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Serials - parts and parts.

Blade Light, Episode Four

Written by Michaele Jordan

Illustrated by Bob Greyvenstein

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Vhulf shook his head and—quite gently, more in sorrow than in anger—remarked, ”Deserting us already, Tuck? This will break Dreysa’s heart.”

Tuck looked up from the straw pallet laid out on the floor of his cell, and snarled, “Seems that it’s more you that doesn’t want me leaving.” He clambered half way up to sit cross-legged. “And I little thought you’d be so grieved about it.” He glanced around with deep distaste and hunched his shoulders up to keep them further away from the damp, grimy wall before continuing in genuine bewilderment, “Why in Hertha’s name are the two of you so determined to keep me between you?”

Vhulf gestured behind him and a cringing petty officer in black and scarlet darted over to set a stool by the bars that separated Vhulf from Tuck. Vhulf contemplated the less than comfortable seat for several seconds, and decided to lay a handkerchief across it before seating himself. He then surveyed Tuck critically through the iron bars. In the end he declined to answer. “Surely my wish is sufficient.”

“Oh, come on,” responded Tuck. “You know you want to tell me all about it, if only so somebody can see how very clever you’ve been. Ha, see.” Tuck pointed at Vhulf. “You’re smiling. You can’t deny it.”

“Am not,” replied Vhulf, but there was a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Then why are you still sitting here?”

At that Vhulf did smile. “I’m waiting for my tea.”

As if in answer to his words, a round and less than dangerous looking Assassin entered carrying a tray loaded with plates and pots. The Assassin looked around quite desperately for some place to set his burden down. At last he used one foot to hook and drag a second stool from a far corner. He was not an agile man and both Tuck and Vhulf watched in fascination, poised to jump quickly aside should the tray crash to the ground. Everyone heaved a faint sigh of relief once the tea was successfully installed on the stool.

The Assassin escaped with a nervous glance toward Vhulf who looked more than a little surprised at the man’s disappearance. Then Vhulf looked at the tea things uneasily, as if wondering how they would contrive to serve themselves. At last he managed to deduce that no one was going to wait on him further. Tuck laughed out loud at the look on his face. “Shall I pour, then?” he inquired, scrunching his mat forward until he was flush against the bars and reaching through to the tray. “Just can’t get decent help these days, can you?”

Vhulf shrugged. “Provincials.” He glanced toward the door through which the Assassin had fled, and sighed. “Fire of Ehyah, this really is the place underneath the back end of nowhere. The tragedy is that they really think they’re showering me in elegant luxury.”

“Hey, they gave us two teacups.” Tuck poured one for Vhulf, and waved an inquiring hand toward the cream and sugar. “They must have thought that was civilized to the point of decadence.” He set to work pouring a second cup.

Vhulf condescended to add sugar and cream to his own tea. “They did look look a tad startled by the suggestion.” He smiled at the thought.

“They were expecting you to have me tortured. They were probably hoping to pick up some pointers.”

Vhulf took a sip of his tea and made a face. Then he added more cream and sugar. “They could use some pointers,” he admitted.

“But we’re past all that, right?” asked Tuck. “No use torturing me now to find out how I got into Zhravig’s, right? Because, if you really still care, the Temple showed me a map through the maze. But Zhravig told me to forget about it, and I seem to have obeyed him.”

Vhulf chuckled. “Now, why were you so afraid to tell me that before?”

“It was the armed guards,” confessed Tuck.

Vhulf rolled his eyes. “Really, Tuck. They were just for show.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters now. We got into Zhravig’s without you.”

Tuck took care not to let his smile waver. “Exactly. So why did you bother to have me arrested?”

“The arrest is just to hold you awhile. I’m far too busy to watch you right now. I have a million things to do: set up a team of mapmakers to investigate the caves under the mountains, post guards to keep everyone else out of the entry tunnel, send off a report to the Danaan—and that’s going to be a lengthy report, he’ll be very interested in those caves, I assure you. An alternative to the pass through the mountains—you can doubtless guess how much trouble that will save us with the Mountain Folk.”

He paused to contemplate the effect of that report and the credit that would accrue to him from it. His smile grew broad and sincere before he continued, “And, of course, there’s all the arrangements for the rest of our journey. It’s a long way to the City of the Danaan. The Outer Plains are wide, and then there’s the Guardian Mountains to cross. And naturally, I’ll have to check in at all my offices along the way. The Assassins have a lot of offices across the Empire—as you’ve just discovered.”

