takes another step. "Your hair's growing long, and your clothing – almost as though you were trying to be a commoner! Aren't you ashamed to dress like that? You _are_ kretchin after all. Surely you remember. You must cut your hair at once – and you simply must cover up that demon-eye until it can be removed – it's really quite unsightly."

("That's repugnant," she said. "Cover it up.")

"This whole world is gossiping about you, it seems," she says. Doesn't she remember? I knew her so long – I know what she is doing – she hopes to distract me with her kind words, she hopes to make me forget what she did to me. "They say you fell from the sky amid a shower of bones! Whatever does that mean, do you think? But they've also said that you stole some things – a necklace and a cup and some sort of knife. You _do_ know that it's wrong to steal, don't you? I know you're only kretchin, but I thought I'd taught you that much at least." She takes another step. She is so close now, so abominably close. I never want to see her again. She cannot be real.

"It wasn't you, now was it, Arri? It must have been that betraying conjurer – I knew he was trouble all along, didn't I? – and the _bastard_." Her lip twitches with distaste. "Her mother stole my dear Kerheyin's body when she died, do you know that? But I know that _you_ could never betray me, Arri. You have always been so loyal. They stole you away, didn't they? Come here now – tell me where the others are. I need to return the things they stole. You _will_ help me, won't you?"

No, don't come nearer! Please! She must be only a dream but I cannot trust in that, I cannot. Where is Ty? I am too afraid to yell for him. Maybe I am too far away. Maybe he didn't hear the scream. Maybe he won't come.

I draw the knife from my belt – gods, it is heavy – and sharp – what am I thinking? I cannot fend her off. I would prefer to cast the thing aside at once, and never touch it again. I cannot hurt her. I can't. I would hold it out to ward her off, but I will not reach toward her – even wielding a knife – I will not come any closer to her. She is already so close. My stomach clenches with horror and fear, my breaths are coming short and fast. I am too afraid even to whistle. And she smiles her horrible delicate smile and she laughs her deliberately pretty laugh and she says: "What, will you fight me off then? I _know_ you can't use that knife – better to drop it now! Now stop being foolish and come here. _Come here_ , I said!" She takes another step forward and makes as if to grab for me.

No. No, she cannot, I cannot let her. I cry out in terror and lift the knife – no, I will not come closer to her, I _will not_ – I turn it – I shut my blind eye tightly and I cut the only thing I can reach – and in my terror I cut hard and deep and fast. I can _feel_ it tearing through my skin, my flesh, so deep.

Through my open demon-eye I can see her, her eyes wide with something that is not quite shock – is she annoyed with me? Is she angry? – and over her shoulder I see Ty in the tunnel, his dark eyes alarmed, dismayed, confounded – his skin gone pale – his mouth hanging open in horror – the stoic mask gone, the raw emotion beneath exposed – I have never seen him like this before, this open, never – and on my left forearm I see the cut, a wound, a hole, deep and long and _wide_ where the skin has split apart though the knife was thin, all white and glistening, paler than my skin, and bloodless and large, so large, gods below, I have never seen such a wound. And now the blood comes from deep inside the slash, welling up dark and red and _deep_ ; and now the wound is filled, and now it flows from it in quick rivers, running down my arm to collect at my wrist, running down my fingers, running, flowing, quickly, so much, so much blood.

My breath quickens and fear pierces through me. I have seen blood before – little cuts, scrapes, quickly healed however much they stung – oh, I dreamed of it in the temple! I dreamed of great rivers of blood, lakes in which I could drown! But that was never real, nothing more than a fantasy of my frightened mind – and this is so much, and it is _real_ – it flows from my arm, it _flows_ – when I shake it several drops come loose and hit the ground – I have never seen such a wound before. I didn't know it could be. I lived like a child, thinking every hurt would heal in a few short days, thinking no wound could bleed for more than an hour. I watch the flow and I breathe in desperate bursts – has another fit come over me so soon? I shouldn't be surprised – and I whistle to Snake, again and again.

She is speaking – I cannot help but listen – she mocks me, and she scolds me – "What, did you think to kill yourself before I had the chance? I will not be stopped so easily, and you are _mine_ to kill, mine and mine alone!" And she comes at me with her dagger at the ready – and seeing this Ty awakens from his stupor and leaps between us, drawing his sword – and their blades screech against each other – he keeps her at bay, he stands before me and keeps her away – and my arm is bleeding, _bleeding_.

There is blood coming out of my arm – it does not merely well up and dry there – it comes _out_ in little rivers, it flows, it flows, it _will not stop._

My mind is filled with horror and fear and confusion – I don't know what to do – I don't know what I can do – I must do something, it will not stop bleeding – I pull up my sleeve – it is already bloodied and cut by my knife – I pull it up and watch the wound in horror – I watch the blood flow – I whistle to Snake again and again – what do I do – I whistle – what can I do – help me – make it better – make it better – my breaths are fast and they will not stop but it doesn't matter – my breath doesn't matter – there is _blood_ coming _out_ of my _arm_.

