Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2009 by Alyx Shaw

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2009

NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser

only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email,

floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a

violation of International copyright law and subjects the

violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice

overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are

erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to

others.

This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

CONTENTS

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue

* * * *

Chapter One

Arrowsmith crossed the grass, his arm around Infamous as

they made their way to the little run-down house. To his left
walked Monshikka, ghostly white in the light of the full moon
and stunningly beautiful. Arrowsmith said nothing as they
walked along, and Infamous as well as Monshikka seemed to
be sensing that all was not well. The trio all stopped at the
same time, a sure sign they had known each other far too
long. Infamous reached out and took Arrowsmith's hand.

"What's the matter, love?" he asked softly.
Arrowsmith looked from Infamous to Monshikka, his

expression pained. For a long moment, he struggled with
what he had to say. Then he smiled and reached out to touch
Infamous' face.

"Infamous, I love you more than I have words to say. And

I love my parents. They're good people. But ... my dad ... can
be a little hard to take at times. And ... I don't want you to be
upset by anything he says."

Monshikka immediately came to Infamous' defense, red

eyes alive with wrath. "Arrowsmith, with all due respect to
your esteemed father, I will not tolerate him abusing
Infamous in any manner."

Arrowsmith had to laugh. "No one is allowed to pick on him

but you, right?"

Infamous grinned at Monshikka, who put an arm around

the Thief's shoulders. "That is precisely what I mean."

Arrowsmith chuckled. "Look, he's a good guy. He took me

in, raised me, fed me, clothed me, spent time with me,
taught me things ... He didn't have to do any of that. He
could have tossed me into a foster home and forgot about
me. But ... he's not exactly Mr. Sensitive New-Age Guy. He
might not be real happy about me being in love with you."

Infamous opened his mouth, but did not get a chance to

speak before Monshikka did.

"Well, what in the name of Creation is wrong with

Infamous? What can he possibly object to? His breeding? His
occupation? His hair?"

"His gender," said Arrowsmith.
Infamous and Monshikka both gave Arrowsmith the 'you

must be kidding' look of a lifetime. Monshikka shook his head
slightly, as though not certain of what he had heard. "I beg
your pardon?"

"My dad isn't really big on the idea of men being in love

with other men."

Monshikka pulled Infamous closer, his long, white robe

enfolding the little Thief protectively. "That is the single most
ridiculous thing I have heard in several lifetimes."

"Come on, Monshikka, your own people aren't wild about

the idea, either."

"My people are mad. Reasonable folk do not think such

things."

"Well, I can't argue with that. Look, all I'm saying is

forgive the old guy, okay? He's had a hard life, and he's done
a lot for me, okay?"

"Very well," said Monshikka, cold and regal. "But if he

upsets my Thief, I shall have words with him."

"He's my Thief, thank you very much."
"I won't be anybody's Thief, if you two don't stop arguing

over me!"

"Sorry, sunshine." Arrowsmith gently pulled Infamous

close and kissed him. Arrowsmith put his right arm around
Infamous, then offered his left arm to Monshikka, who
accepted it. Together they walked toward the small fire and
the four people seated around it, speaking quietly.

"I'm back!" Arrowsmith announced. "Silver, I brought the

guy you're impersonating. Silver, may I present to you Prince
Monshikka Starlit of Kirianna." Arrowsmith turned to look at
Infamous, but he seemed to have moved so he was slightly
behind Arrowsmith. Arrowsmith grinned at him. "You're cute."

Infamous eyed Arrowsmith's family like a cat watching a

strange object. "They're huge."

"Sorry, I didn't have time to shrink them."
Silver stood and turned to look at Monshikka, then

dropped to his knees, jaw hanging open, looking like he had
just met Jesus Christ. He stared at the man before him,
mouth working soundlessly, trying to speak.

"Real classy, Silver," said Arrowsmith.
Silver swallowed, then said, his voice full of awe, "Finland,

he's beautiful."

"Get up, you twit."
"I mean, he is ... really beautiful!"

"You said that." Arrowsmith stepped forward and pulled his

friend to his feet. Silver staggered up, unable to take his eyes
from Monshikka.

"He's an Elf, right? Tell me he's an Elf."
"He's an Elf."
"Is he?"
"No, you stunned bastard, he's human."
Monshikka stepped forward. "Arrowsmith, is this man quite

all right?"

"He's fine, he just thinks you're the most beautiful man

he's ever seen."

"Ah, a madman with taste."
Silver stepped forward, but Arrowsmith gently pulled him

back and spoke into his ear. "Whatever you do, do not touch
him. It is strictly forbidden, and I would hate to see you
executed your first night here."

Silver blinked in surprise. "I just saw you touch him. Do I

have cooties or something?"

"Yeah, you have serious, radioactive, Day-Glo cooties.

Look, it's nothing personal. But he's a virgin prince of..."

"He admits he's a virgin? Like ... in public?"
"Silver! C'mon, pay attention, man. You are not on Earth,

okay? I'm trying to keep you from getting killed. You do not
ever, under any circumstance, put a hand on him without his
permission, do you understand? Do you want to know what
the penalty is for laying a finger on any part of his anatomy
without his consent? If you're lucky, they'll only cut your
hands off. Where he comes from, virtue is serious bloody
business. DON'T. Touch him. Clear?"

Silver nodded, subdued by the warning, then stepped

forward once more. He and Monshikka gazed at each other,
the prince and the pauper, mirror reflections of what each
other's lives may have been had the dice roll of the gods
come up differently.

"Do I bow?" asked Silver.
Arrowsmith smiled at his friend fondly. "If you want to be

really formal, you get down on one knee and bow your head."

"Oh, and me with arthritis in my back and hip and two bad

knees. And who's gonna help me get back up again?"

"I'll help ya. After I laugh at you, of course."
"Okay, fine."
Arrowsmith kept an eye on Monshikka as Silver got down

on one knee and bowed to him. Monshikka actually smiled
slightly.

"That is very sweet, but hardly required, Arrowsmith. Did

you tell him to do that?"

Arrowsmith shrugged. "He wanted to."
"He's adorable. I think I'll keep him."
"I told him not to touch you."
"Wise. A deplorable old custom, but there would be a great

deal of trouble if I did not honor it."

Silver got up, and not easily. He watched Monshikka with

unabashed awe, and it was obvious the Ice Prince was more
than a little amused with him. Infamous glanced from one to
the other.

"Praise the Creator they won't breed."
Arrowsmith gently pulled Infamous close for a quick kiss,

then led the little Thief over to his parents and uncle.

Infamous tried to hide again, but Arrowsmith once more
pulled him forward.

"Come along, small paranoid one, they won't bite."
"They smell funny." Infamous sniffed. "No, actually, they

smell like you."

"Yeah, well, I've smelled you after a night of robbing

people's houses and falling into dog runs and whatnot."
Arrowsmith planted Infamous before him, feeling the nervous
tension running through Infamous' small body like live
current.

"Mom, Dad, Smash..." Arrowsmith took a deep breath,

trying to prepare himself for whatever reaction he got. "This
is my husband, Ithra."

He felt Infamous push back against him, preparing to bolt.

Arrowsmith rolled his eyes as he heard the little half-Elf hiss
quietly.

"Infamous, this is my family, not a pack of zombies."
Infamous hissed again, a distinctly Elvish noise on

Dargoth.

"Welcome to the family, brother!" exclaimed Smash, at a

volume that likely had half the city sitting up in bed.
Arrowsmith sighed heavily as Infamous evaporated into mist
and night air.

"You scared him," said Arrowsmith.
"We scared him?" yelled Mother. "Where the fuck did he

go?"

"Not far, rest assured." Arrowsmith noticed a quick glint of

diamond moving on the roof. No, Infamous had not gone far.

He would sit and watch and learn who these people were
before he decided if he could trust them.

"What the hell is he, a ghost?" Mother yelled.
"Dad, don't yell, you're not out on Marsden Road anymore.

Look, let's have a seat; I'll tell you anything you want to
know."

They sat. Arrowsmith glanced over at Silver and

Monshikka, the pair cautiously learning to communicate. They
appeared to be at the 'You Tarzan, me Jane' stage. Silver
bounded off to get Monshikka a chair, then sat on the grass
before him, staring at the prince with the same look of awe
on his face as when he first saw Monshikka. Arrowsmith
smiled.

"Good luck, Silver," he whispered.
Mother glanced around, still not happy about Infamous

turning to vapor right before his eyes. "So, your friend, he's
still here?"

"He's on the roof, Dad."
Mother didn't look; he seemed scared. "Freakiest thing I

ever saw."

"Sorry about that. He's the nervous type."
Smash seemed to have no problem at all with

Arrowsmith's announcement that the strange little man was
his husband. "How long the two of you been together?"

"Pretty much since you saw me last."
Mother seemed concerned and thoughtful. "Ugly little

thing."

"He's not ugly, Dad. He's really very sweet. You'd like him

if you knew him."

"He looks like Bob Marley and Christian Slater's love child.

What's his name again? Ezra?"

"Ithra. It means 'Infamous.'"
Mother decided he just wasn't comfortable with this. "Well,

I think it's bed time." He looked at his wife. "You coming?"

She nodded. "I think so." She stepped forward and gave

Arrowsmith a hug. "Goodnight, Johnny. I'm so glad to have
you home again."

He laughed and hugged her back, then watched as she and

Mother made their way back to the house, while Smash set
up his sleeping bag by the fire. Arrowsmith got up and made
his way over to Silver and Monshikka.

"I'm heading in. Are you two going to be all right?"
"I shall be just fine, Arrowsmith," said Monshikka. "Sleep

well."

"Silver? I'm going to bed."
"Night," said Silver, in a tone of voice that suggested he

really wasn't listening.

Arrowsmith grinned, then looked back toward the roof. He

briefly saw a shadow, but then it vanished. It caught up with
him as he walked toward the Palace. Arrowsmith slid his arm
around Infamous.

"Well, that was a lovely introduction; he scared you and

you scared him."

"I'm sorry about that," said Infamous. "I didn't mean to,

but your uncle was just so loud. He certainly looks like you."

"Yeah, well, there's a rumor floating around that he may

be my actual father."

"You don't know?"

"Neither of us knows. I've asked Smash about it, but

Smash doesn't have much of a memory anymore. He doesn't
even remember if he was ever with the woman who gave
birth to me. Anyway, I don't like thinking about it. I'm
exhausted, let's just go to bed."

Together they walked to their bedchamber. Once there,

Arrowsmith dropped his clothes and slid under the covers.
Moments later, he felt Infamous snuggle up against him, and
he slid his arms around the small, wiry body.

"So good to be home," said Arrowsmith quietly.

* * * *

The Court gathered in the upper floor of the Forbidden

Library, the one place in the Palace where nothing could spy
on them. Blue sat on the floor, Misty beside him, the large
and ancient map of the city of Palaklais spread on the floor
before him. His fingers traced lightly over the yellowed
parchment. He found what he sought and pointed to it.

"Here. The entrance to the well of magic." He turned his

gaze to Blackbird, the light of the candles within the room
catching and refracting into a million tiny prisms within the
depths of his diamond-like eyes. "The Crystal Mages are in a
chamber beneath the well. At least, one of them is."

Blackbird looked down at the well Blue indicated. "Under

our very noses, all this time. How did you find this out?"

"In my travels, I met an old Mycinocroft who used to live

in the ruins of the city. It seems over the centuries something
has tunneled through the cellars of the old buildings. She said
one of the tunnels led to a chamber of blue and green crystal.

The chamber had been ransacked, but she gave me this."
Blue pulled out a shard of blue crystal and passed it to
Blackbird. "If I am not mistaken, it bears the insignia of the
Rain Mage."

Blackbird looked at the spear of brilliant blue crystal,

turning it over in his hands, watching the way it reflected and
refracted the light of the fire into a shower of blue sparks. In
the midst of the crystal was part of an insignia: a drop of
water suspended over the stylized form of a swimming
Mycinocroft.

"That is the Rain Mage's symbol," said Blackbird. He

passed back the shard. "Well, that is not proof they are there,
but it seems to me as good a place to start as any."

One of the enchanted cats hopped into Blue's lap, and he

stroked its soft fur, smiling as it flopped onto its side, cat-
fashion, its red eyes bright with kitty mischief. Monshikka
picked up the map and studied it.

"I believe I have a more complete map of this area," he

said. He set the old map on a nearby table and went to a
shelf full of scrolls and papers.

Infamous gave the kitty a gentle scratch behind the ears,

smiling and pulling his hand back quickly as the little animal
unsheathed long, deadly claws and batted at him. Arrowsmith
looked up as Monshikka approached briefly to place a book on
the floor, then returned to the shelf. The rest of the Court
eyed the tome, then Misty reached out and opened it. He
laughed.

"Monshikka, where did you get this?"

"Oh, you would be quite surprised at what I have stashed

up here."

Arrowsmith leaned forward. "Oh, geez, look at that!

Ancient photographs! I keep forgetting you used to have stuff
like that!"

Misty turned the page, then quickly flipped past it. "Oops,

no need to see that."

Arrowsmith grabbed the book and flipped to the previous

page. "Misty, is that you?"

"No!"
Arrowsmith roared with laughter. "What did you do to your

hair?"

"Hey, I will have you know that cut was very stylish a

thousand years ago! Let's see if we can find you. Oh, look,
there's Blue glaring. And there's Blue sneering. And there's
Blue threatening the photographer with a mallet."

Blue smiled. "Those have obviously been altered. I am a

sweet and gentle forest creature."

"Suuuuuuuuuuuure," said Infamous. "Look, there's

Blackbird in the hospital. And there he is in the hospital again.
And here he is leaving the hospital. Who's the kid beside
you?" Infamous picked up the book and studied the picture.
"Tell me that's not me."

The Moonhound came to look over his shoulder. "Yes, that

is you, little Thief."

"Hey, I was cute! How come I'm so darn ugly now?"
Arrowsmith kissed him. "You're still cute. Oh, gawd, is that

me?" Arrowsmith flipped the page. "Well, that was bloody
awful. There's Sly as a fuzzy baby."

Sly had been stretched out on the rug. He rolled over to

look at the picture of himself as a very small child in a diaper,
the stripe of grey fur down his back marking him as half-
Mycinocroft. He snorted, then put his head back down,
ignoring his friends as they gushed over how cute he was as a
baby.

"This is amazing," said Blackbird. "It's a record, of us, of

the change from technology to magic. Look, there I am with
Snow Wolf." He looked at his wife. "Moonhound, now."

"You're beautiful!" said Wess.
The Moonhound actually giggled, a rare noise, indeed,

from her. "Wess, I will have you know my husband is right
here."