“I meant,” explained Tuck, whose own smile was growing quite strained. “Why not just let me go, since you’re so busy and all.”

“Because then you would run away. As you just did. Virtually the very instant we emerged from the caves. And you have to come with us,” replied Vhulf. “I need you on hand when I report to Asmodé.”

Tuck’s smile did fail at that. “But why?”

Vhulf smiled for him. “No reason you shouldn’t know, at that. Asmodé asked to see you. He seems to believe you may still have your uses.”

Tuck breathed deeply, telling himself firmly to stay calm, stifling a wave of panic if only so as not to give Vhulf the satisfaction of seeing it. The effort was not wasted; he found his smile again. “You’re lying.” He almost laughed out loud. “You’re just amusing yourself dishing out a little mental torment because you’re still annoyed with me.”

Vhulf lifted an eyebrow. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

Tuck shook his head with a chuckle. “Not buying it, Vhulf. This Asmodé of yours is in the City of the Danaan. So he has no way even of knowing that you met up with me in the caves, let alone giving you instructions on what to do about it. And he wouldn’t have told you to bother about me, if he did know. I’m a pawn: I know it; you know it.; Asmodé knows it, or he would if he had ever heard of me at all.” A pawn, he reiterated internally. Not the Jahnek. Mother Sophya’s getting old and losing her wits. And she wouldn’t have discussed her loony ideas with Asmodé anyway. He smiled broadly.

Vhulf returned the smile. “Of course. As you say. How could Asmodé know about you?” He continued to smile and let Tuck finish the thought for him. Even if he is a sorcerer. “So why am I troubling to drag you along with me to the City of the Danaan?”

“Sheer spite?” suggested Tuck.

Vhulf shook his head. “Because Dreysa asked you to come, of course.”

“Ah, yes, and her wish is your command.” Tuck looked around. “So you plan to let me out as soon as you finish arranging for mapmakers and reporting to the Danaan?” Reporting how? he wondered. By bird couriers, perhaps? If they had anything so advanced in this nameless little town. The ramifications of those maps spiraled through his head. It’s a good thing Dreysa blocked the entry to the Temple.

“But of course,” responded Vhulf. “Cheer up, Tuck. If you travel with me, you’ll travel in comfort.” He smiled yet again. ”As long as you don’t try to get away.”

****

Dreysa raised herself cautiously and quietly from the bed. She had not slept. She would have sworn that, in her years with Zhravig, she had learned to sleep on every conceivable surface. Even aside from her own hard little cot, there had been stone floors--some of them damp, being located behind waterfalls--and lumpy grain sacks in storage chambers, and chairs shoved up together to provide a broader area. Dreysa had stolen a nap in every cranny she could find where there might be some hope of remaining briefly undiscovered.

But in the course of her journey, during stopovers at the expensive hostelries Vhulf preferred, she had learned that there was one place, anyway, where she was not accustomed to sleep. Deep luxurious featherbeds defied her. The abundance of cushions seemed consciously and deliberately bent on tickling her every nerve; her spine, inured to so many rude surfaces, protested in anguish against the excessive softness.

She had come to dread breakfast when Vhulf, whose very instincts took luxury for granted, would inquire with polite concern about the circles around her eyes while Tuck--all pink and glowing with well-rested satisfaction--chuckled and promised that she'd learn the knack of wealth over time. Most nights, aching from a day's travel, she crept from her bed in desperation to curl up with a blanket on the carpet, usually finding even that softer than her bed at home. Certain other nights, she lay awake, inquiring of Hertha why the universe was so unjust as to deny her the enjoyment of luxuries for which she'd waited her entire life.

But this night she did neither. Rather, she dressed hurriedly but without a light, taking care to be silent. She had found that both her traveling companions tended to wake at noises half a mile away, and she most definitely did not want them to wake. Very few of the inns they had visited had presented her with an opportunity to slip out unobserved, and she had grown extremely jealous of such chances as came her way.

She turned the latch of her door so slowly that the little act seemed to take an hour. But, even so, there was a click--and, sure enough, a muffled inquiring noise came from Vhulf's chamber across the hall. She froze and waited. As she waited, her feet and legs--encased in the soft leather boots Vhulf had given her--started to itch. She bit her lip and remained motionless. The itching intensified. At last, when she had waited five full minutes and heard no further sound from her escort, she dared to risk moving and tried--for the thousandth time since receiving the boots--to scratch. The leather was, unfortunately, not that soft. She sighed faintly and wished she had her sandals back.