I have never seen this much blood in one place. It drips quickly, and leaves pools on the ground – _pools_ – not just spots but pools with _depth_ to them. I cannot look away. I cannot. The skin has folded back under itself, so that there is a thicker line of skin beside the wound – it sickens me – I want to pull it out but I will not touch this wound, I will not reach into the blood. I am afraid of the hurt, so afraid.

My knife lies beside me, dropped without a thought, and its blade is still clean – it pulled through my skin so easily and at first there was no blood, only a gaping white hole, and the knife is unstained.

And before me they are fighting, her dagger scraping against his sword, and she yells to me, "Arri, kill him, fast! Stab him in the back with that knife of yours! Surely you can do that much!" I whistle again – Snake, protect me from her voice. Protect me, let me forget her though she is so close beside me. I don't want to know.

She was trained with her dagger but she is no match for Ty's swordplay. He grabs her empty hand – he lifts it high, out of the way – I see it above his head, his hand around her wrist – she is struggling in vain – and then suddenly she screams – screams like death – I don't want to _hear_ it, I don't want to hear _her_ , I want her _gone_ – her voice is gone – she whispers with her dying breath: "Kerheyin, my beloved, forgive me," oh, her voice is broken, her breaths short and ragged, "for I have failed you; but I shall join you now in death – and _you_ ," her voice grown stronger with rage, "you should die, if I could kill you now, you _betrayer_ ; you deserve no bett-" – and Ty makes a quick movement and then she is silent. Her life in my mind goes out.

Snake, she is _dead_ now.

He steps aside and I see her, her body in a broken bloody heap, her dress stained and wet, her eyes unseeing, staring, dead. I watch her, I watch her but her sides no longer lift with breath. She is dead, unmoving, lifeless, dead.

Snake, she is dead.

He drops his sword and kneels beside me, pulls my hand from my arm roughly, rolls up my bloody sleeve. He examines the wound in silence. It is maybe as long as my finger, and also as wide at its widest, in the side of my arm, running between my elbow and my wrist; and it is still bleeding, bleeding.

He takes a small cloth from one of the many pouches at his belts and wets it from his waterskin and cleans off my wrist and hands. His hands are shaking. I have never seen him like this – he is always calm, always, _always_ – his hands are shaking and he is pale and sweating and I don't know if it is fear or rage in his dark eyes. He washes away the rivers. He is a little more gentle with the wound itself, but it still hurts, and it is bleeding so fast, the wound fills again almost as soon as he dabs the blood away.

He is brimming with emotion – is it anger? Is it? – but he does not speak.

He wets the cloth again – I watch him and I see the water and I am thirsty, I am so thirsty – he pulls a length of fresh cloth from a pouch and ties it around the cut, pulling sharply to be sure it is too tight to slip – it hurts. It hurts so much.

Finally I dare to speak: "I'm thirsty."

He hands me his waterskin in silence. I take it thankfully in my right hand, and I drink, and he puts his own hand – still shaking a little – on my left arm, over the dressing, over the wound – already the blood shows through – and presses down hard. It hurts. It hurts but I say nothing. I only drink.

When I put down the waterskin for a moment my hand lands in a pool of blood – it has thickened considerably – it must have already begun to clot. I wash it away quickly and drink more. I am so thirsty.

My arm hurts. I want to wriggle it away from Ty, but I don't dare.

At last he releases the pressure and sits back, and looks at me. I am afraid of that gaze, of the accusation and the horror in his eyes.

"What was that?" he asks in a low voice shaking with suppressed rage – if that is what it is – I am so unused to his showing emotion that I can hardly place it. I can only shake my head and look down, turn away from those eyes. There is no answer I can give.

I run my fingers over the dressing, over my left hand – that hand is cold, so cold, like ice against the other. I am afraid, afraid of what I have done.

My head spins with dizziness – and it aches – and my stomach turns with fear. And it hurts. It _hurts_. I try to move my arm a little, to find a way to hold it that isn't quite as painful, and I can find nothing. It _hurts_. It hurts no matter what I do.

I'm afraid.

I don't know what to do.

I drink again, empty the skin. I am thirsty and I am afraid and I am still breathing too quickly and I don't know what to say to him and it _hurts_. It doesn't sting the way a small cut will. It doesn't throb. It only hurts, it hurts. And the bloody spot on the dressing is still growing.

Ty makes a noise between a sigh and a growl and he stands up. I don't look at him directly – I am afraid, afraid of his judgment – but I watch as he lifts Mel's bloody corpse – Snake, she is dead, dead! – and heaves it outside, onto the snowy mountainside.

And it hurts and I cannot stop the tears of fear and shame and horror – how could I do such a thing? – and I am so afraid.

Now that he has carried her his shirt is stained red with her blood.

"They will have seen that, and will come for her," he says. "We must seal this entrance and return to Therrin and Karr, quickly."

I say nothing, but only touch my left hand again – it is still so cold, so cold to the touch.