"I was talking about your husband! Look at him!"
They looked at the photo of Blackbird, seated on a stone

wall outside the great and solemn stone structure that had
once been a university; now a ruined but still striking building
just outside Twin Lakes. He wore his long coat and high
boots, a long, velvet ribbon in his hair. It was the style of the
young men at the time, but it did nothing to make Blackbird
look masculine.

"Who took this picture?" asked Misty.
"Marakim, believe it or not," said Blackbird. "Moonhound

and I were friends of his, back then. That was how we ended
up with Ilenya ... Infamous now. Look, there he is, in this
picture. Behold the Dawn Thief."

The photo was one of the Moonhound wearing a long skirt,

of all things, flowers braided into her hair, smiling, her arm
around a strikingly handsome young man. His eyes were

green and bright, his hair long and red, his skin fair. He was
dressed well for the times, but his clothes were faded and
showed signs of wear.

"He's a handsome lad," said Arrowsmith. "I thought

Marakim was blind."

"Well, that's a tale," said the Moonhound. "He started off

with two good eyes. Back then, it was hard to make anything
of yourself if you were not born into wealth. Very hard. Most
people ended up hardly able to support themselves. Finally,
dear old Marakim decided it was high time the wealthy began
sharing what they were hoarding with those starving in the
streets. He became quite the problem. The local guard
couldn't catch him, those patrolling the road couldn't catch
him, he was as elusive as a ghost. Finally, one night someone
did catch him, and they cut his eyes out to put a halt to his
nonsense."

"Stopped him cold," said Blackbird. "For a year."
"A year?" said Arrowsmith, "That's it?"
The Moonhound nodded. "He was determined. He was not

going to let those he knew starve and suffer anymore. He
started off small, built up his confidence and abilities. There
was something more to it, though. He was always ... better at
what he did than he should be. Pretty soon, he was out and
about again, robbing and bedeviling the wealthy. You'd think
a blind Thief would be easy to catch, but it took them
eighteen years." She touched the young man in the picture.
"This time, they hung him up by his boots in the town square
and slit his throat. Then they rounded up his two sons and did
the same to them. They likely would have done it to Infamous

as well, but his mother brought him to us and we took him in.
When word got around what had happened to Marakim, there
was a riot. Most of Twin Lakes was destroyed."

"I remember that," said Misty. "I did not know what it was

about."

"I remember that as well," said Wess. "The whole town

was torn apart. When the dust settled, we were all living
under bits of wood like rats."

"The funny part about this whole tragedy is that death

didn't stop him, either," said Blackbird. He looked at Infamous
and smiled. "Your grandfather was a good person, Ilenya. He
fought very hard to make things right for people who were
living without hope."

"Wait a minute," said Arrowsmith, "If they killed Marakim

and his children, then where did the Snoweaver Clan come
from? They are his descendants, are they not?"

"They are," said the Moonhound. "They killed his sons.

They did not kill his daughters. If you recall, women back
then were considered too weak, frail, and stupid to be of any
consequence. It was the daughters of Marakim who built the
Clan."

Infamous looked up from the photograph of his

grandfather. "So, why do I not look like any of them? My hair
has some red in it, but my eyes aren't green or blue, they're
black. I don't look like either of my parents."

The Moonhound and Blackbird exchanged glances, then

looked at Infamous. "Ilenya, did we not ever think to tell you
about that?"

"Only that my father was Marakim's second-eldest son,

Brannach, and my mother was an Elf. But I don't look like the
Stone Realm Elves, either."

The Moonhound took his hand. "I thought we told you.

Your mother was not a Stone Elf. She was a Black Elf."

"Black?" said Infamous. "A ... Black Elf? But ... they're ...

gone..."

"No, they are still here," said Blackbird. "They are elusive

and unfriendly, but they live still. There are a few clans in the
Palaklais, but they are not easy to locate."

"Black Elves?" said Arrowsmith. "I've never even heard of

these Elves."

"They are old," said Misty. "They precede the Stone Elves

by many, many centuries, dating back to the Dream Time.
They were the first race of Elves dreamt into being by the
Creator. They have black hair, and black eyes, and white skin.
But they are fragile, as most dream-creatures are. They did
not survive the time of technology well, and their life essence
was nearly all drained away when magic faded. They became
like roving packs of dogs, scrounging for what they could get,
too weak to re-form their great clans and care for
themselves. When the magic returned, they reclaimed their
Elven heritage and once more became the noble, beautiful
beings they were born to be. But they went deep into the
mountains and were never seen again. They are not fond of
other races, not even the Stone Elves, who thrived rather well
in the time of technology."

"That was why your mother from your first incarnation

could not take you with her after your father died," said

Blackbird. "She would have been accepted back, but not her
half-mortal child. You would have been killed. So she gave
you to the only people she knew well enough to trust, the
friends of her husband, myself and the Moonhound."

"What about now?" asked Infamous. "Do they still hate

other races so much?"

"No one knows," said Blackbird. "As Misty said, they have

not been seen in a thousand years, and you are the only
known offspring of a human and Black Elf, or of any race and
a Black Elf."

Infamous leaned against Arrowsmith, looking shocked and

rather upset. "I did not know. Yet it explains much that I did
not understand about myself. Why did you not tell me?"

"Because, at the time, it would not have been wise to have

that information be known," said Blackbird. "Black Elves were
not beloved creatures. They had no grace in them at that
time. Their life essence and everything that made them Elves
had been sucked away. They were withered, vicious, and
embittered creatures with hardly mind enough to care for
themselves. They lurked in dark places and killed anything
and anyone they came across. If it had become known you
were one of them, you would not have been permitted to
live."

Infamous nodded, but still looked upset. He moved closer

to Arrowsmith, falling silent.

"What of the Black Elves now?" said Arrowsmith.
"I saw them after the well of magic was opened," said

Blackbird. "Before they retreated into the mountains. They
were humiliated, ashamed. The return of magic had let them

reclaim their Elven graces, but the knowledge of what they
had done and had degenerated into was too great a disgrace
for them to bear, and at the time, it seemed unlikely that
they and other races could live together. They went into the
deepest and most remote parts of the Palaklais Mountains.
There are rumors of them having a small clan by the isolated
mountain town of Moonsilver Vale, and occasionally they are
sighted. But they choose not to reveal themselves. Those who
have sighted them say they have indeed returned to their
former grace, that they are beautiful and wise and gentle. But
they are wild and elusive. They wish to be left alone, and I for
one see no reason to intrude upon their solitude."

"I would like to see them," said Infamous softly. "Perhaps

we shall see them in the Palaklais."

Arrowsmith pulled him close and gave him a kiss. "Are you

all right?"

"I'm fine," said Infamous. "This explains a great deal,

certainly. My looks, my Thieving abilities..."

"Your brash and fearless demeanor when meeting new

people," said Arrowsmith.

"Still doesn't explain the hair," muttered Infamous,

examining a beaded strand.

"You mean, the dreads aren't intentional?" asked

Arrowsmith.

"No, they are the result of me snapping off a comb in this

stuff for the ninth time and just saying 'Forget it.' I believe
the piece of comb is still in there somewhere."

"You have your grandfather's hair," said the Moonhound.

"He always kept it tied back. Your mother had a great deal of
wild hair as well."

"If it distresses you that greatly, I shall be happy to cut it

off for you," said Monshikka. He seated himself on the floor
and passed Blackbird a map. Blackbird took it and spread it
on the rug. Blue leaned forward and indicated the well.

"There is the well. The place where the Mycinocroft found

the crystal was in an underground chamber right ... here."

"And where is 'here'?" asked Arrowsmith.
"Seems to be under the shrine to the Creator," said the

Moonhound. "Well, it gives us a starting point. I was not
looking forward to spending a few lifetimes searching that
whole mountain range." She sat back and sighed, then looked
at Monshikka. "And how are you and your double getting
along?"

Monshikka rolled up the map. "I believe he is rather

smitten with me."

Arrowsmith grinned. "Smitten is right. Silver took one look

at Monshikka and fell to his knees."

"Nausea will do that," quipped Infamous.
Monshikka fixed Infamous with his 'peasant' glare.

Infamous smiled at him innocently.

"So, are you going to do a little wallowing with the lower

classes?" asked Misty.

"No," said Monshikka. "Not that he is not very sweet, but I

choose not to wallow with anyone, regardless of class. I find
being fed my heart and humiliated once was quite enough,
thank you, no need to do it again."

"Don't you get lonely?" asked Blackbird.
Monshikka gave him a sharp look, eyes becoming cold.

"My feelings, like my heart, are my own, and I choose not to
share them in this matter. And I am quite certain
Arrowsmith's friend will get over his infatuation and find
someone more suitable, and we can all get on with our own
business."

"Still the Ice Prince," said Misty. "Well, that's all very well

and good for you, but personally I am glad to at last have the
one person I love more than any other back in my life." He
gave Blue a kiss, then looked over at the Moonhound. "Why
haven't you and the Wizard-King there ever had children?"

"Children?" said the Moonhound. "I have children, eight of

them, all rotten. Married one of them." She looked toward the
window and frowned slightly. "What is that noise?"

Misty raised his head and listened, and Blue went to the

window to look out.

"Screaming," he said. "People screaming. Horses ... I

cannot see anything from here!"

"Surely you do not think we are under attack!" said

Monshikka.

"Certainly sounds like it," said the Moonhound. She

pointed to Arrowsmith, Blue, and Monshikka. "You three stay
here, everyone else come with me." She looked at Blackbird.
"What are you going to do?"

"I shall take to the air," he said.
She nodded, then left the tower, followed by Misty,

Infamous, Sly, and Wess. Blackbird stepped out of the tower
and into Monshikka's garden. Arrowsmith watched him take a

silver whistle out of his robe and blow it. Moments later, a
small, black mare landed before him. She had long, angled
wings, like those of a hawk, and was so black as to be utterly
featureless, save for a strange glitter in her coat, like
starlight. Blackbird pulled himself onto her back, and the two
leapt off of the edge of the garden, diving sharply downward
before she spread her wings. Then they sped over the
gardens before banking abruptly around the side of the castle
and vanishing from sight.

"Great," said Arrowsmith. "We get to hide in the tower and

wait to get ravished by the ravening hordes."

"We have the cats," said Monshikka.
Arrowsmith looked at the dozen or so little bodies he could

see flopped in various poses about the Library. "I feel safer
already." He looked at Monshikka. "Hey, why did she take
Wess?"

* * * *

The small group reached the bottom floor and flung open

the door to the hall. Sylvannamyth went out first, the
Moonhound not far behind him. She did not seem to notice as
he smoothly, with a dream-like fluidness, shifted into the
form of a huge grey wolf, his claws scraping up sparks from
the black stone floor as he ran. It wasn't anything she hadn't
seen before. Misty and Wess kept running with her, and
Infamous bolted into one of the many castle passages to alert
the Temple below.

The Moonhound stopped at the barracks of the Wolf

warriors and was met by Lady Trask.

"What is happening? Are we under attack?"
Trask nodded. "It is a small group, only a few hundred. I

know not where they are from. They approached from the
south-east under the flag of Stone Realm. As we have been
expecting an honor guard from the Elven kingdom, they were
not challenged. However, once they were inside the city walls,
they began attacking any and all at random. They are making
their way to the Palace."

"I do not understand this, are you saying we are being

attacked by Elves?"

Trask shook her head. "No, these are not Elves, my lord

General."

A thought struck the Moonhound, and she looked at Misty.

"Kirianna," she said. "It's a ruse."

"Just what I was thinking."
"You protect the Palace along with Infamous. Sly and I will

deal with these maggots." She turned to face her warriors
and shouted, "How do you want your lunch? Armed or
unarmed?"

There was a roar of approval, and the Moonhound turned

to look at the enormous, shaggy wolf with the eerie, pale grey
eyes. "Find those who seem to be in charge of this assault.
Turn them against each other, convince them their troops are
mad, do whatever you have to. These Kiriannans will march
off of a cliff, if ordered to; without direction they are useless."

The wolf turned and raced out of the palace, heading into

the city. The Moonhound and her warriors followed after him.

"And what am I to do?" Wess called after her.

"Do what you do best!" she called back, then kept on with

her warriors.

Looking back, she noticed Wess smiling. "If you insist, my

lady."

* * * *

The Moonhound was shocked at how close the invaders

were to the Palace; indeed, they were right outside the gate
that led to the Palace itself. She watched as Sly raced into
their midst, jaws closing about the middle of one man and
snapping him in half. The invaders nearby turned on him, and
she watched as they suddenly seemed to lose their minds and
either fled screaming or turned on one another. His abilities
did not work on all of them, however, and she charged into
the fray, lopping the head off one man and neatly gutting
another.

She was startled by a flash of blue and red, then another

of green and gold. Fairenya and Dherrin blew past her so
quickly it almost knocked her off balance, each armed with a
foil and dagger. They moved with a liquid grace, their garb a
confusing blaze of streaming color that the sun turned to
blowing flame. She watched the Elves fight side by side in the
battle, foils sounding like whips as they slashed their
opponents to bleeding rags. She briefly felt terribly weighty
and clumsy next to such fast and graceful beings, but forgot
about them and continued with the battle. She suddenly
heard Sly's voice in her mind.

A group has slipped by the gate.
She nodded. "Wess will get them," she said.

* * * *

Infamous met up with Roer and Darkrist in the

passageway.

"Your brother Sjaan is in the Temple below," said Darkrist.

"We took him there when first we heard of the battle."

"Thank you," said Infamous. "We have no time to plan.

Darkrist, take the Thieves to positions in the high passages by
the Palace entrance. Arm yourselves with crossbows. Let none
live, and do not get in harm's way. Roer, take the
Highwaymen and meet me in the entranceway. We stand with
Misty and the Palace guard."

They went off to do as they were bid, and Infamous

returned to the huge hall with the great vaulted ceiling that
was the entranceway. He came to stand beside Wess, then
looked around.

"Where are the guards?"
Wess slowly stuffed the tobacco into his pipe until he was

happy with it. "I sent them further into the Palace."

"You mean you're here alone?! You're mad!"
Wess lit his pipe. "No, I'm not. Everything will be fine, little

Thief, you will see."

"Oh, just wonderful, I am sure. The invaders shall flee in

terror at the sight of you and your pipe."

Wess turned his head and looked at Infamous, putting his

hand on Infamous' shoulder. "Infamous, I am the Well
Guardian. I may not get much chance to engage in battle, but
that doesn't mean I am helpless. You had best move back as
well. I do not wish for anything to happen to you."