There proved to be a creaking floorboard just outside the door of Tuck's room, and the whole procedure of freezing and waiting and scratching had to be done again before she could continue to the stairs. At the bottom step, she shrank back from the light spilling from the door to the public room where some late arriving guests still talked and clattered crockery. She stole a peek down the corridor leading to the kitchen. It was, temporarily at least, empty of servants.

She chose the one remaining direction, a short passage leading to a flagstone terrace she'd noticed earlier. Guests, she'd gathered, were sometimes served their meals there in fine weather. But now it was unoccupied, as she'd expected, for the mountain night was chill. But Dreysa did not pull more closely about her the fur cloak Vhulf had insisted on purchasing; she had never been much troubled by cold.

She paused for a moment, an ear to the door she had just quitted and a hand to the hilt of her sword. There was no need to tuck it under one arm any longer, now that it was properly girt on and gorgeously sheathed. Indeed, with a flowing silk gown beneath that, Dreysa half fancied that she looked like a warrior princess, except that her nose was not straight enough and a little too freckled. Vhulf, after all, had selected the gown, and doubtless knew what princesses wore.

When she had satisfied herself that no pursuit would disturb her, Dreysa strolled out onto the moonlit terrace toward the guard wall. The inn was located at the gap in the Guardian Mountains--surrounded by towering peaks but overlooking the Imperial Desert--and, according to Vhulf, it was famous for its view. Granted, Dreysa had not come for the view, but she saw no harm in enjoying it. It was indeed magnificent.

The jumbled crags seemed to fall away from beneath her very feet to spill onto the shimmering silver sands. And there on the horizon stood the jewel that was the heart of the desert, gleaming in the moonlight, glittering with its own internal lights, splendid and inspiring, the City of the Danaan.

Dreysa caught her breath and stared, awed and a little horrified. She had not believed, not really, that all the long and weary traveling would end at last, bringing her within sight of the court of the highest of kings. And in that court dwelt Asmodé, servant to the Danaan, whom Vhulf had sworn would prove a friend to Dreysa.

Even if he wasn't, Vhulf had said, she would be first presented to the Danaan, as were all guests of the court, and that would, perforce, keep Asmodé civil. The very thought of being thus presented made Dreysa gulp and shiver, still gazing off toward the Danaan's city. They would arrive tomorrow noon, at the latest.

She drew the sword from its sheath, and the blade was molten moonlight, more lovely by far than gowns or furs, more perfect than nature or art. Zhravig's sword. Dreysa had meant to make it hers, lest Asmodé attempt to make it his despite all Vhulf’s promises of good will. But Zhravig's it remained, and seemed likely to remain so forever.

She breathed deeply and tried to clear her mind, summoning her song internally, although she dared not sing aloud. But underneath all her heard-learned disciplines, there was a soft little wail for the time that was running so short. Before she could quite bring herself to begin, she hummed a prayer to Hertha that, despite all the past nights of fruitless trying, tonight might be different. Tonight she might find it--the path into air. Then she flung her heart toward the sword blade. For the thousandth time she shuddered under the glancing impact, failed to penetrate the glass, and spilled herself back into fire.

She moaned faintly, for her spirit was growing very bruised from battering itself against a wall that never yielded. It required several moments to marshal up the strength to try again. This time she attempted a subtler approach, concentrating all her powers and all her sense of self in just the hand that held the sword. The hilt seemed to throb gently, and she clung to the sensation, drawing it in until it became the pulsing of her own blood, rooted not in the glass but in her own palm and fingers.

When she had summoned all her strength into that little place that was surely no longer a sword hilt but only the inside of her hand, she permitted a tiny tendril to seep upward toward the blade. Meeting no opposition, she flowed up and up to just the length of the sword, then pulled herself inward to form a central core. But no hard knot of Dreysa came into being, only a hollow ache of inner emptiness. And when she detached just enough of herself from the operation to look, she found she was not in the sword but wrapped around it.

So there was no help for it but to try again. But rack her brain as she might, Dreysa could think of no approach she had not already tried. No matter how many images she created or spirits she evoked, she could not slip in or sneak in or break in to the damnable sword that seemed to have nothing at all inside it, not even air.