"I hope I still have my conjury this far from Karr," he says. I can see him moving on the edge of my vision – he must be summoning something – but I will not look up at him.

There is a loud sound – I jump a little – and there are rocks falling around us, the cave is collapsing.

"Come, we must flee this," he says, urgently; but I will not move.

He lets out a growl. "This is no time for –" but then he breaks off, and sighs. "All right, then," he says, sounding irked, sounding angry, and he lifts me from the ground.

I briefly consider struggling, but I will not move to do so.

So he carries me back to Therrin in his arms, while the entrance behind us is sealed in a shower of rocks; and my arm keeps bleeding; and _she_ is dead.

~*~
Epilogue

~*~

What Came After

Ty went back to Therrin and Karr, and at last they awoke and the great ice-wall crumbled and melted and the dragons behind were freed.

When they saw the flood of dragons flying from the mountain, several of Melianarrheyal's escort fled. They rode eastward, back to the gate. "Sad for them," Ty said: "in their story, it is the hero who has died. No doubt our little flower's mission – and her failure – will be legend in Thilua in a few years' time."

The rest did not wait to see if the dragons posed a threat, but attacked at once. The dragons defended themselves, and the Thiluan strangers were soon slain. What human force could last against an army of dragons all filled with the joy of freedom?

When that was done the dragons did not stay long. Each of them flew away in a different direction, to spread out over the Unnamed Lands and bring them back to life. Only Karr remained with his Princess. He took his riders to the white castle the mad King had built, where they could live as long as they liked and rest from their adventures.

I stayed in my room, in the soft bed that was made for me. Therrin allowed me to wander about the white castle as I pleased, but she urged me to rest until my wound was healed, and I saw no reason to leave the four walls around me.

By the next morning the entire width of my dressing was soiled, though the red in the center was brighter, fresher. In the evening Ty came to change it. It had dried to my wound, and hurt when it was ripped off, and beneath the cloth the gash was still open and fresh, although the bleeding had finally ceased. And though it was cut with one stroke it wasn't a line but a hole, long and wide and deep, flesh-colored but blotched with blood.

The dressing itself was repugnant, thickly crusted with blood, except for a yellow stain on the inside in the shape of the wound. I looked at it a long while, and didn't know what to think. It was so much blood; and yet so little of what I lost. But Ty took it away, and I would not protest.

I couldn't hold that arm up – nor the other – without an unpleasant tingling that I could not ignore. Even when I rested them, the wound itself hurt. It would not stop hurting.

Ty asked me again why I had done it. I had no response.

When Therrin came to visit me and see how I was healing, I was hopeful that she might not know. Ty had always seemed the sort to keep secrets easily. But right away she asked me: "How could you do such a thing? _Why?_ " and she would not be content with any half-answer I gave her.

But I had no better answer to give.

For a long time they stayed and cared for me. They came to visit me, to talk to me, to feed me, to change my dressings. Therrin offered to find a healer – talents work differently in that world, but it would be easy enough to find someone with a knowledge of herbs, and everyone was eager to do whatever they could for the Princess now that she had freed the dragons and brought salvation to their world – but I begged her not to. I was too afraid. I would not leave my room, nor allow anyone but Therrin and Ty to come and visit me. I was too afraid to allow a stranger to heal my arm.

In time the wound scabbed over with a thick yellow-brown crust. When the dressing was removed it pulled the scab with it and freshened the wound and the blood. It was a sick feeling. After that it was left undressed, to scab in peace.

The pain stayed. It was always there, a constant pressure on my mind. And my fingers were always tingling, and my head ached easily.

Once when I couldn't stand my bed any longer I paced my room for hours on end. My arm began to hurt more and more, and I grew more and more dizzy, and cold, and my breath turned shallow. At last I returned to my bed and rested, and did not leave it again for a long while.

The thick yellow scab crumbled easily, cracked, leaked yellowish liquid with blood fast behind it. I tried to leave it alone, but it sometimes when I picked it off at the edges there wasn't a fresh wound beneath it any longer but a bright pink scar. It scarred over very slowly, from the outside in. Then the pain was joined by an itch, and I found it very difficult not to scratch at it, to scratch off the scab.

They asked me about it again and again and I never had an answer. I didn't like to talk to them, though I was glad when they came to relieve my loneliness. I didn't like to speak or to think or to feel or to do anything at all.

When the scab was small enough that they were certain it wouldn't worsen – and the pain was gone, mostly – they left for a while, to see how the Unnamed Lands were faring after the dragons' return. Therrin told me I might come if I would, but I declined, still unwilling to leave the confines of my room; so I was left alone, and my food was brought by the spirits who lived at the white castle, whom the mad King had made as servants long ago and bound to that place.

I was alone a long time, with no one to speak to me, to tell me stories, to be with me. I passed the days in my bed, or pacing the room. One night I taught myself to say Melianarrheyal's name. I tried again and again and I would not allow myself to stop until I could speak it without stumbling. Melianarrheyal. Melianarrheyal. Melianarrheyal of House Chinlar. Melianarrheyal the kind, Melianarrheyal the horrid. Melianarrheyal the dead.