"I choose to stay."
"Very well. We wait together."
Infamous nodded and fell silent. Beside him, Wess quietly

smoked, both listening as the sound of the battle drew near.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Two

Infamous held his ground beside Wess, watching as the

group of twenty heavily armed and armored men rushed
toward them. Wess had ordered the Crucib guards back into
the hall behind them, and as the men drew near, they
slowed, becoming suspicious about the lack of defenses. By
the time they came to the doorway, they were walking,
swords at the ready, looking nervous. Wess watched them
calmly, smoking. Then he lowered his pipe.

"Go home, warriors of Kirianna. Do not throw your lives

away."

Infamous watched from his position beside Wess as one of

the men removed his helm and pointed his sword at Wess. He
had his hair shorn ludicrously short, and his teeth were
broken and grey. "You have our King," he said.

"Your King attempted to kill our Librarian. That is an

offense."

"He can kill whomever he damn well pleases, and that

bleached freak should never have been permitted to live. His
Majesty was only correcting a mistake. Surely you understand
that is our custom."

Wess drew on his pipe. "I understand it is your custom to

kill those you find disturbing. But kindly understand it is our
custom to jail those who try to murder them in our Palace."

Infamous smiled slightly. The man narrowed his eyes and

pointed his sword at Wess once more. "Will you take us to our
King now, or do I have to gut you?"

"I'm not taking you anywhere, and if you try to gut me you

shall find yourself in a most unpleasant situation."

"Nothing a bath won't fix, I'm sure."
The man raised his sword, and Infamous threw his angled

dagger. It slashed through the man's neck, jamming itself
into his spine, and the man dropped to the white flagstones.
Infamous drew his bastard sword and vaporized, then began
moving into position behind the men.

Wess began to shimmer in a blue light. There rose a cloud

of swirling, blue vapor that smelled of summer rain, and then
something stepped out of the mist. The slender head was
glossy black, heavily encased in an arrow-shaped, natural
helm, edged with crimson, the high, cutting crest down the
center glinting like steel. The neck was long and dragon-like,
but the body it led into was small, and the build was more like
that of a greyhound than a dragon. The legs were lthin and
fine, lengthier than those of larger dragons, and the small
feet ended in four huge, scythe-like claws, which cut the
flagstones beneath them. The wings were wide and fine,
angled like a seabird's, black, and glittered like metal. Their
edges were also streaked in crimson, and as the creature beat
the wings, they made a noise like ringing crystal. Finally,
there was the whip-like tail ending with its trio of large,
deadly blades.

The men just stared. A couple dropped their weapons. One

even fell to his knees and began praying. The small dragon,
barely eleven feet long from nose to tail, narrowed its yellow
eyes and hissed. For a long, tense moment, nothing moved.

Then the men, with the exception of their praying companion,
lunged.

The dragonhawk spread his wings and spun once, a

graceful, ballet-like motion. The lethal wing and tail blades
removed limbs and heads and cut bodies in half like a knife
moving through soft butter. Blood and matter sprayed and
splattered in all directions, and eight men were dead in one
dance-like motion. Then it swung the lethal head and speared
a ninth man straight through his chest, cutting through his
plate armor like a sword through cheap tin.

Infamous just stared. "Dragonhawk. Wess is a

dragonhawk." He threw his head back and sighed. "Take me,
Marakim, I've seen it all."

He darted out of the way of the swinging tail-blades,

rematerializing to help with the fast-moving battle. Infamous
paused briefly to watch as the men broke their swords on the
beast's head and as the huge claws raked through one
assailant and sliced him like bread. The pieces fell to the
ground with a horrid, wet, slapping sound that made
Infamous feel sick.

Then Infamous noticed the one man was still on his knees

and praying, and took pity on him. Infamous darted into the
battle and took hold of him, brought him to his feet, then led
him out of harm's way, to a grassy spot near the wall that
bordered the garden.

"There is no need to fight," said Infamous. "Don't throw

your life away for the madness of a king."

The man nodded, then looked at the Master Thief and his

garb, a quizzical look on his face. "Who might you be, friend,
who offers kindness to one who came to kill?"

"Infamous Keeper."
A slight smile quirked at the man's mouth. "Indeed?"
Something told Infamous to move, but the warning came a

hair too late. He dodged, but the sand caught him full in the
face anyway. Infamous knew exactly what had hit him. It was
a hideous concoction that the soldiers of Kirianna liked to use
on Thieves: a mixture of sand, pebbles, crushed glass, and
salt. Infamous felt it slash into his face, burning and stinging
and cutting into his eyes. He struck out with his sword and
managed to catch the man full in the crotch, removing
something less useful than his eyes but more highly thought
of.

Infamous dematerialized to get out of the way of any

further harm. The shards of dirt and glass fell to the ground,
but the damage was not mended. The pain made
concentration impossible, and the spell was broken. Infamous
could feel himself crying blood, his eyes burning from the salt.
He heard someone in armor run toward him, and he swung
out with his blade, neatly catching the man in the throat. He
held his ground, listening as more men ran toward him.
Infamous shifted his sword to one hand, then drew a dagger
with his left. They swarmed over what they took for easy
prey, but a little thing like blindness would not slow a child of
Marakim. Infamous struck back, moving with the grace and
ease of centuries of practice. He would not die so easily.

He heard a scream of rage, and a whipping sound, and felt

the rush of air pass his face. He heard the men cry out and
scatter, fleeing. Infamous felt someone take his arm.

"You really are a sorry excuse for a Master Thief. If your

brother was not so lovely, there would be no use for you at
all!"

"Dherrin?"
"'Tis me, and good Fairenya." Infamous felt Dherrin gently

take his face between his hands.

"Is it bad?" asked Infamous.
"Well, it is not good, but let us ask Lady Seraph about

that. I will get you inside."

Infamous felt Dherrin pick him up and begin quickly

walking into the Palace. Infamous began to feel sick and very,
very frightened.

"Thank you for your aid," he said softly.
"Ah, no need to thank me, Master, you would have

vanquished your foes without my meager assistance."

Infamous felt the blood drip down his throat and off of his

chin "Dherrin?"

"Yes, my Lord?"
"You can court my brother, if you like."

* * * *

Blackbird swooped over the city, heading toward the

battle, swearing quietly at the hell and chaos wrought in his
peaceful little realm. Spying Lord Sylvannamyth below, using
his strange abilities to make the soldiers fight amongst
themselves or flee back to their home. Blackbird had directed

Sylvannamyth to kill only if he had to, and the huge wolf
bowed to his king's wishes, sending the soldiers fleeing in
horror at imagined demons. Blackbird briefly caught a glance
of the Moonhound, covered in gore and facing down those
who would not flee the terrifying images Sly put in their
minds. He circled the area, but the tide had turned in their
favor. The Kiriannan soldiers were either fleeing or dying.

He directed his horse to the gates of the city proper and

gasped as he saw smoke rising. He urged his horse to move
faster, and the young mare beat her wings harder, moving as
quickly as she could.

Blackbird was horrified as he reached the large open

markets and saw them in flames. The soldiers were burning,
killing, looting, and worse. Bodies of innocent merchants and
patrons littered the ground. He knew it would be some time
before his own soldiers could get there; they were
bottlenecked by the Palace, locked in combat.

An arrow shot past him, its edge leaving a perfect, thin,

vertical cut on his face. A second arrow shot by, and he
wrapped his arms around the mare's neck to avoid falling off
as she rolled to escape it. He waited for her to right herself so
he could get both hands free. Narrowing his eyes, he flicked
his fingers, studying the soldiers below. He was trying to
decide what spell to cast when he saw a little girl being
attacked by a soldier.

He screamed out a command, and the entire square burst

into flames. He could hear the wild shrieking of the soldiers
cut short, then the fire died down, and all that was left were a
few frightened horses, their tack untouched, as well as the

dead and dying in the square, and the buildings. The soldiers
were gone.

He directed his little mare to land, and she did so daintily,

flicking her long wings nervously, snuffling the smoky air.
Blackbird ran over to the little girl, who was crying loudly, the
heavy sobs of one who was truly frightened and hurt. The
blade of the sword had gone amiss when the flames burst
around her assailant, and her shoulder was badly maimed.
She was bleeding too heavily to wait for help, and he picked
her up and put her on his horse. One small hand tangled into
the black mane, the other stroking the strong neck that did
not feel like fur. She looked over her shoulder once at
Blackbird, as though she was not really certain who she was
looking at, but said nothing as the Mage got up behind her.

He watched as a handful of his own soldiers arrived and

began rendering assistance as best they were able, then flew
back toward the Palace, over the area where the Moonhound
was fighting. However, the battle was ended, and the
prisoners were being marched toward the city garrison. It had
been a brief but bloody fight, and now that it was over, all he
felt was sick.

* * * *

"What is going on?" asked Blue, peering over the low wall

that framed Monshikka's rooftop garden. He was not much
taller than Blackbird, and he had to stand on his toes to look.

Arrowsmith brought him a wrought iron chair to stand on,

then watched the battle. He could feel fear in his guts. It was
the same sick, scared feeling he'd had when his first

incarnation was crossing the English Channel in a creaking
rat-hole of a ship to go make war on the Normans. The fear
and memory was so strong he shivered, briefly smelling the
sea air and the stench of filthy bodies around him. It almost
made him vomit.

Monshikka put a hand on his arm. "Arrowsmith? Are you

quite all right?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I just ... don't like battles. Look, there's

Misty."

They watched the grey-clad figure, his gold hair blowing

out behind him. There seemed to be some sort of battle going
on in the courtyard, but they could not see what was
happening. Blue gasped and made a worried squeak as a
soldier ran screaming toward Misty and swung a sword at
him, but the half-Elf dodged easily. A moment later a
dragonhawk galloped into view, sending the soldiers fleeing.
The glossy black animal chased them out of the courtyard,
then turned to strut back to the entrance, flipping its wings
into place and looking pleased.

Arrowsmith grinned, then leaned over the wall and yelled

in his best 'outrageous French accent,' "AND DON'T COME
BACK, OR I SHALL TAUNT YOU A SECOND TIME, YOU SILLY
ENGLISH KNIGGIT!"

Blue and Monshikka exchanged glances, but declined

comment.

* * * *

Dherrin carried Infamous into the Palace. He did not get

far before he was met by Seraph, who obviously had been

informed by the Thieves that their Master was injured. Misty
arrived a moment later, and together the three took Infamous
to his own chamber. Several Thieves were waiting there, and
Seraph sent them scampering to fetch bandages and healing
salves and herbs. She directed Dherrin to put Infamous on
the bed, and he set the little Thief down gently, then stepped
back to let her work.

Dherrin briefly watched Seraph clean and tend to

Infamous' injuries, but once he saw the extent of them, the
Elf turned his head, trying not to be sick. He felt someone
take his hand and glanced up to see his friend and cousin,
Lady Greyrain. She was a warrior of the Sun God, like
himself; an unusual choice of deity for a woman, but not
unheard of. She was wearing her house colors of grey,
purple, and gold, the long golden coat splashed with blood.

"Is that battle over?" she asked.
"Rainie, how did you get here?"
She hugged Dherrin. "I rode up with a small honor guard

from Stone Realm, only to discover there was a guard ahead
of us, wearing our Elven garb, but not of our Realm. We tried
to catch them up, but to no avail. My men are assisting with
the battle."

He nodded. "Hardly what I would call a battle, though.

Wait, where is Sjaan? He should not..."

Dherrin felt his heart sink as he saw Infamous' brother

step into the doorway. The color drained out of Sjaan's face
as he saw Infamous, and he darted into the room.

"Infamous?"
Infamous raised his head. "Sjaan?"

"What did they do to you?"
"Oh, nothing serious, just a little glass in the face. I told

Dherrin I would not kill him for dating you, but if he spends
your wealth doing something stupid, I reserve the right to
skin him."

Sjaan took Infamous' hand and looked at his brother, then

turned away, nauseated by what he saw. "Oh, Infamous."

"Sjaan, do me a favor, would you please? Find me my

husband. I could use him right now. No, wait, don't. I don't
want him to see this. I have a feeling I look a lot worse than
anyone is telling me. Something about the gagging noises
gives it away."

Sjaan closed his eyes and breathed deep, settling his

stomach. "I will find Arrowsmith."

"No, Sjaan, don't..." Infamous sighed as Sjaan fled the

room. "Dherrin, go after him, would you?"

Dherrin chased after Sjaan, catching him in the hallway.

Dherrin dropped to his knees and put his arms around the
small half-Elf and let Sjaan cry. He watched Fairenya walk
past, heading to the Forbidden Library to speak with the other
members of the Court.

* * * *

Wess was already in the Library when Fairenya came in.

They exchanged glances, but said nothing. Both went silently
up the long staircase to the fifth floor. They reached the top
level, and Wess pushed the door open, seeing Arrowsmith,
Monshikka and Blue just coming in from the garden. The
three seemed to be in a good mood.

"Arrowsmith, no matter what you say, you will never

convince me that we need a catapult that fires farm animals,"
said Monshikka.

"Well, not real ones. Stuffed ones."
"What in the Creator's name for?"
"Blackie, you really need to watch more Monty Python."
"If it inspires folk to shoot dead animals at retreating

soldiers, then..." Monshikka paused and thought. "Actually,
that could have some fairly demoralizing effects. I'll look into
it."

"Yay! Hey, Fairenya, where'd you come from?" The large

man stopped as he looked from the tall Elf to his friend.
Neither had to say a word.

"Something happened to Infamous," said Arrowsmith.
Fairenya nodded, then said softly, "He is in your

bedchamber."

Arrowsmith ran by them and down the winding staircase

without another word, his heavy boots clomping on the
polished marble, the sound fading as he ran to his room.

"What happened?" asked Monshikka.
"A soldier had a bag of some type of sandy grit mixed with

glass," said Wess. "Infamous caught it full in the face."

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Blue.
Wess and Fairenya looked at each other, then Wess drew a

deep breath to steady himself. "He's blind. His eyes are ...
well, it was the most gruesome thing I think I have seen in
this or any other life."

Monshikka sank down into a chair, while Blue fled the

room to go look for Misty. Fairenya left quietly, stepping

lightly down the long staircase. Wess stepped toward
Monshikka, but he waved Wess back.

"I would like to be alone right now, Wess."
His voice was thick with tears, and Wess was taken aback

at the sight of their beloved Ice Prince melting rather rapidly.
He stood briefly, at a loss as to what to do, then offered
Monshikka a short, formal bow.

"I'll come back later to look in on you."
Monshikka nodded, and Wess quietly left the room.