There was a soft touch at her shoulder, and she started and whirled. The bandywight was perched on the guard wall, watching her actions intently. Only rarely did the creature stray from Tuck's side, preferring to sit on the thief's shoulder, and sleep in his bed, and shriek insults whenever Vhulf attempted to come within a few feet. Nor was Dreysa entirely flattered at the beast's unexpected condescension in bestowing on her the honor of its company. But when she thought to shoo it off, she hesitated.

In the moonlight, the creature's eyes were neither foolish nor animal. Rather, they regarded her with a calculating sagacity that was almost intimidating, and Dreysa drew back nervously. Although the bandywight could not talk, it looked at her with all the clear intention of a creature with something to say, and, after a moment of meeting its eyes, Dreysa found herself possessed of a sudden insight.

"There really is nothing at all in the sword," she whispered, and the bandywight nodded faintly. "It isn't the path into air then, it’s…” She broke off uncertainly, and the bandywight continued to hold her gaze. "It's the path back out of the air!" cried Dreysa with a sudden thrill of knowledge, and the creature smiled at her insight with a parental pride.

Dreysa's joy in learning dissipated suddenly into a sense of something lacking. So intense was her awareness of a wrongness that she searched her mind for that particle of truth she had missed or that point of logic where she had made some error. The bandywight brushed her cheek with a tiny paw and shook its head, and she realized that the fault of the moment was not a mistake in her reasoning. She had got the right answer, surely and truly, and what she missed was old Zhravig sneering at her shoulder, "Well, that was not so very badly done, chit."

The animal leaped down from the wall, still entirely purposeful but suddenly active. With small pushes and commanding gestures, it directed Dreysa to seat herself on the flagstones with her back supported against the wall and to lay the sword securely in her lap.

Gently it pressed both her hands to the hilt and then, lest she should somehow still manage to drop the thing, it clasped its own little hands around hers. Looking up to her, it nodded firmly. Dreysa looked down and nodded, a bit less firmly. The bandywight smiled. Dreysa shifted her glance slightly to the sword and wondered uneasily what, if not that, was the path into air.

The answer struck her quite literally in the face as a chill gust of air careened off the mountains and playfully splattered her hair against the stonework. So she closed her eyes and leaned backward and let the wind slam itself against her and away, until her spirit started to slip.

For an instant or a century, she was wind. Loosed entirely from flesh, with no bindings of body or place, she tasted pure glory and a freedom beyond life. She danced in star song and drifted in liquid light. Voices melted around her, the infinite babble of the minds of men, as every living soul in the world chattered to itself about its own concerns. Ringing through the chaos came sweet breezes that were the inhabitants of air, like so many peals of laughter that no one had ever laughed.

She spun through the void and, as she whirled, bits of herself whipped away with the wind to be flung all over the universe and lost forever. Diving after them, trying to cling to herself, she learned that she could not keep her direction in a place that had no directions. A dim memory of matter informed her she was falling, but in the absence of earth, there was no place to fall. She might have screamed or struggled, except that she no longer had a body designed for such things. So, instead, she simply trembled and listened to herself shivering away into nothing.

She had nearly dissolved before she remembered the sword, and she only remembered it then because the handful of thoughts still left to her was so tiny that no single one could be lost in the clutter. But once the memory had come to her the image gleamed and beckoned, and gradually the fragments of her soul were drawn back to the seduction of a glittering crystal blade. Clutching desperately at the remains of her mind while she had them in reach, Dreysa dove into the sword.

She found her body drained and half frozen. The bandywight lay exhausted across her knees, but it still gripped her hands, holding them in place on the hilt of the sword. She felt a dim flicker of triumph for her success, but the emotion was too buried in fatigue for her to enjoy it. She knew she ought to rise and return to her room, but she thought it wouldn't hurt to wait for just a moment while she tried to get her body breathing automatically again.

Meanwhile she turned over onto her side, nearly losing the bandywight, and pulled the fur cloak around herself. She would go back in and get some sleep any minute now, and she wouldn't forget to thank Hertha for guiding her, and in the morning she would practice like anything. The sword slid from her lap, but, as long as it didn't break, there was no harm done. She'd pick it up in just a second, just a tiny little second, after she'd rested her eyes and savored the stability and comfort of solid stone beneath her. The bandywight snuggled in closer.