Another night I allowed myself to remember. I remembered the food she brought me, the gifts she gave me, the lies she told me. I remembered the day when we were walking together on the bridge, and there was a strong wind, and her ribbon tore as she touched her hair. She laughed, and she said: "Here, Arri, you take it!" and she gave it to me and I treasured it for years, as I treasured every other gift.

I remembered when she told me, "I'll take care of you. Don't you worry."

I remembered when she died.

I wept, remembering her. I wept with fear and hatred and loss. It hurt to think of her, it hurt in ways I did not know I could hurt. And I was still so afraid of her, though I knew she could never come for me again. But that night I allowed myself to think of her, hoping that if I did I'd never think of her again, and it would be over. I hoped in vain. The curse was long gone, but I needed no curse to dream.

After that I amused myself by trying to remember all the stories Ty had told me before – but most of them I had heard only once, so I could not remember them well, and he was not there to ask. I gave up long before I had finished.

At last I spoke to one of the spirits who brought me food, asking for charcoal and parchment, and I spent my days blackening the one with the other. I had never had much interest in drawing, but I tried to bring my sorrow and my emptiness and my fear to the parchment; and each time I failed, and each time I blacked out the attempts. I never succeeded, but I was able to keep myself busy in this manner until they returned.

They had flown with Karr, and had first made a wide sweep of the land and then gone to see how everyone fared whom we had met as we gathered the treasures. Therrin told me everything they saw: the land was no longer gray; its snowy shroud was white and glittering and beneath it everything was bright and colored, just like home. The people were all overjoyed to see colors again, and to see that she had a dragon with her. The exceedingly old remembered what names they'd once had, and the younger chose new names. The land was alive again.

Ioranne's cottage was gone without her there to keep it alive. They hadn't found the cottage itself at all beneath the snow, and had only guessed as to the clearing in which it once was; there was a great tree curving over the clearing, and they thought they knew it as the tree that had once curved over Ioranne's house. The tree was living now, and when Ty touched it no dust or ash came loose, and its gray was only the normal gray of bark. When summer comes it will have leaves again, green and growing, and there will be fresh moss hanging from its great wooden limbs.

The fairies had spread a little, no longer confined to the small circle of summer. They were all throughout the forest. They looked forward to spring, and fresh flowers and rains and mushroom rings; but they were glad to see winter again, for the first time in many years. They danced with the snowflakes so that Therrin could hardly tell them apart, and sang for joy, and gathered around Karr's nose to welcome him back, and alighted on Therrin's hands and arms and hair to thank her for freeing him, and all the dragons. It tickled, she said. Their whispering voices were all around her.

The old necromancer had died with his duty done, as did Ioranne; but his daughter was alive and well, and had chosen the name Katira. She was much friendlier now that she knew that Therrin was the true Princess, and that she had not failed in her duty. She was eager to meet Karr, and to know about the other dragons, and to give her guests whatever food or beds they needed. She was still proud, but no longer as arrogant, and much kinder.

The people living by the river in that city were not all lunatics; those who were remained, while others left the city, and still others moved into the abandoned houses to live sanely again. Two of them had a child together, and were overjoyed to find that they were able to name her. Sahta, they called her. She was born just as the first dragon passed over their dead city, and so she was the first child to be born with a name since the gray bane first took the Unnamed Lands.

And they were not alone in living there: people from all around came to the city, to live among the dead. At least a third of the forsaken houses were filled, and merchants had set up their tents in one street to shout out prices and peddle their wares despite the snow. Indeed not all of these merchants were fully alive, Therrin told me: some were nothing more than richly-dressed bones, and others as thin and transparent as the ghost on the hillock, whom I never saw.

They saw more of the bone-animals than we had before: dogs, cats, rats, birds, everything. One of these dogs ran up to Ty and nosed him with apparent affection. They thought it must be the same dog that we saw before, and allowed it to follow them back to Katira's palace. Ty wanted to keep it, as a pet; but he couldn't bring it back on Karr, so he let Katira keep it for him, until he returned for it.

She said her city needed her, now; but she wanted to leave it for a while, and explore the newly awakened world, in a few months' time. She welcomed any of them to join her, and they promised to consider it. Ty said he very well might. He loves to explore, to learn new things, to find things so old they have been forgotten.

"Don't you prefer to be alone?" I asked him.

"I'll grow used to her in time, as I grew used to you and Therrin. Besides, she'll take the dog with her."

The villagers who had hoped to burn us were in a sorrier state. They were no longer as gray, but still grayer than most; and they had realized lately that they could sometimes understand when animals spoke, and that they themselves spoke in strange words. They knew nothing of the old ways, nor of the reason for the gray bane, and so they were frightened of Karr when first they saw him. And they knew Therrin and Ty as two of the four who had fallen from the sky in a shower of bones, and feared them.