* * * *

Arrowsmith stepped into the darkened room, quietly

closing the door behind himself, his chest tight with concern.
He swallowed, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. He
could hear Infamous crying very quietly.

"Infamous?"
Infamous' head snapped up, and he held his arms out

toward the sound of the voice. Arrowsmith moved quickly to
the bed and scooped the smaller man into his arms. Infamous
moved into his lap and put both arms around Arrowsmith's
neck, breaking down. Arrowsmith stroked his hand over
Infamous' long hair and kissed his face.

"What happened, Sunshine?"
Infamous told him, voice hitching like a hysterical child's,

finally breaking down and crying. Arrowsmith held him tightly.

"Can't they fix you?"
Infamous shook his head. "No. And don't turn on the light.

I don't want you to see me."

Arrowsmith kissed him. "Infamous, I love you; you will

never be anything but beautiful to me. I just want to see
what those bastards did to you so I can kill them."

He lit the lamp beside the bed, then gently took Infamous'

face between his hands. Arrowsmith carefully removed the
bandage, and looked. He was glad his lover could not see his
face; the injuries made his stomach roll. The flesh around the
eyes was badly slashed and abraded. The eyes themselves,
the strange, flat black eyes that had fascinated Arrowsmith
for centuries, were gone.

"Is the scarring bad?" asked Infamous
Arrowsmith kissed the tip of his nose and tried to study the

cuts objectively. Lady Seraph had done an excellent job
mending what she could of the damage, and much of it was
healed already. Finally, he said, "I don't think the scars will be
bad, a few little marks maybe, nothing big."

Infamous nodded and let Arrowsmith replace the bandage.

"Put the light out and get into bed with me."

Arrowsmith did. He removed his clothes and slid between

the cool, clean sheets, then opened his arms to embrace
Infamous, drawing Infamous down against his chest.
Infamous snuggled close, frightened and shivering.

"I never had anything like this happen to me before..."
Arrowsmith kissed him. "You'll be okay, lover. I'm here for

you. I ran into Seraph on my way here, and she told me the
Temple sent for someone from Two-Fifty-Mile-House to help
you. She told me his name. It was something like ... Isis ...
Ices..."

"Brysis?"

"Yeah, that's it."
Infamous sat bolt upright. "Brysis Rainwalker?! HERE!? Oh,

Creation, I need new robes. I need my hair done. I have to
get the Temple in order..."

Arrowsmith shook his head in surprise, then laughed.

"Infamous, settle down! You're the Master Thief! You can be
as big a mess as you like!"

Infamous swallowed, then laughed nervously. "I forgot."

He settled against Arrowsmith again. "Brysis Rainwalker..."

"Should I be jealous?"
"Brysis Rainwalker is a Snoweaver. He married into the

Rainwalker Highwayman clan and took their name. During a
battle, he was blinded."

"So he can help talk you through this."
Infamous shook his head. "No, Arrowsmith, this is larger

than that, far larger. He's touched by Marakim himself: he's
blind but he still sees. Maybe ... maybe I won't be in the dark
for the rest of this life..." Infamous suddenly made a squeak
of pure delight and pounced on his husband. "Brysis
Rainwalker! This almost makes getting my face cut to bits
worthwhile!"

Arrowsmith laughed, then kissed him. "Well, I don't

understand, but if he makes you happy, then hell, he can
move in."

Infamous grinned. "I believe this is rather like you getting

to meet that Jim Morrison fellow you are forever waxing
poetic about."

"But you are both of the Snoweaver clan. Haven't you two

met before?"

"No. Brysis has lived most of his life in the High Northern

Plains. I grew up in Stone Realm. That is about as far apart as
two people can be in this land." He sighed contentedly. "It
does not matter if I do not see again, Arrowsmith. I have you.
I love you."

Arrowsmith kissed Infamous gently. "Sleep, Sunshine. I'll

take care of you."

Infamous sighed quietly and settled against Arrowsmith,

resting his head on Arrowsmith's chest, exhausted after the
long day.

"As long as I have you," said Infamous quietly, then fell

asleep.

* * * *

Monshikka did not stay in the Library long. After an hour or

so, he made his way down to his private chambers and into
his study. There he stayed the rest of the day, far away in his
own thoughts.

He looked up as he heard a quiet knock at the door of his

sitting room, surprised at the sound. All the Palace staff and
the Court understood this sitting room was his private place;
he was not to be disturbed here. He raised an eyebrow as
Wess stepped into the room, smiling apologetically.

"I know you do not like to be disturbed here, but I wanted

to see how you were."

Monshikka wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Better than poor

Infamous."

"Well, surely you are not blaming yourself."

"No, I am not. But I cannot help but feel guilty. All this is

over me."

Monshikka was startled to feel Wess' hand on his, and he

looked up at his friend. Wess smiled at him affectionately.

"This is not all over you, Monshikka. They are merely using

you as an excuse. They would have done this years ago if
they had half as good as an excuse as they think they do
now."

Monshikka nodded. "Yes, I think you are right about that."
Wess squeezed his hand. "This is not your fault, and

Infamous will be just fine." He smiled. "You need to stop
taking blame upon yourself for the behavior of others. It was
not your fault Infamous was hurt, it was not your fault
Kirianna attacked, and ... if you will forgive me for saying so,
it was not your fault Andirin left."

Monshikka gasped. "What makes you think I feel that it

was my fault?"

"The way you have locked yourself away, your little

outburst about Silver. You like him. It is time you gave
yourself the luxury of falling in love again."

Monshikka shook his head, tearing up. "I was humiliated,

Wess."

"Yes, I know you were. But he was the one who was

wrong. Not you. And really, isn't four hundred years a bit
much?"

Monshikka laughed quietly, then sniffed. "Yes, a bit. You

are right, Wess, you are always right. Very well, I shall give
Silver a fair chance to court me if he so likes, but I make no
promises."

Wess grinned at him. "I am glad to hear that. And please

remember, if he is not to your liking, there are others."

"Others. That is a laugh. What others?"
Wess smiled. "You would be surprised, I think."
Monshikka looked at Wess and narrowed his eyes, as if an

idea had just struck him. "You do not mean you."

"I rather think we would work quite well together."
Monshikka just stared, open-mouthed. "I ... am not certain

about that." He shook his head. "Wess, this is far too much to
spring on me right now."

"Of course, and I'm sorry. My timing could have been

better."

"And how long has this thought been circulating through

your mind?"

"Not long, I confess. It occurred to me shortly after your

father tried to have you killed. You were in my thoughts, and
I began to think about what we have in common. We both
favor quiet and solitude. We both have a taste for history,
languages, music. And I thought ... perhaps the time had
come to see if there could be more to this friendship."

"Wesselik Devaron Silverbird, I swear I could just slap you.

You could have figured this out a few centuries earlier."

"Would you have accepted my offer?"
"I have no idea if I would then any more than I know if I

will now. And yes, your timing could be better. But I admit
this makes me feel a little less despondent and alone." He
looked out the window. "It is late, and I am very weary." He
returned his gaze to Wess, looking into those placid and
intelligent brown eyes. "I would like you to stay."

"I would love to stay."
"On the couch, lover boy."
"I would expect nothing less."
"You know me too well," Monshikka said dryly.
He rose and began walking toward his bedchamber, Wess

beside him. Everything about Wess was slow and calm: his
movements, his voice, his way of looking at life. Wess, more
than any of the Court, appreciated the added centuries to his
life. It meant he never had to hurry.

Monshikka smiled slightly as he realized just how little the

nine members of the Court really knew about each other. This
was not an accident; hundreds of years of living together had
given them all a deep respect for one another's privacy. The
Court would not work otherwise. They needed to be together,
but they also needed a certain degree of separation.

Wess was definitely one of the more enigmatic members.

What Monshikka did know about him would hardly fill a few
pages. Wess favored solitude and peace, and had been a
worshipper of the Elven god, Shallougha, all his lifetimes. An
enigmatic god for an enigmatic man, thought Monshikka
dryly. None but Wess would follow the teachings of a god with
a bare handful of worshippers left, a god who taught the arts
of warfare: weaponsmithing, armoring, metal-working,
combat, and the fine art of debating a subject to death. War
must only be joined if there was no other possible option. In
his third life, Wess accidentally insulted a female Elf who also
worshipped Shallougha. She drew her sword, ready to gut
him like a trout, when he said something to her in Elvish. She
lowered her sword and answered him. They bowed to one

another, then sat down together in the garden to discuss
whether this fight was necessary.

They were out there five days.
The two parted very good friends. They remained 'very

good friends' for fifteen years, then were lovers for another
twenty, and finally married. They were together another
forty. Wess considered the marriage 'rather rushed,' but did
not have the luxury of an Elven lifespan.

His courting of Monshikka could easily take Silver's whole

lifetime and then some.

They reached Monshikka's bedchamber, and Monshikka

half-feared for an irrational moment that Wess might push
the matter of the sleeping arrangements. But he went to the
couch without comment, lying down on the soft, embroidered
surface. Monshikka suddenly felt ridiculous.

"This is daft; I have been naked in the bath with you. You

can share the bed if you like."

Wess smiled. "No, really, I am fine, Monshikka. You sleep

in the bed. I will stay here."

Monshikka nodded, then went to put out the lamps.

* * * *

Infamous awoke, raising his head, wondering briefly why it

was still dark.

Then he remembered.
A wave of fear washed over him, and he reached for

Arrowsmith, relaxing as he touched the large, warm body
beside him. Infamous sighed with relief and rested his
forehead against Arrowsmith's shoulder. Infamous felt

Arrowmith stir, and then Arrowsmith pulled Infamous into his
arms.

"How are you feeling, love?" asked Arrowsmith, his voice

rough from having just awoken.

"I'm well enough, just a little frightened."
Arrowsmith kissed his brow, then pulled Infamous closer.

"Anything I can do for you?"

"Not unless you can find me a new pair of eyes."
"I could go rip the ones out of the bastard who blinded

you."

"Sounds lovely, but not particularly helpful."
Arrowsmith held him tightly, stroking a hand over

Infamous' back. "Oh, lover, I am so sorry this happened to
you. I love you so much, I just want to kill that bastard with
my bare hands!"

Infamous heard Arrowsmith's fist hit the wall, followed by

the expected writhing in agony and swearing.

"Stone walls," Infamous reminded him dryly.
"Broke my fucking hand!"
Infamous laughed inadvertently and heard Arrowsmith

trying hard not to laugh himself.

"It's not funny!"
Infamous reached out and felt for Arrowsmith's hand, then

gently kissed it. "Better?"

"No, but thanks."
Infamous kissed the hand again, then reached out, his

fingers finding long, soft hair. He stroked the hair, then
leaned forward and kissed Arrowsmith.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Just before sunrise. Gonna rain, I think."
"So we have a few hours before breakfast."
Infamous heard Arrowsmith lie back against the pillows,

muttering about his bleeding knuckles. He jumped as
Infamous moved over top of him and kissed his throat.

"Infamous, should you be doing this? I mean, you just

sustained a serious fucking injury."

"I don't want to think about it."
"I mean, doesn't that hurt?"
"Arrowsmith, it's just my face. The rest of me is fine." He

paused. "Unless you don't want me anymore?"

"No, of course I want you, I love you. It's just that you

have a black blindfold on that's leaking blood; we look like a
scene out of Heavy Metal."

"I'm fine."
"If you're fine, I'm fine."
Infamous wiped at his face; then, out of reflex, looked at

his hand, seeing nothing. "That was stupid," he muttered. "Is
the bleeding bad?"

"No, just a few little smears." Arrowsmith kissed him, then

wiped the blood away with the corner of the silk sheet.
"There, just as pretty as ever."

Infamous snorted, then shook his head. "How can you

think I'm beautiful?"

"Because you are."
Infamous looked down at Arrowsmith, then said softly,

"'Bug-shit crazy and ugly to boot,' I believe you said."

Arrowsmith ran his hand down his lover's face and sighed,

then gently drew Infamous down against his chest. "That was

a really, really shitty thing for me to say, and I had no right.
And you are not ugly. You are absolutely not ugly. You are
unusual looking, but, hell, you're of a race so fucking rare no
one has seen one in a thousand years. So you don't look like
everyone else. Big hairy deal. I love you. And sane people are
dull. Besides, need I remind you that I was completely head
over heels in love with you before I even Recalled? So stop
fussing."

"I shall fuss if I want."
"Can't make love if you're bitching."
"You have a point." Infamous gently kissed him, then

touched Arrowsmith's face. "I am sorry. I worry."

"I know you do. But I love you. I will love you no matter

what."

"Even if I am fat, old and ugly?"
"Of course I do."
"Cretin."
Arrowsmith stroked his fingertips over Infamous'

cheekbones, then lightly kissed him. "You're sure you're up to
this?"

"I have no idea. But I don't hurt, and I could really use an

hour or so under that great big beautiful body of yours."

"Oh, really. And a bath and breakfast afterward, I

suppose."

"Sounds perfectly dreadful. Kiss me."
Arrowsmith did, wrapping his arms around Infamous,

stroking his hands over Infamous' body. Then Arrowsmith
broke off the kiss.

"Harry, fuck off."

Infamous looked down at him, seeing nothing, but it was a

reflex action. "Who's speaking?"

"Lifetime number one. He says you're too skinny."
"You liked me well enough the first time, Harry," said

Infamous. "Piss off."

Arrowsmith chuckled quietly. "Never know who's going to

show up, and usually at the worst times."

Infamous grinned, then kissed him again, their bodies

pressing close together. Infamous stroked his hand slowly
over Arrowsmith's large body, tracing the lines around
Arrowsmith's muscles, his sensitive fingers moving over warm
flesh. Arrowsmith just lay back as Infamous' hands moved
lightly, slowly, exploring him. Then Infamous lay flat across
his broad chest, listening to the great heart beating within.

"You're bigger in the dark," he commented.
"There are several remarks I could make about that,"

Arrowsmith said, "but I won't say any of them." He groaned
softly as Infamous kissed his neck, then jaw, then up to kiss
Arrowsmith's lips.

"I need to learn to fight properly," Arrowsmith said.
"You keep ignoring what I'm doing much longer and you'll

get a lesson now," growled Infamous.

Arrowsmith laughed. "Help, I'm being threatened by half

an Elf."

"That's half-Elf."
"Well, you are pretty small."
"Oh, being cheeky, are we." Infamous kissed him hard,

sliding his body over Arrowsmith's, then reaching down with
one hand to grasp his penis. "Do I have your attention now?"

"Oh, yeah."
"Good."
Infamous kissed him again, and Arrowsmith slid his arms

around Infamous, slowly rolling over to pin Infamous beneath
him. Infamous made a squeak of trepidation, then laughed.