As he stepped through the huge archway, Vhulf let his cloak slip from his shoulders to the delicate mosaic of the tile floor. Before Dreysa could catch her foot in its soft folds, a young girl in a white smock had darted from an alcove to pluck it up and commence brushing it. Vhulf turned to offer Dreysa a hand over the threshold. And then, although the great entrance hall was entirely bare of furnishings, he started to sit.

Instantly there moved into place behind him two enormous and powerful-looking men, dressed also in white smocks and carrying a lightly built open sedan chair. When Vhulf was comfortably established and had pointed languidly to indicate the desired direction, a small cluster of girls appeared around him. One laved his face with a scented cloth, another brushed out his hair, while a third proffered before him a tray of sweetmeats, dancing backwards as she did, so that the advance of his chair need not be impeded.

From the alcove, which appeared to contain an unlimited number of obsequious servants, emerged two more giants with a second chair which they presented to Dreysa. She backed away. "I've not the slightest intention of riding in such a thing," she announced breathlessly. "I'm sure it's not safe."

The bearers stared impassively ahead. Tuck paused a moment before letting his own cloak drop to the floor. Then he watched with awe as the girl whose task it was picked it up. He looked to the waiting bearers and smiled reverently. "Well, we mustn't let it go to waste," he murmured, taking a seat. The bandywight scrambled up the poles to sniff curiously at the men who held them.

Dreysa sniffed also, as though perhaps she considered Tuck more than welcome to take whatever risks he liked. Batting a bit nervously at the women who were attempting to wash and perfume her, she hurried after Vhulf. She did accept a tidbit from the tray and, after an experimental nibble, helped herself to several more.

"How long must we wait before we're presented to the Danaan?” she inquired, still not entirely believing that there was a Danaan, let alone that she might be presented to him. But the taste in her mouth was true enough, and she popped in another morsel and licked her fingers. "What are these things, anyway? They're lovely."

"Perhaps a half hour?” suggested Vhulf, selecting from the tray a snack of the variety Dreysa had liked. "Oh, yes. Breast of lark sautéed in honey. It is nice, isn't it?"

"What?” Dreysa stopped dead, unable for a moment to choose which of Vhulf's two replies horrified her more. "Half an hour? But I need time to... the High King himself.... Half an hour?” With one hand she rubbed at a furrowed brow; with the other, rather impatiently, she waved away the sautéed larks' breasts. "You are quite sure it wouldn't be days?"

Vhulf smiled, but whatever reply he might have intended was interrupted by a soft giggle. Although he had paid no heed to the low murmur of Tuck's voice from the rear, at this new sound Vhulf turned his head sharply and ceased entirely to smile. Tuck, whose chair had fallen somewhat behind, was attempting to entice a pretty blond to join him and it was his determined efforts--impeded somewhat by the bandywight--that had provoked her laughter.

Vhulf did not speak, but his silence carried some power beyond mere words. The bearers halted smoothly and without relinquishing their burdens seemed somehow to draw back. The combs and oils vanished as the girls became suddenly inconspicuous. All movement died, and every eye rested on the girl who'd laughed and who had turned an ashy gray. When he was confident he had her full attention, Vhulf informed her gently, "My father prefers quiet."

She genuflected and retreated to the alcove whence she had come. For several seconds the silence remained intact behind her until it was pierced by Tuck's whisper of, "Why, that son of a bitch.” As if summoned by his words, another girl appeared who seated herself by Tuck without argument and proceeded to smooth unguents into his scalp. The bearers resumed their march down the great corridor, and Vhulf accepted another lark's breast. After careful thought Dreysa decided to say nothing.

Instead she walked docilely by Vhulf's side while the white-smocked women prepared her, wondering about her presentation to the Danaan and growing almost giddy at the thought of its imminence. Some of the girls dropped away, their tasks completed. Others appeared bearing cool drinks, but the total number seemed to be diminishing. And, indeed, by the time they had mounted the great staircase there were only two girls left.

A little frantically Dreysa wondered if she could find a white smock somewhere and disappear too rather than walk any farther down the great hall which seemed to grow more huge and magnificent at every step. Now that she was here, it seemed absurdly obvious that she never should have come. Her first blind wanderings had led her aright--she'd gone straight to the Temple. She should have stayed there and given over all her troubles to Holy Mother Sophya, who could resolve them with the wisdom granted by Hertha. Surely it was the sheerest insanity to go meddling with high kings and royal courts.