But now that they could understand her words, Therrin told them everything: about the dragons, and the old King, and the shared tongue, and the code that all who lived in the Unnamed Lands had once followed not to use the shared tongue for ill. They were afraid to listen at first, she told me. She does not know if they learned. But they did not attack them again, and Karr departed with his riders in peace.

The fish-people in the lake were glad that the world was saved, and more glad that Therrin had fulfilled her promise to tell Karr to visit them. They knew him personally, it seemed – though they were too young to have met him themselves, they had the memories of their tribe, and he was once a great friend of theirs. They bade him welcome, and recounted a thousand years' gossip, and showed him the crystal-lined cave that had held the chalice. He swam with them in their lake and played at their games, and renewed a friendship a thousand years old. Therrin and Ty could do little to join them, bound to land as they were, so the visit was kept short; but Karr was very glad to see them, as they were glad to see him.

They waited for night on the hillock with the crown of tall stones; and when the ghost came (far clearer than he was before, Therrin assured me) she cut his chains with her black knife, and so freed him from his eternal bondage. He began to speak, but faded away before his first word was finished, torn apart by the wind. Therrin fancied he might have been hoping to thank her. Ty thought differently; he was sure that the ghost must have been too surprised by the undeserved kindness to think of gratitude.

"And it _was_ undeserved," he told me. "It is true that he served his sentence long enough, and that he cannot repeat his crime in death, but I very much doubt he ever learned to regret it; and he did nothing for us but to try to kill us. But Therrin thought it better to be kind, all the same."

They might have returned home then to the white castle, but now that Therrin had done what she must she was eager to meet her mother's people. Karr knew the way. The Wind People live in the sky, she told me; they see clouds as islands in the sea of the heavens, and sail between them on great ships.

"It is a wonderful feeling, to drift through the sky as though weightless," she told me; "but I think I still love water-ships more. There are no waves and there is no sea-spray beneath their sky-ships, and the only wind is what they call."

They are a silent folk, for they have no need of words to speak. They hear each other's thoughts, far more clearly than Therrin ever could. That must be how her mother was able to understand Kerheyin; and perhaps she gave him the stone, that he could understand her as well. But they do have a language of their own, the Wind People. They use it to speak with winds, to bid them fill their sails and part their clouds. They taught Therrin as much of this language as they could, as though her talent weren't already strong enough.

She told me that they were very beautiful, with shining silver eyes and hair as white as the clouds, or the snow, so that even her own fair hair looked yellow beside theirs. Among humans she looks like one of them, but for her eyes; but among them she looked fully human.

Still, they knew who she was, and were glad that she had saved their clouds from turning all to heavy stone. They showed her all around their cities, "beautiful cities that shone like pearls," and they told her whatever she wanted to know about their ways, and they offered to let her stay, if she wanted.

In the end she declined, being too human to stay in a place that would not last. The islands moved about, drifting on the winds, so that nothing was ever the same after an hour's time; and the Wind People, who can live only some twenty years, live so wholly in the moment that they will not remember the past. They had almost forgotten the gray bane already. They had almost forgotten Therrin's mother. When she pressed them they said that she and Kerheyin had been mourned, and their bodies given to the winds, long ago; and now they had let go of them, and would remember nothing more.

Their lives are fleeting. They run from one day to the next, touching each experience but never holding on, taking joy in those things that come again each day rather than those that always remain. Therrin's nameless mother must have left them some four or five years ago at least; she had long passed out of their memories.

So Therrin told them that she would find a place among humans; and they bade them farewell, and flew back to the white castle, to me.

When they came I hid the blackened parchment under my bed, ashamed.

Therrin had grown while they were away – she looked older than I, then, and Ty's beard was a little thicker. They asked me what I had done while they were gone, and I had to confess that I had yet to leave the room. They looked at my arm, which was all healed to a pink scar, with flaking peeling skin, except for the center which was still scabbed; and they asked me again why I had done it.

Again, still, I had no answer.

They grew more and more vexed with my silence. Once Therrin even yelled at me, her eyes bright with tears, trying to make me answer, trying to make me feel. But though the world around me was growing ever more alive, I was hollow inside; and even when she yelled I neither answered nor cowered. I only sat and listened and looked away from her.

In the end they gave up again, and only cared for me. They brought me food and told me about everything they saw and everything they did while they were gone. I listened and thought of the healing world that they both so love. I liked it better now, though I'd yet to see it with my own eye. It no longer seemed so strange – nor so drab – and whatever had always been missing had been returned. I might live there in comfort, now, though it could never be home.

When the days grew warmer, and the snow began to melt, and the birds began to sing again, the dragons all gathered around the white castle. Karr told Therrin that the time had come to perform her last duty as Princess. She asked me to come see the ceremony; I declined. The four walls of white stone had been around me all winter, and I was not yet ready to leave them. My arm might be healed – but for that spot in the center; I tried so often to pull off the scab, hoping there would be fresh skin beneath, and found only blood – but I was still too afraid of the world outside.