"Well, I've started something now, haven't I?"
Arrowsmith nibbled his neck, then kissed him, moving his

hips slowly as Infamous continued to stroke his stiffening
penis.

"Definitely bigger in the dark," said Infamous.
"Oh, gee, thanks a lot."
Arrowsmith kissed him hard, then Infamous waved a hand

in the direction he knew Arrowsmith's CD player would be,
which Blackbird had long ago enchanted for his own
amusement. Infamous grinned with approval at the music
that came out.

"Oh, I like this."
"'Physical Graffiti,'" said Arrowsmith.
"If that's what you want, then get me a paintbrush."
"Later."
They kissed and touched, stroking their hands over living

flesh, breathing in the scent of each other. Arrowsmith kissed
his way down Infamous' body, lingering over each part, then
kissed the flat of his lover's stomach, placing his hands
around Infamous' small waist before lowering his head to take
Infamous' penis into his mouth.

"Wait," said Infamous softly, his hands gently pushing at

Arrowsmith's shoulders. Arrowsmith let the hard member

slide from between his lips. He kissed Infamous' stomach,
then rolled onto his back.

"What are you up to?"
"You'll see. At least one of us will."
Infamous sat up and groped blindly for the table beside

the bed, his hand finally landing on what he sought: a cut
glass brandy decanter. Infamous took out the stopper, then
took some of the golden fluid into his mouth. He set the
bottle down, then turned to take as much of Arrowsmith's
hard penis into his mouth as he could.

Arrowsmith gasped and cried out. Infamous stroked one

hand over Arrowsmith's upper thigh, running his fingers
through the spilled brandy and softly following the paths it
had made. Then he swallowed the brandy he still had in his
mouth before drawing his lips from Arrowsmith's penis to lap
up the warm liquid.

Arrowsmith stroked his hand down Infamous' back, then

drew him up to kiss him, rolling on top of him, holding him
tightly. "Nice trick," he said. "What else can you do with a
bottle of brandy?"

"Some people drink it," said Infamous, grinning.
"That's not a bad idea." Arrowsmith picked up the bottle

and carefully, slowly, dripped the liquid down Infamous' neck,
then licked it off, draining the small pool that formed in the
pit of his throat.

Infamous grinned. "Very nice," he purred.
"Not done yet."
Arrowsmith trailed a line of brandy down Infamous' chest,

then down his stomach, watching the way it formed tiny

golden rivers between the muscles. He followed the rivers
with his tongue, leaving cooling, damp paths behind them.
Then he poured brandy into his mouth and set the bottle
aside. He lowered his head to take Infamous' penis into his
mouth, swallowing the liquid hard, his tongue firmly stroking
down the length of the shaft. The cold brandy mingled with
the heat of Arrowsmith's mouth as he sucked the stiff
member, warm-cool tendrils of liquid softly creeping down
between Infamous' legs.

The grey morning light gently, slowly, filled the room, the

rain tapping against the huge crystal windows as the pair on
the bed made love with quiet intensity. Infamous lay under
Arrowsmith, taking comfort in his large, strong body,
caressing his broad shoulders, sensitive fingers finding every
line, every curve on his back. Infamous reached for the
nightstand, finding and picking up a small, glass bottle with a
gold cap. He flicked the top off with practiced ease, passing it
to Arrowsmith, the warm, vaguely spice-like scent of the oil
filling the air. Arrowsmith took the oil, kissing Infamous, who
felt the shifting of the bed as Arrowsmith sat up to pour some
of it into his hands, then the quiet sound of the bottle being
placed on the floor. Arrowsmith stroked the oil over his flesh,
running his hands over himself, then reaching for the bottle
again, pouring more into his palm. Arrowsmith stroked one
hand over Infamous' hip, Infamous drawing his leg up,
allowing Arrowsmith's fingers to carefully explore him. He
made a quiet, shivering gasp as Arrowsmith slowly slid one
finger inside of him, then drew it out, stroking more oil

between Infamous' buttocks before carefully pushing that
finger into Infamous again.

Infamous bit lightly at Arrowsmith's neck, making soft,

passionate noises, his fingernails digging into Arrowsmith's
shoulders. The soft slow, caresses made his passions rise
higher, and he finally nipped hard.

"In me," he said softly.
Arrowsmith grinned and kissed him. "I am."
"That's not the part of you I want."
"Oh, you mean this part," Arrowsmith said with mock

innocence. He grinned as Infamous uttered a hoarse, ragged
gasp as Arrowsmith withdrew his finger and moved over top
of his lover pushing his stiff cock inside of Infamous.

"Better?" Arrowsmith asked, kissing him.
"Oh, yes."
Arrowsmith settled over Infamous, wrapping his arms

around the small, lean body. Arrowsmith kissed him hard,
then lowered his head to whisper in his ear, "Infamous
Keeper, I am completely, hopelessly, in love with you."

Infamous drew his legs up, letting Arrowsmith move

deeper inside of him. "I love you, too," he said quietly.

The wind gently rattled the windows, carefully exploring

them. On the bed, partly covered by one silk sheet,
Arrowsmith made love to Infamous, savoring each thrust into
his lover's body.

Infamous held Arrowsmith tightly, enjoying the feel of the

motion of his muscles and bones, and the hard shaft within
himself. He wrapped his arms around Arrowsmith's neck,
ignoring the pain in his face, and the dampness that meant

the small cuts Seraph had not managed to heal were seeping.
He didn't care about them. As long as Arrowsmith did not see
him any differently, then he did not care what had been done
to him. Others had adapted to being blind, Infamous was
certain he would as well. He exhaled his fear and let his head
fall back, concentrating only on making love with his
husband, and grinned as he felt Arrowsmith's passion rise,
and let his own rise with it.

"Harder," he breathed.
Arrowsmith kissed him and began thrusting slow and hard,

breathing becoming ragged. Then Arrowsmith cried out,
lightly biting Infamous' shoulder briefly before kissing him
hard. Infamous felt the hot semen flood into himself, felt
Arrowsmith's body shudder, gasping. Then Arrowsmith
abruptly moved down his husband's body and took Infamous'
penis into his mouth.

Infamous let out a short, involuntary cry, his hands

catching Arrowsmith's long hair, moving his hips, then crying
out again sharply, his penis spilling heated liquid into
Arrowsmith's mouth. There was a long, tense silence,
Infamous shivering and gasping as his passion slowly ran its
course, feeling his own semen drip out of Arrowsmith's mouth
and onto his flesh. At last the moment passed, and Infamous
let out a quiet sigh, settling ino the softness of the mattress.
He felt Arrowsmith lay beside him, and together they drifted
to sleep, listening to the rain and the quiet sound of distant
thunder.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Three

Arrowsmith dozed in bed, Infamous held close to his chest

like a large teddy bear, reluctant to get up just yet. Finally,
he kissed Infamous and slid out of bed to run the bath. The
tub was a huge, oval pool sunk into the floor, the tiles painted
with decorative fish and aquatic plants. Arrowsmith sat on the
edge of the tub, feet dangling as he reached over to open the
valve that would let the water flow in. He watched the tub fill,
adding scented oils. Then, when it was full, he shut the valve
and got up and walked back into the bedroom. He sat down
on the edge of the bed and gently stroked the long, beaded
hair, then kissed Infamous' face.

"Bath is ready," he said softly.
Infamous raised his head and kissed Arrowsmith, who

grinned.

"You're cute when you're sleepy."
"Carry me."
Arrowsmith rolled his eyes, but picked up Infamous.

"Come along, little bird."

Infamous curled up against Arrowsmith's chest and let

himself be carried to the tub, setting him in the scented
water. Arrowsmith stepped into the deep water and
submerged, surfacing moments later.

"I should look in on Silver, but I don't want to leave you

alone," he said.

Infamous smiled slightly. "Well, you won't be gone long,

will you?"

"I was thinking of just popping in to let him know you were

hurt and I wanted to stay with you."

Infamous grinned. "You're very sweet, but Silver will need

you."

"You need me."
Infamous moved slowly over to Arrowsmith, putting his

arms around Arrowsmith and pressing close. "I have you." He
kissed Arrowsmithlazily, then sighed as something hit the
water with a joyful quack.

"Arrowsmith, about the duck..."
"Hey, don't be dissing my duck. C'mere, Ducky."
Ducky ignored his owner and began splashing in the water,

dunking himself and beating his wings. Attracted by the
noise, Simon came into the room to leap into the water as
well. The old wolf swam after the duck, who managed to keep
ahead of him easily.

"Just once," said Arrowsmith, "I would like to come out of

the water cleaner than when I went in."

"If your duck can play in the bath, then so can my wolf."
Arrowsmith sighed. Ducky was almost an adult now and

was acquiring some amazing grey and metallic blue plumage.
He was a breed of duck kept for centuries by the Dargothian
nobles as vibrant lawn ornaments. Arrowsmith asked once
why this type of duck was not eaten, and was told the meat
was like oily, bitter leather, which probably pleased the
ducks. Their lives were spent gracing lawns and ponds with
their beautiful, shimmering colors. Ducky had the type of
arrogance that animals frequently acquire when they know
they are unlikely to end up on the menu. Even Simon, who

was not above making a meal of domestic ducks, had not
once made an attempt to eat Ducky, though the old wolf did
on occasion pull out a few feathers when he got tired of
Ducky following him around and biting his hindquarters.

Arrowsmith kissed Infamous again, then said, "I won't be

gone long, okay?"

Infamous nodded. "Okay."
They finished their bath, getting out and leaving Ducky

paddling around in the warm water. Simon had taken himself
out to the balcony, making sure to stop and shake water all
over the bedroom on his way there. The old wolf was lying on
the stone tile, panting, his grey fur rucked up and standing at
all angles. He looked terribly pleased with himself. The bed
was soaking wet and covered in wolf hair.

"How one old wolf can make such a mess, I have no idea,"

muttered Arrowsmith. He rang for a servant, and a moment
later he heard a knock at the door. It was a matronly woman
named Barabri. She had her arms crossed, and the look on
her face suggested she knew why she had been called.

"Wolf on the bed," she said.
"Yeah."
She sighed and came into the room to change the bedding.

"I clean the sheets for you and Master Infamous more often
than I do for anyone else. You ought to teach him to stay off
the furniture."

Arrowsmith grinned. "But I like having Infamous in bed

with me."

She gave him a jaundiced look. "I meant the wolf!"
"Yeah, but he's old, and he creaks when he walks, and..."

She sighed. "All right, I will not say anything more about

it. But the very least you can do is put a tarp over the bed
after he's been in the bath!"

Arrowsmith waited for her to change the bedding. She had

no sooner departed than Simon hopped back onto the bed,
settling down on the soft, clean comforter. Moments later,
Ducky waddled over to the bed and hopped up, using his
wings for lift. He settled next to Simon and began to preen
and soon had a small cloud of down floating about, as well as
white tufts stuck to the covers and to Simon's fur.

"What a bloody mess. Ought to eat one and turn the other

into a hat," muttered Arrowsmith. Then he went to get
Infamous. He carried him out of the bathing chamber and
over to the bed, sitting him down on it and then pulling the
covers over him.

"You're sure you don't want me to stay."
"Arrowsmith, you promised Silver. And I am fine, really. I

need to get dressed, though; I cannot greet Brysis Rainwalker
naked. Can you get my formal garb for me?"

Arrowsmith went to the wardrobe where Infamous stored

his finest and most formal garb, taking it out of the cupboard
and bringing it nervously over to the chair near the bed. He
helped Infamous dress. They had only just finished when
there was a knock on the door.

"That's him," said Infamous. "Do I look all right?"
Arrowsmith kissed him. "Beautiful."
"I'm not trying to get him to court me."
"Good. But you're beautiful." He kissed Infamous again,

then went over to the door and opened it.

Arrowsmith felt the aura surrounding the man before he

even saw their guest;, smelled it, like a warm radiance. Very
few people intimidated Arrowsmith, but Brysis Rainwalker
cowed him without a word.

He was small for a Dargothian man; Arrowsmith didn't

think he was much taller than Blackbird. He had a full, heavy
mane of white hair that went down his back, falling across his
delicate features. He looked more like something out of a
Japanese comic than a real person. He was small and slender,
and had long, slim legs. When he walked, he made no sound.
His eyes were wrapped in a fold of black cloth, but even so,
Arrowsmith had the eerie feeling the little man saw him. He
backed up quietly, almost submissively, and watched Brysis
Rainwalker pass, accompanied by a black fox and two
younger Thieves with flaming red hair and intensely green
eyes.

"Arrowsmith?" said Infamous nervously.
Arrowsmith immediately came to his side, putting an arm

around Infamous. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance as the
black fox hopped onto the bed with the duck and the wolf.

"You want me to stay?"
Infamous kissed him. "No, I'm fine, really." He took a step

forward, and spoke in a strange language to Brysis.
Arrowsmith had only heard the language a few times; it was a
tongue made up of slang and jargon he didn't understand.
They bowed to each other, and Infamous turned to
Arrowsmith.

"I will be fine," he said softly. "Go visit Silver."

* * * *

Arrowsmith dressed and left Infamous and Brysis alone to

talk. He walked out of the Palace, waving as he always did to
the two Crucib guards, who saluted him as he passed.
Arrowsmith pushed Harley to the gate, then got on his wide
back and rode slowly down to the market square. The place
was still a mess, but was being quickly rebuilt, and he was
greeted warmly by those out repairing their stalls. He parked
Harley under a tree, then walked to a small corral that was
still undamaged by the battle. An old woman was there,
tending a few goats. She smiled at him, and bowed.

"Greetings, Seer. How may I serve you?"
Arrowsmith leaned on the fence and looked down at the

young goats who skipped over to inspect him. He patted their
small heads, looking for the best ones. He saw three he liked.
They were of a breed from the Green Belt area, past the
Palaklais: small, black goats with long, silky hair that the
locals collected to weave into soft garments for winter. The
old woman's eyes lit up as she saw him eyeing the black
goats.

"Those are very fine goats! Very long hair!"
Arrowsmith scratched the male behind the ears, smiling as

the little creature nibbled his hand. He had never really
understood his mother's fascination with goats, but she loved
them. The only time Arrowsmith had seen her cry was when
she had to sell hers to have enough money to feed him.
Arrowsmith had always sworn he'd replace the stupid, smelly
things for her some day.

"You will take him?" asked the old woman.

Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah, him and the two females over

there."

The old woman tried not to get too visibly excited.

Arrowsmith knew the black goats were not cheap, and he had
probably just given her enough money to last her through the
next few months. So, fine, he had helped two old ladies that
day. He was a regular Boy Scout. Too bad he couldn't seem to
feel happy about it.