They passed through a hall of stained glass windows and drew up to the massive door of an ancient tower, where Vhulf halted and rose. His bearers scuttled away with an air of only barely concealed fear. Dreysa swayed slightly, overcome by faintness, and the door swung slowly open.

Strangely enough, her first emotion was a wave of profound relief--relief that it was not, after all, the Danaan, radiant in the Seven-starred Crown. Asmodé was just a man, after all--indeed, a rather thin and ordinary-looking man for all his expensive robes, and his bleak little chamber was positively homelike with its rude furnishings and its racks of scrolls.

But he was far from an ordinary man despite his looks, and when Asmodé reached out to Dreysa a hand adorned with sapphires, she stared at it for a very long time before finding the courage to take it. With her free hand she fingered the hilt of her sword, not liking to clasp it lest Asmodé take offense, but not liking either to let it go. He seemed to recognize no discourtesy and murmured pleasantly, "Welcome, little sister."

She could not find even the smallest word with which to answer him, so instead she crossed her arms and bowed. But if she had hoped to veil her confusion, the effort failed dismally. "You did not know that we are of a family, you and I?” continued Asmodé. "But we are, my dear, I do assure you--children of the same master. A powerful bond, don't you agree?"

She gaped up at him before stammering, "You... you were Zhravig's first apprentice? Sweet Hertha, I never dreamed…. He spoke of you so often, sir.” She had intended no more than a courteous astonishment but behind her Vhulf drew in his breath sharply before releasing it in a sound almost like a giggle. It occurred to her that there were few illusions in anyone's mind concerning what Zhravig might have said concerning his first apprentice.

Asmodé, at least, accepted her remark in the spirit she had intended. Taking her arm, he guided her into room. "And I have heard something of you, pretty cousin, and long looked forward to a meeting. Especially now, in this present crisis, I am most grateful for the opportunity to consult with you."

From behind them Vhulf interjected softly, "Considering the urgency of the crisis, perhaps we had best withdraw.” Dreysa started, for even in her few brief moments with Asmodé she had entirely forgotten Vhulf's presence. Turning her head, she was somewhat taken aback to see he was addressing the empty air. Vhulf, too, regarded thoughtfully that place where Tuck ought to have been. "Rather, then, that I had best withdraw."

Dreysa could not begin to guess where Tuck had got to and found herself hard-pressed to care. But there was a trace of genuine satisfaction in Vhulf's faint smile that caused her to think that Tuck had better not be found again or he might come to regret his little game. She wished him well, of course, but she had her own very dangerous game to play.

Hoping her wits had been refreshed by the respite, she returned her attention to Asmodé, who was smiling ruefully. "Alas, dear Vhulf has something of a temper. I trust your friend will take care."

"Oh, yes," she murmured. "He has a knack for taking care.” There was suddenly beside her a surprisingly comfortable looking chair in which she seated herself somewhat gingerly. It was scarcely a great magic, but it unnerved her, for she had not heard Asmodé's singing. For himself he merely drew up a stool.

"If I may be so blunt," he suggested in earnest tones, "it is my belief that we must join our powers if we hope to learn the fate of our vanished master. I am quite drained from probing for hour after weary hour through all the realms of all the powers to no avail. I cannot find the smallest trace. But perhaps you have met with greater success?"

She lowered her eyes and shook her head, wondering a trifle nervously just how long she might be able to go on saying nothing in particular. But Asmodé seemed disposed to permit it. "I feared as much," he intoned gravely. "It would be a very great artist indeed that silenced Zhravig's song. I can only hope that our combined gifts are sufficient to combat so dangerous a talent."

His voice was soft, so much so that Dreysa found it almost difficult to catch the sense of his words. His hands were more expressive, fluttering delicately and punctuating his speech with graceful gestures. On the third finger of his left hand two slim little bands of gold glittered with tiny gems. Set between them and outshining them by far was a broad, heavy ring of crystal. Slowly the significance of its gleaming penetrated Dreysa's scattered thoughts.

Only an instrument of air could catch and hold the light in just that way. And if Asmodé bore on his hand a symbol of such power then he had not the slightest need of Zhravig's sword. She tried to think why else he might have troubled to have her brought to him, but her mind was tired, and no answers came to her no matter how often she repeated the question.