She told me about it, afterward. She stood before an army of dragons glittering in the springtime sun, and was asked to give the Unnamed Lands a name; and when she had done so they told her she was a Princess no longer, but a Queen, if she would have that title. She refused it. "This world has never had need of a ruler," she said. "It has had only one King before, to my knowledge, and see what ruin he wrought! No, you must live for yourselves, or seek leadership from your cities if you must; and I daresay you'll be more content with that." And she took up her black knife and cut the other two treasures apart with it, and shattered the knife itself against a rock. So Karr was freed from his bondage, and the two were tied together only by friendship.

"What name did you choose?" I asked her.

"Shiaran," she answered. "They may not know of the old language here, but I do, and I know that a name ought to be in the old language; and that is one of the only words I know, as it was my family's name in Thilua. It means a good thing, something commended. The name Shiaran was the reason my father was always able to find new work, although we moved so often."

So the Unnamed Lands were unnamed no longer.

Now that all her duties to this world were fulfilled, Therrin began to long for home; and soon she decided to leave Shiaran, and return to Ler's ship to live out her days. She didn't know how much time she had left, as daughter of the Wind People and humans both, but she wanted to spend it sailing the open seas under the gold banner.

She and Karr made a pact to meet each year at the gate, as long as they both live, and invited Ty and me – and anyone we might be traveling with – to join them. The time would be in spring, on the day that is as long as the night. Ty agreed readily, so long as Karr would come for him each year and return him when the meeting was over. I was less certain – who knows what the future holds? What if I did _not_ live to meet them? – but I agreed to keep it in mind.

With that decided they left at once for the gate, and took Ty along to leave him in the dead city with Katira. Again, Therrin asked me to join them. This time I agreed. Perhaps this world was living, now, but I would rather not stay there forever, especially not alone; and this might be my last chance to fly to the gate rather than walk all the long way. And Thilua was safe again now that Melianarrheyal was dead.

I was afraid to leave my room at first, but when I saw Karr again I forgot my fear. As long as I was Therrin's friend, I would be safe with him.

We flew over the awakening land. In many places the snow had given way to green blades of grass and bright purple and yellow flowers, and in the trees the birds were singing, and the trees were budding and beginning to bloom. Spring had come again and brought color to the land.

We left Ty in the silent forest beside the dead city. I was glad that we didn't go into the city ourselves, or meet Katira; I had left my room so recently, and was not yet willing to meet a stranger, nor to leave Karr's side.

"Farewell then," Ty said. "Thank you, Karr and Therrin, for fulfilling the prophecy and for allowing me to witness it; and as for you, Arrek..." He looked at me with his thick eyebrows lowered. "I suppose you still don't have an answer."

I shook my head. What more could I do?

He sighed then, and said, "Take care," and left for the city and Katira's palace.

When he was gone we flew through the gate. Karr flew with us to Thilua. Ty had told us that his family might be in Saluyah at this time of year, and that if they weren't there yet they might come soon; so that was Therrin's destination. But she thought it best if Karr did not show himself too near the city, so he flew to the Desert and past some small villages, and landed beside the River Saluyah with nothing else in sight.

Now Therrin and Karr took leave of each other. It was a hard parting for them both, for they were and are close friends. They took comfort in the knowledge that they would see each other again come next spring, and again every spring thenceforth for as long as they both lived.

When that was done Karr took wing again, and flew back toward the gate, toward Shiaran, toward his home. Therrin watched him fly away, until he was nothing more than a distant speck in the bright sky. Then she turned to me and asked: "Will you come with me?"

I shook my head. "I have no place on Ler's ship," I said.

"Then this is farewell for us as well," she said. She took my hand in parting, then flung her arms around me. "If you ever need something – anything at all – you know where to find me," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "Good luck, whatever you do now, whithersoever you go."

"Thank you," I said. "Farewell."

And then she turned from me and walked upriver, toward Saluyah, and soon she was swallowed by the dunes, and I could no longer watch her go.

And now here I am all alone, beside the River, with bright hot sands all around me. The brightness that once hurt my eye does not hurt the demon, but the Desert's heat is already beginning to burn.

I still have my three copper (how long has it been now since that night in Therwil when _she_ – Melianarrheyal – woke me?) but with that I could do nothing more than return to being kretchin. I will not be kretchin again. Too long have I slept in a bed and eaten well; I will not return now.

My hair has grown long enough that I could easily pass for a commoner, but I am afraid to go to the city, afraid to speak to them, afraid to pretend that I am one of them. Therrin once suggested that I might ask for apprenticeship to a craftsman, but I think I am still too afraid to try. The scar on my arm (and not even all a scar, yet!) proves that I am not whole. How soon will it be that I make another, in a fit of fear or despair? How likely is it that I can live through it again, if no one is with me to bind my wound?

I said I was Arrek, and I tried to be strong, but my strength was all worn down by shadows and curses and cold gray dust. I am not Arri. I am not Arrek. I am through with names.