He paid for the goats, then decided upon a fourth as well,

a very small baby black. He instructed the old woman to have
the three adults delivered to the Palace, then picked up the
baby and tucked it into his leather jacket, zipping it up
partway so all that could be seen of the kid was a small face
and long, floppy ears. Then he got on Harley and rode to the
small, run-down house that huddled behind the Palace. He
saw his mother in the yard, talking to three of the notorious
little green lizards. Arrowsmith cut the engine and got off the
bike.

"Mom, you feed those things, you'll regret it the rest of

your life!"

"But they're so cute, Johnny!"
"They're a freaking menace! You give them a crumb of

food and they will be back in five minutes with thirty
thousand of their best friends. Here, I come bearing goats."

At the sound of the word 'goat,' her head snapped in his

direction, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the tiny ball of
black fluff he took out of his coat.

"Johnny! For me?"
"Well, it ain't for the barbecue. Here you go, Mom."

She took the little animal and held it close, then burst into

tears. Arrowsmith rolled his eyes, uncertain how to deal with
the outburst.

"Mom, you'll get your goat soggy."
"He's so beautiful! And soft! I never felt anything so soft!

Almost like angora!"

"I bought you three more; they'll be here later today."
She leapt on him and hugged him tightly, then turned her

attention once more to the little goat. "But I don't have any
hay, or feed..."

"I already talked to the guys at the royal stable, they're

bringing you some. I figured new world, new start. You can
finally do what you want, Mom: sit and make goat cheese and
goat hair sweaters and just become Jane-freaking-Goodall of
the goats."

"I wonder if they can be housebroken?"
"Mom, you are seriously weird."
She ignored him and set the baby goat down. "Come on,

Sparky, let's go meet Daddy!"

Arrowsmith watched his mother walk to the house, the

goat at her heels, then tossed his head back and sighed.

"My mom, the pied piper of goats. Dad will be thrilled."
He followed her as she made her way across the yard and

into the house, Sparky close at her heels. The response was
predictable.

"Barbecue!" yelled Mother. "Where's the axe?"
Popsicle ignored the threat. "Isn't he cute?"
"Woman, why can't you just get a cat?"
"Eat shit," she said happily. "Come on, Sparky."

Arrowsmith walked into the house to find his father seated

in his battered old chair, covered in tiny green lizards.

"You fed them, didn't you?" said Arrowsmith.
"Just tell me how to get rid of them!"
"Go to a Temple of Marakim and get a fox. Actually, let me

do that for you. I'm good friends with their High Priest." He
dropped down into a chair and looked around. The house was
still spotless, thanks to Blackbird's magic, but other than that,
it was no different than when Arrowsmith was a small child. It
was surreal to look out the living room window and see the
opalescent stone of the Palace's garden wall.

"Where is your skinny little witch, anyway?" asked Mother,

picking a lizard off of himself and setting it on the floor. It
promptly ran back up his leg.

Arrowsmith shook his head, not wanting to explain the

situation. He sighed heavily, then asked, "Did you hear a lot
of commotion about this time yesterday?"

"Some," said Popsicle as she seated herself on the couch,

her baby goat already quite at home on the cushion beside
her. "What was that?"

"The Palace was attacked," said Arrowsmith.
"Attacked!" said Mother. "Well, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine, it was halted without too much

effort. But Ithra was hurt. He'll be okay and everything, but
he's ... blind."

His mother looked upset, but uncertain of what to do. She

finally said, "Johnny, I'm so sorry."

Mother said nothing, equally at a loss. Smash stepped out

of the adjoining bedroom and came to sit on the arm of the
chair Arrowsmith was in.

"John, I'm really sorry. Shouldn't you be with him?"
"I'm going back soon. Right now, he's talking to some

fellow from the temple in another town."

"But he'll be fine?"
"Yeah, Smash, he'll be good."
"Maybe I should go pray for him; he might like that."
"He's got someone from his temple with him right now,

Smash, he'll be okay. I was actually looking for Silver. I was
supposed to show him around today, give him a feel for the
place."

"Oh, he went down to the lake to look at those big otters,"

said Smash.

Arrowsmith looked at Smash, puzzled. "The lake just past

the wall? There aren't any otters in that lake. That's Dharou's
Lake, that's where the..." He suddenly had a revelation. "Ah,
geez, he's down with the Mycinocroft! That's their lake! Shit
shit shit!"

Arrowsmith went pelting out of the house and toward the

lake as fast as he could. He had to cross the lawn and cut
through the Palace to get to the gate, and continued down
the knoll toward the lake and the Mycinocroft village near it.

Mycinocroft were skilled artisans, and the little houses bore

delicate carvings of tree branches, birds, and, of course, fish.
The ground had little flagstone paths, the stones carved and
painted with fish, flowers, birds, more fish, and scenes of
daily life—most having to do with fishing. Arrowsmith stopped

outside of the village and looked around, but not noticing
Silver, he continued down to the lakeshore.

"Silver!"
He saw something bob to the surface, then wave to him.
"Finland!"
Arrowsmith sighed with relief. "Silver, what are you

doing?"

"Swimming with the puppy-people!"
"Silver, get over here a moment, will you please?"
Silver was not an accomplished swimmer, and he splashed

clumsily over to Arrowsmith, dragging himself onto the sandy
shore. "What's up?"

Arrowsmith sat down on the ground before his friend and

smiled at him. "Silver, do you have the faintest idea what
these creatures are?" he asked softly.

"No."
"They are Mycinocroft. They are dangerous. They are very

dangerous. And if you do something to offend them, then
none of us would ever see you again. As it is, you are very
fortunate that they didn't get annoyed you were splashing
around in their lake."

"Their lake?"
"Their lake, and we have the nine hundred and seventy-

two page document to prove it. Silver, they live on fish and
are semi-aquatic. They need fish and fresh water to exist. If
you want to splash in their lake, you have to stay to the far
end. See where all the kids are?"

"Aw, man! I have to swim in the kiddie pool?"

"No, you don't have to swim with the kids, just stay to the

far end or I'll be out in a rowboat looking for your remains."

Silver nodded. "Yeah, okay. Pretty stupid of me to just

dive in without checking things out first." He stood up and
shook out his long, white hair, then looked up at the sun. "I
should get indoors anyway, before I fry like a piece of bacon."

Arrowsmith waited for Silver to get his boots on, and they

began walking back to the little house. Silver was wearing
only a wet pair of cut-off jeans, which were slightly loose,
accenting his flat, muscled stomach. Arrowsmith looked away
and kept his eyes on the ground, but Silver noticed the look
and grinned.

"Wanna go find a quiet place to recreate our teen years?"
Arrowsmith laughed. "No, Silver, sorry. I am happily

married."

"Well, I won't tell if you don't."
"Silver, if I fooled around on Infamous, he would be

devastated, and I would feel like dog crap for the rest of my
life. I'm in love with him."

"Threesome, maybe?"
Arrowsmith grinned and put an arm around his friend's

shoulders. "Silver, you know I love you, right? Really, I do.
But you're acting like trailer trash."

Silver thought about that. "I am trailer trash!"
"Didn't I just see you at Monshikka's feet last night?"
"Yeah, but from what you say, it's gonna be a while before

I can get him horizontal."

Arrowsmith flung his head back and sighed loudly. "Sil,

you are going to get your ass killed. Let me explain

something to you, pretty boy. Morals and scruples are not
something you have just when the cops show up, okay?
Monshikka is a prince. He is a virgin prince. Untouched. The
only way you are going to get him horizontal is if you have
been married to him three years and are completely and
absolutely faithful. He is Kiriannan Royalty, and according to
the beliefs of just about everyone on the planet, he is the
reincarnation of the tome keeper of Hercandoloff, who lived a
thousand years ago."

Silver slid his hand into Arrowsmith's. "So, tell me the

truth. If I do everything right, and I mean everything, clean
up my act, keep my pants on, learn to read, learn to talk
good, learn all that stuff, what are my chances with him?"

"Pretty decent, I'd say. He thinks you're sweet. Monshikka

doesn't think anyone is sweet. We don't call him 'The Ice
Prince' just because he's white."

"He thinks I'm sweet? Really?"
Arrowsmith grinned. "Yes, really."
Silver grinned, and Arrowsmith hugged him. "Come on,

let's take you to His Majesty. Oh, I got you a toy." He shoved
his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small, silver
charm on a long, silver chain and passed it to his friend.
Silver took it.

"What's this?"
"A charm. It will enable you to speak the two most

common languages in the Realm, Elvish and the common
tongue. I thought it would help if you could talk to people."

"Elvish? Cool! Thanks!" he hung it around his neck. "Do

you speak Elvish?"

"Yeah, a little, but Infamous giggles when I do, so I don't

think I'm that good."

"Infamous? His name is Infamous? Who names their kid

Infamous?"

"That is a long story. But a lot of men have odd names

here. Felicity, Faith, Liberation..."

"Those are girl's names!"
"Not here, they ain't. 'Silver' is actually a pretty common

name here, too."

"Good, then I will never again face the humiliation of

telling people my name is Melvin Ralph Oldfield. I am officially
from now and forever Silver. What do they call you here?"

"'Arrowsmith.'"
"You don't like 'John'?"
"Nope, never did. And it's an odd combination of sounds

for the locals, they mispronounce the hell out of it, and one of
the variations is a slang term for pig shit, so I kinda just stick
with Arrowsmith. Hey, there's the Moonhound. Hey, Hound! I
brought Silver!"

The Moonhound waved, then began walking across the

grass to meet the two men. She was clad in her standard
grey uniform, her long, red hair loose. She had a black eye
and was limping a bit, but she was grinning.

"How's Infamous?"
"Well enough to molest me this morning."
"Well, molesting one's mate is always a good sign in

medical terms. So this is Silver." She looked him up and
down. "Hello, breakfast."

"Uh, Moonhound, I gave him the charm, he speaks..."

She just shrugged. "Ah, well. Very pretty. You do look a lot

like our beloved Prince Blackie. Eyes are wrong, but we can
fix that. I hope Arrowsmith has explained to you that this
little game we are playing could get you killed."

Silver grinned shyly, then shrugged. "Well, I've already

survived playing in the Mycinocroft lake. I guess I'll be okay."

She laughed. "They were probably all wondering what

Monshikka was doing out there. Come on in and have lunch
with us."

"Okay," said Silver. He went with Arrowsmith, the two

following the Moonhound into the Palace.

"She seems nice. Who is she?"
"The Moonhound. That's Queen Moonhound, actually."
"Queen? I ... expected something different. Better dressed,

surrounded in a shimmery light, possibly half-Elvish."

"Silver, this isn't a cheap fantasy movie. I need you to

focus, okay? She's Queen. She is also Lord General of the
armies. She can kill you. And she will do it without the witty
catchphrases and wearing a uniform so caked in gore that it
smells of death and the stains don't come out."

Silver looked annoyed. "Fine, so why the hell are you

laying into me?"

Arrowsmith turned to face his friend, taking him by the

shoulders. "Because I don't want anything to happen to you. I
brought you here; it's up to me to look after you. Part of that
involves making you realize that you are dealing with a real
culture and way of life, not some hormonal teenager's first
Dungeons and Dragons campaign. Okay?"

Silver nodded, reaching up to shove a strand of damp hair

out of his face. "Okay," he whispered.

Arrowsmith hugged Silver, realizing just how glad he was

to have his old friend with him, and wishing that Silver could
be here under different circumstances. Putting an arm around
him, Arrowsmith led Silver toward the dining hall.

"Should I change?" asked Silver.
"Nah, you're fine, this is just lunch, not a formal dinner.

The whole Court will still look like most of them just crawled
out of bed. Here we go."

Arrowsmith pushed open the door to the dining hall and

felt Silver stop dead. He backed up a step, looking around,
plainly intimidated. Arrowsmith decided that perhaps it was
best to introduce his friend and family slowly to life in the
Palace.

Misty bounded up to Arrowsmith, half a muffin in one

hand, still chewing, clad in his black robes. Arrowsmith
watched him as he approached Silver, and realized that all he
had mistaken for goofy playfulness on Misty's part was really
a carefully crafted image to keep people from understanding
just what he was. Many people over the centuries had
underestimated him, Arrowsmith included. He wondered how
many people had been killed because of it.

"Come on in," said Misty, "we don't bite. Well, not hard, or

often. Only if you ask nicely. I'm Misty."

Silver looked toward the handsome blond and smiled. "I'm

Silver," he said quietly.

"Come have a seat."

Arrowsmith waved Misty off. He shrugged and left,

bouncing back to his seat by Blue. Silver leaned close and
said, "Boy, he's pretty. Who is he?"

"Misty Foxsworth, Court Assassin. Be nice."
"Meep," said Silver.
"Yes, exactly. Come sit beside me."
Silver came to the table with Arrowsmith and sat down on

the chair that was normally occupied by Infamous. He smiled
shyly across the table at Monshikka, then poured himself a
glass of wine, filling it to the brim before taking a long drink.
Arrowsmith realized that they had a lot of work to do before
Silver could pass as merely housebroken, let alone a prince.
He grinned.

"Don't get sloshed. Sit up straight. Don't pick your nose."
"Fuck you."
"Not in public. Guys, this is Silver. Silver, I want you to

meet the Moonhound, Queen and Lord General of the Armies
... who you have already met. Next to her is Monshikka, you
also met him last night and pledged eternal loyalty, I
believe..."

Monshikka stared down his nose at Arrowsmith. "I am

worthy of such a vow."

"Of course you are. Next to his Royal Whiteness is

Wesselik Devaron Silverbird, or as we like to call him, Wess.
The gentleman beside him with the grey eyes, who only looks
completely insane because he is completely insane, is Sly. Be
very nice to Sly, he has no sense of humor and bites. Then
we have Blue, Misty, and me, I think you know me, you met

my husband, you're in his seat, and last, but not least, our
beloved Wizard-King of Dargoth, Blackbird."

"We met," said Blackbird, smiling.
Silver smiled at him, then looked around at the assembled

group. "Hi," he said shyly. "I've ... never eaten with royals
before."

"And after eating with us, you will never wish to again,"

said Misty. "But I must say, you do look a fair bit like the
Frostbite Virgin here. I cannot speak for the others, but I
think you are very brave for agreeing to help us."

Silver lowered his gaze to the table. "Better than what I

was doing." He reached for the bread before him. "Besides,
from what Finland here tells me, the most dangerous part of
this was meeting you."

"Oh, really?" said Misty. "Thank you for telling me that. We

shall now have to go sew him into his sheets at night and toss
him into the women's barracks."