"You are doubtless suspicious," remarked the sorcerer gently, and she looked up to meet his eyes for the first time. They were dark and unrevealing. "Zhravig must surely have mentioned that I parted from him on less than friendly terms. So it would have been with you in your time, Dreysa, and may yet be if our master can be found. The powers lead every soul down a different path, and all crossroads are painful."

There was a rustling on the stair, but Dreysa could not tear her eyes free of Asmodé’s to turn and look. "Why, then, should you be so concerned for him now?” she whispered, rubbing at her temple as though perhaps she hoped to stroke away the fatigue and strain that were clouding her thoughts.

A faint brushing of silk petticoats on stone caught Dreysa's ear, and she managed to glance briefly at the young woman with the feverish eyes who had entered the room. "May I present my daughter, Aniya?” said Asmodé, and to Aniya added, "My dear, I fear we are quite busy."

Aniya acknowledged neither the introduction nor the dismissal but stared at Dreysa with a rapt expression. "You will forgive my child's eccentricities," apologized the wizard. "She is... special."

"Yes, I am," commented Aniya with a dazzling smile, and her voice echoed oddly about the room. She walked to Dreysa's side and plucked up a lock of her hair. "What pretty, pretty hair," she murmured, stroking the auburn curl. "It's all fire colored.” Turning on Asmodé a hurt look, she demanded, "Why is my hair not this color?"

"Because I did not make it so," he informed her with a patience slightly strained. "My dear, I must beg you to withdraw and amuse yourself alone a little longer. I will join you when I can.” She did withdraw, by perhaps a half-dozen paces anyway, before a very soft and luxurious-looking chair appeared into which she flung herself as enthusiastically as might a small child.

Dreysa mentally reviewed the techniques for creating solid illusions and was assured that some voiced song was required. And this time she was very sure that she had heard no singing. It was possible, Zhravig had once told her, to create true matter from the realm of air, but that was a very great and demanding magic used only by the most gifted artists for those few rare spells that needed new-made earth. To use such power for so small and meaningless a thing as a chair was unthinkable. Dreysa insisted to herself that she had somehow been mistaken, that there must have been a singing somewhere.

Turning back to Asmodé, she inquired, "You were saying, sir?” with a touch more sharpness than she had intended. Aniya snapped her fingers, and something small and brightly colored scampered from the corner to her hand. Dreysa resolutely refused to pay any heed and kept her eyes fixed on the wizard, awaiting his reply.

He smiled very faintly and enigmatically, and Dreysa sensed somehow it was a triumph to him that she looked his way, for his eyes were dangerous. Even more important, she should not let herself watch his fine, long-fingered hands or her wits would grow ever more muddled. Instead, she assumed her demurest pose with her feet together on the floor, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and her face humbly downcast.

"I will not attempt to deceive you with sentimental tales of kinship among the artists," he murmured, and it was easier now to attend to his words. "We are lonely creatures, jealous of our powers, and too given over to our own creations to care much for our fellows.” He shook his head regretfully, and Dreysa fought the impulse to glance up at him at the movement. "But there is among us a mutual respect, a willingness to let each pursue his own song. We do not wish each other harm."

He rose suddenly as though disturbed by some powerful emotion. There was a sparkling, as he nervously clenched his hand, that wrenched at Dreysa's heart. "And yet harm has come to Zhravig," he hissed, and even without looking she found herself beginning to believe a little. "Do you comprehend the magnitude of that, little sister?” he whispered. "Zhravig was the very greatest among us, perhaps the greatest ever to draw breath. It is inconceivable that any outside force could have touched him."

There was a sharp squeal as Aniya and her bright-colored thing tumbled together to the floor. Dreysa and Asmodé turned as one to see Aniya roll once before sprawling full length and clutching with great determination at her plaything. Apparently she grabbed it a little too hard because it squeezed itself between her fingers and shot violently toward the ceiling. Aniya scrambled to her knees and cupped her hands intently beneath the place where it might fall.

A sharp, annoyed sound escaped Asmodé, but he rapidly composed himself and spoke quite gently. "Could you play with that some other time, my own?” He extended a hand--as though perhaps he meant to take the toy from her for the moment.

"It's mine," she snarled, backing away, and her words caused the very air to crackle as they rang in Dreysa's skull.

"Yours, indeed," acknowledged the wizard carefully. "And so 'twould be best if it were you that took it someplace else.” Aniya did not move but stood quite still as if considering his words. As smoothly as if Aniya had obeyed him, he moved to Dreysa's side, standing so that he was between her and his strange daughter. "You must surely see that we are all in peril."