And I am all alone again, with my friends (dare I use the word?) and family far away; there is no one to stop me when I am foolish, no one to comfort me when light breaks into my darkness, no one to slow my breathing and calm my mind.

There is only me.

I lie back on the burning sand, not caring as it sears my skin. I turn my demon-eye to the blazing sun high above me. I listen to the wind sweeping through the dunes.

I breathe deeply, and I begin to smile, and at last I laugh aloud. It doesn't matter. What happens next, whether I live or die, what will find me if I stay here – it doesn't matter.

What matters is this hot sand beneath me, this bright sky, this river running by my feet. What matters is this world, and the gods below me.

What matters is that if I should die now, here, alone and forsaken in this place of heat and merciless light, it will be all right.

I laugh, and I whistle to Snake, and I wait.

###

Thank you for reading.
Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jacob and Anne Fletcher for love, support, friendship, and help with editing. It wouldn't have been possible without you.

Thanks to SadisticIceCream for pointing me to Smashwords and thereby providing me with the motivation to finally finish editing and publish.

And thanks to Constance Griffith, for keeping me alive through the experiences I drew on to write this book.

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Find G. Deyke online:

Smashwords: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/gdeyke>

deviantART: <http://wintyrsnow.deviantart.com/>

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Appendix – Pronunciation Guide

(in order of appearance)

Arri – ARE-ee

Saluyah – sah-LOO-yah

kretchin – KRETCH-in

Kerheyin – care-HEY-in

Lithuk – LITH-ook (as in b _ook_ )

Therwil – THER-will (hard TH, ER as in g _ir_ l)

Melianarrheyal – MEL-ee-un-ARE-hey-ahl

Chinlar – CHIN-lar

Ty – TIE

Haryin – HAR-yin

Suyiol – SUE-yee-all

Yuit – YOU-it

Quiyen – kee-YEN

Silwen – SILL-when

myrkhin – MURK-hin

sakhin – SUCK-hin

pikhin – PICK-hin

ryntar – RIN-tar

Qualin – KWA-lin

Anaria – a-NARE-ee-ah

Thilua – thih-LOO-ah (hard TH)

Arrek – ARE-wreck

Aharyin – a-HAR-yin

Rillik – RILL-ik

Shiaran – SHE-are-un

Therrin – THAIR-in (hard TH)

Alyar – AHL-yar

Kiltha – KILL-tha (hard TH)

Rih – as in w _ri_ tten

Ler – as in but _ler_

Kera – CARE-ah

Fal – FAHL

Ahl – AHL

Karr – CAR

Katira – kah-TEA-rah

Sahta – SAH-tah

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Preview of _Sahta, First Child_

Fifteen years after the passing of the gray bane, Lady Katira falls ill. It is Sahta who sets out to save her. This is her story.

Sahta, First Child

Once there was a girl named Sahta. She was courageous and strong of heart and could not bear to see anyone in pain; but what decided the course of her life was only that she was the first.

She was born when the first dragon flew overhead; and the Princess herself stopped by to see her, when she came; and when her mother found that she could name the little girl, she was as happy as a mother can be. And her father was happy too, and the midwife, and everyone who lived in their street – and in the next street, and in the entire city. Sahta had a name, and that name was Sahta, and she was the first child the city had had since the plague passed. And because she had a name, because she was Sahta, they no longer hoped that the plague was over and that the Princess had saved them, but they knew it; and so all the city rejoiced, and the dead and the living alike danced in the street and laughed and called her name: "Sahta! Sahta! Sahta, first child!"

She knew nothing of this, of course. She was only a baby, gurgling and crying, just like any other. And she learned nothing of it – until one night when, a child, she ran away from her father's arms, because the night was so warm and the moon so full and she didn't _want_ to go to bed, she wasn't tired! And because she was light enough to swing over walls and fast enough to dart into alleys unseen, she ran away through the city and he could not catch her.

She ran for a long time, her bare feet slapping against warm stone, drawn on by the night's breeze and by the sight of the stars scattered throughout the sky. She stopped when she couldn't run anymore for the stitch in her side. She didn't want to go to bed yet – the night was so beautiful! – but her side hurt, and she was tired, and she would walk back now. But she'd left her father behind long ago, and she didn't know the way back home. The street was dark and empty. For a short while she wandered about, searching for something she knew; then she sat down with her head against her knees and cried.

She was sitting on a step, on a market street, with merchants' abandoned tents all around her. One stall, alone, was still tended: its owner had gone out for a while, and had asked a friend to watch over the wares until he returned to clean up. He was a ghost, and his friend too; but so many people were, here, that this did not spare them from thieves.

The friend – a kindly man, on the whole – heard the child crying, and he called her over. "Come here, child," he said, "come here, that's it, don't cry. What's wrong? Lost your way, have you? Don't cry now."

She came over, glad that there was someone there, that she wasn't quite alone. She nodded and she wiped her tears away with her sleeve and she tried to swallow her sobs. The tears didn't quite stop, and the best she could do with her sobs was turn them into hiccups, but it was enough that she could listen.