"Oh, good," said Arrowsmith, "I can get them to all

compare notes on you."

Monshikka interrupted before Misty could bounce his

muffin off Arrowsmith's head. "Silver, I hope you do not mind
if I insist upon beginning our lessons as soon as possible. You
have a great deal to learn, and not much time in which to
learn it."

Silver looked at Monshikka, the smile on his face telling

Arrowsmith that the lessons could not start too soon or go on
long enough. Then Arrowsmithnoticed Wess had a strange
look in his eyes, almost predatory, and he dragged the tip of

one finger down the table's gleaming black surface, gouging it
deeply.

"Perhaps I should assist," said Wess, looking toward

Monshikka.

"If you like," said Monshikka.
Arrowsmith had the odd feeling there was something going

on that he did not know about. Wess had never acted like this
before; he was being almost protective.

"Or jealous?" suggested Seth from inside Arrowsmith's

head.

Arrowsmith grinned. So Wess had a thing for Monshikka;

who would have guessed? It would upset Silver, but with
Wess for competition, it would be a fair fight, at least on
Wess' part. Knowing Wess' ways and beliefs and how bloody
long it could take him to make a decision, some rivalry might
just get him off his ass. Arrowsmith grinned across the table
at his friend, watching as Wess caught the look.

"Eat your lunch," said Wess.
Arrowsmith did, then left Silver with Wess and Monshikka

to return to his own apartments, grinning as he heard Tim
Curry playing in the bedroom. He walked into the room,
seeing Infamous seated on the bed, then stopped as he saw
Brysis standing nearby.

"Hey, love," he said to Infamous. "How are you?"
Infamous turned toward the sound of Arrowsmith's voice,

reaching his hand out to Arrowsmith. "Hey, handsome, come
sit by me. We have to have a talk."

"Oh, I don't think I'm gonna like this," said Arrowsmith. He

walked over to the bed and sat down, taking Infamous' hand
and kissing him. "What's up?"

Infamous reached out to touch Arrowsmith's hair. "I have

to go away for a bit."

"A bit? How long is a bit? Where are you going? Can't I

come with you?"

"I am not certain how long. And as much as I wish you

could come with me, no, you cannot. This is a journey I must
make alone."

"But..." Arrowsmith felt like his heart was being torn in

half. "I don't understand!"

"I know, love," said Infamous softly. "I know. And I am

sorry. But if I am to learn what I need to, then I must do
this."

"This has to do with your injury?"
"Yes."
"And you will be able to see after this?"
"I do not know. I have some trials before me and do not

know the outcome. But you will be with me in my heart."

"You know I'll just follow."
Infamous laughed, then kissed him again. "If you stay and

behave, I promise to come back and spend a week in bed,
just you, me, and the silk ropes and brandy. All right?"

"No. But ... if it's important, then okay. However, I don't

promise not to miss you, cry myself to sleep at night, and
worry myself sick."

Infamous smiled. "I would be sad if you did not. I will send

word every chance I get."

"How long do I get to keep you for?"
"Until tomorrow morning. Then Brysis and I must depart

for the Great Temple of Marakim, the first Hidden Vault."

Arrowsmith nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, then

moved forward to embrace his lover.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

Arrowsmith watched Infamous ride out, departing on his

little grey horse, followed as always by his old grey wolf.
Beside him on his own horse rode Brysis, and the two made
their way at a slow gallop for Two-Fifty-Mile-House. At least
there, Arrowsmith thought, Infamous would be safe. Slowly,
dejectedly, Arrowsmith turned and walked back into the
peace and grandeur of the White Palace, followed by his
faithful duck.

"This bites," said Arrowsmith softly.
Ducky made a soft sound of agreement. They walked down

the white stone hall, finally ending up at the Forbidden
Library. Arrowsmith pushed the door open, letting the duck
go in first, then followed his companion's waddling tail
feathers to Monshikka's private quarters. Monshikka looked
up as the door pushed open and set down his quill pen. He
smiled at Arrowsmith.

"Arrowsmith, Infamous will be quite all right."
Ducky hopped into the fountain, while Arrowsmith dropped

into a chair. "Yeah, I know. It's just ... I don't like to be
without him. Where's Silver?"

"He's late, that's where he is," said Monshikka. "I do not

think your friend grasps the gravity of this situation."

"He understands," said Arrowsmith, reaching out to take a

piece of thin flatbread covered with lemon-soaked fish off of a
plate on Monshikka's desk. "He's probably embarrassed."

Monshikka raised an eyebrow. "Embarrassed? Whatever

for?"

"He has a learning disability. I'm not sure what it is. I

doubt anyone ever bothered to diagnose it. Reading and
writing are very difficult for him; in fact, he's virtually
illiterate. When he talks about reading books with me, what
he means is I read them to him. He's probably afraid he'll
look like a fool in front of you. And, my friend, Silver would
very much like to impress you."

Monshikka smiled. "That is very sweet. Your friend, I must

say, is quite handsome. He has a gentle quality to him I find
quite appealing."

"But?"
"I do not think I am ready to find myself another

companion just yet."

Arrowsmith opened his mouth, and heard Seth's voice

come out.

"So, when will you be ready? The rotter who broke your

heart did so nearly four hundred years ago; are you going to
give him the satisfaction of knowing you have doomed
yourself to an eternity of grief?"

Monshikka's reaction was extreme and near-violent, taking

Arrowsmith completely by surprise.

"I will do what I please when I please, and I will not be

badgered and bullied into doing otherwise!" He picked up a
pile of vellum, slamming it down on another part of the huge,
polished black desk. "I am heartily sick of all the speculation
over my continued virginity. It is my business and none
other's. What is going to happen should I take a husband?

Will you stand outside the door and listen for the explosion? If
I lay with every flea-ridden dog I see, then you would think
nothing of it, but if I choose to wait for one whom I deem
worthy, then I am continually ridiculed."

"Monshikka, no one is ridiculing you for it. Do what you

like, it's your life, we love you just as you are. Ignore Seth.
Just ... don't let Wess kill Silver."

"You know very well the only thing Wess would do to Silver

is talk him to death."

The door blew open, and in came Misty. He promptly

helped himself to a muffin on the table. "Blackie, do you have
any books on Guedelph?"

"Yes, I do, and you are not touching any of them until you

clean your hands."

"Right. Sorry."
Misty briefly left to wash his hands, while Monshikka got

up to find the books. Arrowsmith looked up as Blue walked in,
quiet, pretty, his long, white hair hanging loose down his
back. He seated himself beside Arrowsmith, looking around.

"Strange to be home," he said softly.
"I guess it would be," said Arrowsmith. "You've been gone

a long time. Is Misty helping you to learn about...?"

"Shape-shifting? Pregnancy?" Blue shook his head. "I do

not know what he is searching for. He wishes to understand
me." He smiled slightly. "I am afraid, but I am happy. I never
thought I would get to have a foal of my own." Blue looked at
Arrowsmith, his blue-diamond eyes peering over the rims of
his spectacles at Arrowsmith, refracting little spears of light in

their depths, giving them their gem-like quality. "This must
be very strange for you."

"Well, yes, a little. I mean, it's hard for me to look at you

and see that body, but know you are really ... a mare."

Blue smiled again, that slight little tug at the side of his

mouth. He shoved his gloved hands between his knees. "Yes,
I suppose it must be. But it is good to be pregnant."

Arrowsmith leaned over, reaching out his large hand. "May

I?"

Blue nodded. "If you like, but I don't know if you will feel

anything."

Arrowsmith placed his hand over Blue's stomach, but did

not feel the foal within. It was still too small. Monshikka
arrived just then, handing Blue a stack of five books.

"Everything I have," said Monshikka. "Other than children's

books."

Arrowsmith picked up the top book and opened it. There

he saw a drawing of a unicorn, tall, pearl-grey, elegant. Like
the unicorns he had always envisioned.

"Is this what you look like?"
"No," said Blue. "That is a Sylvan Unicorn, they dwell in

forests." He turned the page, showing another drawing, this
of a leggy, black unicorn, with shaggy hair and glowing red
eyes. "This is a Faery Unicorn, they dwell only in the Northern
Palaklais Mountains." He turned yet another page. There,
Arrowsmith saw a drawing of a small, rather sturdy little
beast with very large and hairy hooves, its thick, white mane
and tail making it look a bit like a Shetland pony. The body,
however, was more slim and elegant, with long hindquarters,

and the face was small, rather like an Arabian's, with the tell-
tale white horn protruding from the forehead. The overall
coloring was an absurd shade of blue.

"This is what I look like," said Blue.
"You're cute!" said Arrowsmith. "That is a really cute

unicorn. Why the huge feet?"

"We are marsh-dwellers," said Blue. "We live in swamps,

bogs, anyplace where the ground is wet and soft. The feet
help to keep us from sinking."

"So you're a mud pony. Adorable. But why the heck are

you blue?"

Blue shrugged. "Better blue than orange."
"Yeah, I suppose. But it is an odd shade for a mammal."

He passed Blue the book. "I really hope you learn how to
shape-shift before you go into labor."

"Not half as much as I do." He flipped through the pages.
Misty returned, seating himself beside Blue. "Hands off my

wife," he growled playfully at Arrowsmith.

"Misty, I hate to tell you this, but your wife is a little blue

horsie."

"And I am the result of what happens when you leave a

male Elf and a female human alone in a cave for a week.
What's your point?"

Arrowsmith looked from Blue to Misty. "So ... you're both

Dream Creatures. Does that mean you can ... crossbreed?"

"Well, yes," said Misty. "All Dream Creatures can. That's

partly where the name comes from. We make no sense."

Several images rose unbidden to Arrowsmith's mind. "Ride

'em, cowboy," he muttered.

Misty showed Arrowsmith a half-eaten muffin. "Don't make

me use this."

Arrowsmith smiled, then stood up, stretching. "Ah, I hate

this! Infamous is gone, we're under siege in our own Palace.
And where the hell is Silver?"

The door opened, and in blew a tall, quiet figure, clad in a

worn and ripped T-shirt, oil-stained jeans, and motorcycle
boots. "Sorry I'm late," Silver said quietly. "I was ... stuck in
bed."

"Stuck in bed?" said Arrowsmith. "You slept in?"
"No, I mean my back and my knees weren't speaking to

me. That's what I get for hauling heavy machinery since I
was twelve." He looked at Monshikka, wilting under the icy,
regal gaze. "Sorry, your Highness."

"Quite all right," said Monshikka, staring him down.

"However, it will not happen again. After our lesson, I shall
have a healer look at you. As it is, you are late. Let us begin."

Silver nodded, then gave Arrowsmith a mournful look. "Are

you staying, too?"

"Nah, I gotta go teach Brother Smash how to be a Seer."

He gave Silver a friendly slap on the back. "You'll be okay."

Monshikka poured himself a glass of sherry and sipped it.

Silver whispered to Arrowsmith, "But this guy's scary!"

"He has excellent hearing as well," said Monshikka. "Sit."
Silver did. Arrowsmith left, heading for the little house

behind the grand White Palace. Along the way, he paused on
one of the wide, sweeping balconies, facing east, looking
toward Two-Fifty-Mile-House. He hoped Infamous was all
right.

* * * *

Infamous sighed. "Simon, you could have stayed home,

you know. There is no force making you follow me."

The aged little wolf sat on the saddle before him, tongue

lolling. Being a Grey Haunts wolf, he was smaller than the
average timber wolf. However, he was a bit large to be sitting
on his beloved master's lap.

Simon would not be left behind. From the time he had

been old enough to follow Infamous, he had, and had never
known a day without his master. But at thirty-two years of
age, he was five years older than the average wolf of his kind
lived to be. Still, he was determined not to be abandoned.
Infamous knew his shoulders pained him, and his eyesight
was dubious at best, but Simon would not stay home without
his master. So he sat on the saddle, occasionally swinging his
head around to give Infamous either a tongue-washing or a
snotting.

"Simon!" Infamous sputtered as the old wolf managed to

shove his wet nose into his master's mouth.

"I do not see why he had to come," said Brysis softly.
"Because his heart would break," said Infamous. "And at

his age, I am not certain he would survive it. Besides, I'm the
Master Thief, I can be difficult if I like."

Brysis smiled. "As you say, my Lord. Though I could not

help but notice the Lord Seer seems to think we are bound for
Two-Fifty."

It was true that Arrowsmith was unaware that Infamous

had told him a lie. Or if not a lie, certainly a half-truth. The

current Great Temple of Marakim was deep beneath the
University of Academia and Magic in Two-Fifty-Mile House,
and that was where Infamous had led him to believe he was
going. What Infamous did not say was that there had been
another Great Temple before that one that had been all but
destroyed centuries ago, and it was to that Temple he would
now travel. The Great Temple of Marakim on the side of
Wintergold Mountain, one of the tallest peaks in the Palaklais
Mountains, second only to Stormwatch, where the Elven god
Harridan was said to dwell. It was the mountain that formed
the far wall of the deep valley that now held the ruins of the
City of Palaklais.

"He need not know of this," said Infamous curtly. "I will

not have him worried sick. You and I are capable of creeping
into Palaklais unnoticed. Once in the Temple, we are safe,
providing we draw no attention to ourselves."

"Yes, Lord."
"Did you make this trip?" asked Infamous. "When you

were blinded?"

"Yes," said Brysis, "I did. I was a Highwayman then. I

made the journey with a few of my brethren. It was at the
Temple where I changed my ways to become a Temple Thief,
though I still count many Highwaymen among my friends."

Infamous raised an eyebrow. "That is no easy shift in faith.

Were you the head of your family?"

"Oh, I thought I was," said Brysis. "I was the one riding

miles in the rain, caring for the unfortunate in my area,
feeding four hearth-wives and eleven children, as well as
three daughter-husbands and their children. You recall the

plague fifteen years ago, I am sure. Many were left without
husbands and fathers. 'Tis the Highwayman's duty to see that
those who do not live near a Temple are cared for."

"Yes," said Infamous. "And as much as we may disagree

on doctrine at times, we could not do without them. What
happened?"

Brysis sighed quietly. "I came home one night after a

three-month sojourn to the Great Temple to beg for my sight,
to find my wife had taken another husband, and my
belongings were in the shed."

Infamous flinched. "I am most sorry to hear that, Brysis."
The Thief shook his head. "It cemented my change in

doctrines, that is for certain. But I confess, my teeth grind
when I hear of the House of Rainwalker. That was my House,
I built it, and with no help from Master Lyric."

"It has been lax in its duties as of late," remarked

Infamous.

"Such is what happens when something is coveted by one

who wishes the power but not the responsibility," said Brysis.