He did not so much resume his previous topic of conversation as render nonexistent all interruptions. "There is abroad that which does not like magicians and is possessed of power sufficient even to conquer Zhravig."

Struggling not to meet his eyes or to look either to the soft hand he had laid on her shoulder, Dreysa looked around him instead to Aniya, who seemed uncertain whether to stay or go and held cupped in her hands her trembling plaything. "That's a very pretty toy, Aniya. May I see it?” she requested, not knowing what impulse it was that led her to do so but knowing somehow that she must see the thing more closely.

Aniya laughed as she came forward with glittering eyes, and her laughter echoed, as had her temper a moment before. Asmodé's hand slipped away from Dreysa's shoulder. "You must be careful," Aniya informed Dreysa earnestly. "It gets away, now and again."

"I surely will," promised Dreysa, taking it with exaggerated caution. It was absurd and wonderful when she had it, like an infant castle built all the way about a little ball. From a thousand tiny, elegant spires laced impossibly together there danced ten times a thousand proud and courageous little pennants, all snapping and waving their delight at her appreciative regard.

Dreysa gazed until she grew quite dizzy from the shifting colors, gazed until her vision blurred with tears. For she could see in every delicate curve just who it was that had made this foolish thing and how he had gone about the making. Zhravig had, indeed, been very great, and even his smallest works were touched with splendor.

She heard the soft crooning of Asmodé's song, and she struggled to rise, meaning to turn and face him, to go down bravely as surely Zhravig had done. But the strength drained out of her, and her efforts were barely sufficient to get her from her chair and not at all sufficient to hold her erect. She fell to the floor where she lay as if welded to its surface.

"It's only earth magic," she informed herself numbly. "A spell of attraction directed downwards.” Mentally she reviewed the counter spell, a simple thing if only she could get her mouth open to sing it. She created at last a faint humming in the back of her throat, but before she could much ease the awful sense of weight, she felt drops of water sprinkling on her back.

Asmodé was not content with the music of water and continued to feed into it his own song. The water, in turn, caught up his notes and wove them into a sweet and intricate harmonic that drowned the senses and overpowered the mind. She knew the principle and tried to cast her own song to the waters, tried to twist the magic back into her power. But the floor flowed beneath her, as liquid as the music, and her body rippled excruciatingly, and her song turned into a wail of pain.

The music died away as the fire lashed over her, and her skin crawled under a thousand licking flames. But fire was one realm where Dreysa knew neither fear nor equal, for she had burned herself once in a forge that was beyond Asmodé's power to recreate. She drew into herself all the fire he could find to fling at her, and when he had exhausted all his own depths she was strong enough to raise herself and spit them right back out at him.

He threw up a ward, but there was a lovely flicker in his eyes that told her she had hurt him, and she summoned up more power, enough and plenty to break down all protections. Her triumph was short-lived. Her fires were suddenly doused in a frigid blast, and Dreysa had only time to grab frantically for her sword before she was swept into the chaos of the air.

She clutched the sword, and the hilt seemed to glow in her hand, a beacon of sanity amidst the infinite crying out of all the voices of humankind. "I am," she swore within herself. "I shall continue to be.” And when the thought rang and shivered she silenced it and pulled it back and wrapped herself around it to keep it hers. The sword gave her strength, and its brightness gave her a place to be when there were no other places anywhere.

Just as she dared to hope she might survive, a shadow fell and the light of her blade dimmed and faded. She forgot herself and screamed, an irrevocable mistake in that realm where the only hope of safety lay in stillness. The scream echoed off and away, and in between the ripples of its passing there slipped voices--at first a multitude, and then just two. The first was laughter pure and simple, a mirth so uncontaminated that it held itself intact even in air, the voice of an inhabitant of that realm. Aniya.

The second voice spoke from a wheel of stars which was Asmodé's ring, and had its roots in earth. "Where is the Soul of Jahnek?” it whispered, not in words perhaps, but it made its question felt. "Where is the Soul of Jahnek?"

Dreysa whimpered and made no answer because she had never heard of any Soul of Jahnek, save that Jahnek was the Beloved of Hertha. She shivered under the impact of the words so that she lost a little bit of herself to every repetition of the question. "Where is the Soul of Jahnek?” it came