"Come now, don't cry," said the man, and patted her head as well as he could, stopping his hand before it went too far through her head. It was a strange feeling, like a tingling in her scalp, and she laughed a bit through her tears. "That feels funny," she said.

"That's it," said the man. "That's right. Don't cry. Now what's gotten you so upset?"

That brought the tears back. "I don't know how to get home," she hiccuped.

"There, now, we'll find your home. All right? Don't cry. Now what's your name, child? Where do you live?"

She shook her head, not knowing how to answer the second question, but to the first she said: "Sahta."

Now the man threw back his head and laughed, a big laugh from the bottom of his belly. "You are Sahta, child? And to think I just met you on the street – just like that – and you're Sahta! Well, I know where your home is, little one, and I'll take you there just as soon as I can – but first – oh, you're Sahta! And I didn't know!"

She looked at him, confused.

"You don't know who you are, do you! Well! Perhaps your parents were waiting until you were a little older – but why wait? You should know. You must know. You are Sahta! You are the first child!"

"What first child?"

"Oh, this world was very sick for a very long time, child. A very long time indeed. Surely you've heard of the plague – the gray bane – all this world was dying."

She nodded. "Father said he and Mother lived by the river. Because there were fish, sometimes. And water. But they kept losing themselves, he said."

"Yes – they lost themselves, and so did the fish, and so did the water. All the world lost itself! But the Princess came from another world and saved us –"

"Mother said the Princess came to see me when I was a baby!"

"Of course she did. Because _you_ were the first, Sahta. You were the first baby this city had after the sickness passed, and because of _you_ we knew it was over, and we were safe. We all know your name, Sahta, all the dead, and likely all the living as well."

"But I didn't do anything."

"Oh, we don't hold you as a hero – only as a hope. But you _are_ a hope. You are Sahta! First child! You are Sahta. And I didn't know you – but that cannot happen again. You see, I am friendly enough, and I like children, and I would have helped you even if you were someone else – but there are others – I have a friend, you see – he owns this stall, you know! But he doesn't like it when people, well, when people bother him. And with Lady Katira gone, what's to stop him from hurting you?"

She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, he's not that bad, really – he's just a little, well, you see, he's just a little strange. He doesn't always believe we're back. _It's_ back. The world. The veil, the other side, everything. There is no one gladder of _your_ existence than he is, I'll have you know, but if he didn't know it was you – why – if you came here after the stall was closed – no, no, we'll have to do something about it."

"But –" she said. "What –"

"Come here! Listen, child, this is a city ruled by a necromancer – it has been that way all along, since long before the gray plague came – and half of us are living and half of us are dead – it has always been that way. Now the living, they can go anywhere in this world, easily, just by walking. And they see each other and know that they're alive, and that's all well and good; they might have gone on for another few years yet. But we dead, we're bound, we can't do everything. And we could do _nothing_ during the plague, nothing at all, do you hear me? So many of the bone-men disappeared – they cannot die, you know, not properly – and we ghosts couldn't come through the veil at all. But that's not the worst of it, child, it isn't: the veil was eaten too by the plague, even the other side. And we couldn't do a thing! We were trapped, and disappearing! So the living might be glad of you, indeed, but the dead are more than glad. We are in your debt, forever. And so –"

"But... I didn't do anything."

"Oh, you did, Sahta, you did. You showed us that it was over. And so, I will give you something that is not given to one of the living more than once in a hundred years – even before the plague. I will give you the protection of the dead."

She yawned. It was well past her bedtime. She could hardly hold her eyes open anymore.

"Here –" He gave her a tiny bottle filled with oil, with a cord tied around it so it could be worn as a necklace. She took it and looked at it tiredly. "What is it?" she asked.

"Usually, it's worn to keep away the dead – the dangerous ones, of course – to ward off ghosts. But for you, it's so that I can touch you, so I can mark you. Open it – yes, that's right – and spread the oil over your hands and face."

She took out the cork and did as he asked. It smelled like sweetgrass and pine.

"There, now I can touch you! And so can any other ghost. Now give me your right hand."

She held it out.

He drew a mark on the back of her hand with his finger. For a second she thought she saw it shine, but then it was gone and she could see nothing.

"Anything dead will see that," he told her, "and it will know that you are Sahta, the first child, and that you have the protection of the dead. Nothing dead will ever harm you."

"Okay," she said and yawned again.

"Now come on," he said, lifting her up and setting her on his shoulders. "Ufh. Now, let's go home to your parents, all right?"

"All right," she yawned.

The man knew where she lived, of course – she was Sahta, after all – and he took her straight there. Her mother was waiting outside and crying, and she plucked her off the ghost's back and thanked him at least fifteen times for bringing her home.

"Will I see you again?" Sahta asked, before her mother carried her back inside.

"Oh, I'll be around!" the ghost said, and laughed his deep belly-laugh again, and walked away; and Sahta's mother took her straight to bed, and tucked her in firmly, and she fell asleep with the scent of sweetgrass hovering in her nose.

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