Infamous smiled, not minding when Simon swung his head

back to give him another licking. "Brysis, I think perhaps you
are overdue for a promotion."

"Thank you, my Lord. How about Master Thief?"
"How about Temple Master of Two-Fifty-Mile-House?"
"That would be more than generous, my Lord."
"Then, if we survive this little journey, you may have the

position."

Brysis smiled and shook his head. "My Lord, I know I

should be grateful, and I am, but I confess my first thought
is, 'I hope Lyric chokes when he finds out.'"

Infamous laughed. "And I should be upset by that thought,

but the first thing that comes to my mind is; 'I should go with
you to tell him.'"

Both of them howled with laughter, riding across the great

plains toward the distant town of Two-Fifty-Mile-House.

* * * *

Blackbird was curled up in the middle of his huge bed,

covers pulled over his head, trying to decide if he was awake
or asleep, when he felt someone sit down on his bed. Puzzled,
he lowered the covers and looked at Lord Sly, who stared at
him with eerie, pale grey eyes. His soft voice sounded in
Blackbird's mind.

There is a man from Kirianna here to see you.
Blackbird slowly sat up, his hair tangled and askew.

"Kirianna? What does he want?"

He wishes to negotiate for the release of the King.
"Well, bloody good luck to him, then. I am not in a

releasing mood. Where is my fair and fainting maid?"

Awaiting you in the reception hall.
Blackbird yawned and nodded. "All right, I will meet her

there as soon as I am able."

Sly left the room, and Blackbird dragged his small body

out of bed. He had to steady himself before getting to his
feet, then carefully walked to the wardrobe, where his more
formal garb hung. He chose a blue and silver robe with a

matching silk cape, then made his way to a vanity to brush
out his long hair. Once there, he sat down heavily and closed
his eyes.

The Wizard-King of Dargoth was not a healthy man.
Blackbird had been dreading finding himself ill, but knew

that, with all the stress that had been going on around him, it
was bound to happen. The best thing to do now was rest and
sleep. He would make certain he returned to his bed after this
man was dealt with.

Finally, groomed and garbed, he made his way to the

reception hall, escorted by two Crucib guards who plainly felt
their king should be carried. Blackbird made it under his own
steam, small but determined, the occasional crackle of blue
light warning the guards that His Majesty did not care to be
carried. However if they were daunted, the Moonhound was
not. She leapt out her chair the moment she saw him and
came to his side.

"Are you sick?" she asked.
"No! Okay, maybe a little, but it is nothing a week in bed

will not mend. Who are we speaking with?"

"Maron, the Holy High Priest of the Temple of the Right

Hand of the Creator, and Ambassador of Kirianna."

"Sounds like a complete git," muttered Blackbird. "All

right. Let's get seated and look like we pretend we give a
damn."

The Moonhound laughed quietly and kissed his face. "You

are so cute when you are grouchy."

"I am not cute! Great and powerful mages are not cute!"
"You're cute. You are unspeakably cute."

"I am unspeakably annoyed." Slowly, carefully, Blackbird

seated himself on his throne. "I can only hope I stay awake
long enough to tell this man to get out of my hall."

Misty materialized next to his chair, bending down to give

him a kiss on the cheek before placing himself just behind the
two thrones, clad in his dark robes. Lord Sylvannamyth was
already there, clad in his leather armor and posed beside the
Moonhound's chair.

"Bring in the sacrificial git," said the Moonhound to a

Crucib. The tall creature bowed, then opened the door.

Maron the Holy strode in, accompanied by four minions. He

was clad in his finest robes, white silk trimmed with scarlet.
About his neck hung a huge, gold medallion, with a flaming,
white hand emblazoned in the middle. He bowed curtly to
Blackbird and completely ignored the Moonhound.

"Your Majesty, I am Maron the Holy, and I have come to

negotiate for the release of our most blessed and beloved
king."

Blackbird stared for a long moment at Maron without

speaking. Finally, he said, "What are your terms?"

Maron smiled, evidently very pleased with his offer, and

certain it would not be refused. "What I offer is this: you
return King Sakaia and Heir Apparent Prince Tyrinnan. Next,
you convert to our faith, remove this ... woman..." He
indicated the Moonhound. "From a position that should rightly
belong to a man, and submit yourself to Kiriannan rule. In
exchange, we will not declare open war." His smile
broadened, and he rocked back on his heels, obviously certain

that Blackbird could not possibly refuse such a wise and
generous offer.

Blackbird stared at the man, unamused, a soft, static

snapping of energies surrounding him. Finally, Blackbird sat
back in his throne.

"How about this?" he said. "We keep your king and prince.

We keep our faiths. The Lord General keeps her position as
commander of the armies, and you leave before I fry you like
an insect in a candle flame, level your kingdom, and hand
what is left of it over to Prince Monshikka."

Maron's smile fell off, and an angry light came into his

eyes. "Your Majesty, surely you must see the benefits of our
offer. Surely you are wise enough to see that our way of life
is so much better. King Sakaia is a most kindly and
benevolent ruler."

"King Sakaia is in prison for breaking the laws of my

realm. And I, for one, do not tolerate attempted murder."

Maron's anger rose, as did his voice. "King Sakaia was

performing his kingly duty in removing an obviously imperfect
being."

"Prince Monshikka is my friend, and even were he not,

Sakaia's actions were wrong!"

"THE KING IS NEVER WRONG!" bellowed Maron, clenching

his fists. His face turned red, and veins in his throat and
forehead pulsed. "You WILL do as you are told or face our
wrath!"

Misty discretely palmed a small, poison-tipped throwing

dagger, while the Moonhound placed her hand on her sword.
Blackbird did not move at all. He stared icily at Maron.

"You will leave. Now. Should you be found within the walls

of this city come sundown, you will be imprisoned."

"You will pay for this outrage! You and your whole

decadent realm!"

"Go," said Blackbird again, letting rage creep into his

voice. There was an audible snap and a smell like a forest just
before a thunderstorm.

"I will not go. I will stay here until you do as you are

commanded in the best interest of your realm!"

The room filled with fire and noise and a short scream that

cut off abruptly. The flames boiled and roared, then softened
and died down, vanishing. All was very, very still. The room
was still intact, as were all those within it, save one. Maron
was a sizzling heap of charred bones and slag, the remains of
his medallion a gluey pool on top of what was left of his body.
His four followers gasped and whimpered at the sight of the
mess.

"Go," snapped Blackbird.
Three of the men turned and ran for their lives, their terror

almost comic were it not so real. The fourth was so filled with
fear that he was rooted to the spot, shaking with terror and
unable to speak, let alone flee, standing in a puddle of his
own urine. Blackbird shifted his eyes to a Crucib guard, who
had seen such displays before and was not disturbed by
having recently been in an inferno.

"Sandro," said Blackbird to the Crucib, "please take this

fellow to the healing chambers. Let the healers clean him up
and find him a place to rest until he is able to depart on his
own."

The Crucib nodded, the beads on his ornamental

headdress clicking softly. He gently took the man by the arm
and managed to lead him away.

"This was not productive," said Blackbird after they

departed. "I think we can now safely assume we are at war
with Kirianna."

"We were likely at war anyway," said the Moonhound.

"This Maron was offensive and unyielding. Likely he was sent
only to get you angry, get his fool hide killed, and give
Kirianna a diplomatic excuse to declare war."

"He's not dead," said Blackbird.
Misty looked at the burning pile of matter. "Well, if he's

not, then I think his recovery will take some time."

Blackbird laughed quietly. "It's an illusion, and not an

effective one. I forgot to add the smell of charred flesh. No,
Maron is not dead. He is in the dungeon, and that mess on
the floor is a simple illusion."

"Which mess?" said the Moonhound. "The puddle's not."
Blackbird smiled and flicked his left hand at the slag and

urine. Both vanished. "Cleaning spell. Comes in very handy."

"Very cute," said Misty. "What do we do about Kirianna?"
"I'll have to think on that," said Blackbird, "discuss the

situation with Monshikka. I do not want war with them if we
can help it, but we cannot permit ourselves to be bullied. And
as we currently hold the King, the Royal Heir, and their High
Priest, I think we can safely negotiate our way out of this
peacefully. It will be tense, but I do not think there will..."

The reception hall door opened, and a Crucib guard

stepped in. His head was held high, his nostrils flared slightly,

his ears angled back. He bowed quickly, and when he spoke,
his voice conveyed grave concern.

"Your royal majesties, representatives of the Five Houses

have just arrived, begging an audience with you. Shall I send
them in?"

"The Five Houses?" said Misty. "All five of them?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Bring them," said Blackbird.
The Crucib bowed, then turned and left the great hall.
The Moonhound looked at Blackbird. "Five Houses? Am I

being thick, or does he mean from the five great clan houses
of the Thieves of Marakim?"

"I believe he did," said Blackbird.
"Now I am worried," said the Moonhound. "This cannot be

good. And Infamous is gone."

"Let's just see what they have to say," said Blackbird

softly. "Maybe there was a sudden outbreak of rampant dry
rot in the Northern Plains."

"You are not reassuring me."
The door opened, and in walked four figures in black. Two

were men, one was a woman. The fourth was a very small
child, trotting along quickly after her taller companions, clad
in the garb of a Highwayman. It was slightly large on her, and
though she could not have been more than eight years of
age, the child stopped and dropped to one knee in a formal
greeting, as did her comrades. Blackbird and the Moonhound
looked at the child, then exchanged worried glances.
Whatever had brought them here could not be good.

The Thieves stood up, and the little girl looked to the man

beside her. He was tall and slim, with eyes of jeweled green.
Blackbird nearly called out to him, for he looked so very much
like Marakim, their friend of old.

"As we practiced, child," said the man softly.
The little girl nodded, then stepped forward and bowed

again, her fine, red hair going askew. She straightened up
and pushed it out of her face. Then she drew a breath, plainly
nervous and a bit flustered.

"The Fox seeks the Wolf's help."
"Speak, Fox," said the Moonhound.
She pulled on the fingers of her left hand with her right,

nervous and nearly in tears, her voice hitching. "I am Lenari
Meridarque. I call upon Klynrhye of House Snoweaver to
speak for me."

The tall man gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder as he

stepped forward, and she promptly hid behind him, wrapping
her arms around his leg as she crouched under his long coats,
peering out of their comforting shadows past his knee as he
spoke.

"Long have we, the followers and descendants of Marakim,

defended the Northern Plains and those who dwell upon
them, and long has Kirianna resented our presence. But never
before have they sought to exterminate us. Many messengers
we have sent to the Master Thief and no answer have we
received! We do not know why we have been given no
response, but we call upon you now to help us survive!"

Blackbird stood bolt upright, shocked at what he heard.

"Exterminate you?" he asked, bewildered. "But what has been
happening to you?"

"You have heard of none of this, Your Majesty?"
"No! White Palace would never desert those we call friend,

nor leave you to be wiped out like vermin!"

"Then it is as we feared, our messengers did not get

through. There has been slaughter on the Northern Plains.
Thieves and Highwaymen out on the road are being picked off
one by one by assassins, skilled in the use of a weapon we
have never before seen. It fires arrows of steel, and at great
distance, further than any bow we know of can shoot. At first,
we traveled alone, as is our wont, but after members of our
households began to disappear, we began traveling in small
groups. Still we died, for the assassins traveled also in
number and could shoot us as we rode or sat by our fires at
night. House Meridarque had several of its Highwaymen out
and left only a Fox at home, with three hearth-wives with
children."

"Fox?" asked Misty.
"An Elder Highwayman, lord, one no longer capable of

riding far," said Klynrhye. "The hearth-wives are widowed
women with children, in need of shelter and brought into the
clan home. The Highwaymen on the road were taken one by
one as they traveled their lonely paths. Then the house itself
was attacked. Nothing remains now of House Meridarque save
for this child and the one called Dusty."

"There are four of you," said the Moonhound. "But there

are five houses! Meridarque, Snoweaver, Shadowsun,
Rainwalker, and Greyrain. Why do we see but four of you?"

"House Rainwalker is no more," said Klynrhye. "I saw what

was left of it burn to the ground not more than a week ago,
all dead."

"A week ago?" said Blackbird.
"Aye, Your Majesty."
"That's not long before the attack on the Palace," said

Misty. "I'm beginning to think they were not here only to
collect their King, but to destroy Infamous as well."

"There is one who will know the answer to that riddle."

Blackbird stood up and addressed the four before him. "Long
have the Children of Marakim aided this realm, and we have
not forgotten that. Nor will we overlook this crime against
your houses, and against Meridarque in particular. It was you
who, long ago, took in and cared for Marakim when he was
maimed. This I remember, and he ever spoke fondly of the
hospitality of Meridarque." He smiled sadly at the shivering
little girl, her face pressed against Klynrhye's leg. "Child, who
do you have to look after you?"

"Snoweaver shall watch Meridarque," said Klynrhye, "as

they once watched Snoweaver. It is time to repay the debt.
She and her elder cousin Dusty will be welcome to our
hearth."

"Should a hearth remain," said the woman. She stepped

forward. "I am Pendrake of House Greyrain, Your Majesty.
Forgive my forwardness, sire, but I rode here in haste,
leaving my three children in the care of my hearth-wife and

lover, Shastere. I fear for her and the children greatly. Will
you send the Wolf to aid the Fox?"

Blackbird looked toward the Moonhound, eyebrow raised in

question. She thought for a moment, then said, "I have a unit
I can dispatch right now. Their commander is from House
Greyrain, I believe. Kharsa Longjaws."

"Yes!" said Pendrake. "She is my niece. Unsuited to the

ways of Temple and Highway."

"You may have her," said the Moonhound. "I will dispatch

her and her unit this very afternoon. But it is only a
temporary solution. Your King and I shall find a more
permanent one. In the meantime, your horses shall be
exchanged for fresh ones, you shall be fed and given a
chance to rest. You may either ride out with the unit or stay a
few days until you are recovered."

The three adults bowed to Blackbird and the Moonhound.

Then Klynrhye bent to pick up Lenari, and together they left
the hall. Once they were gone, Misty spoke.

"Infamous should know of this."
"I was thinking that," said Blackbird. "Who is that

Highwayman he arrived with, Roer was his name? See if you
can track him down. We'll have him run out a message to
Infamous."

The Moonhound exclaimed "But Infamous is on his way to

that Temple to see if he can get his sight back!"

"I realize that, but we must at least tell him what is

happening with his folk. He will wish to know."

"Yes, you're right, of course. But what is going on here?

Why do I feel like we are two steps behind in this dance?"

"Because we are," said Blackbird. "And we are going to get

answers out of our Kiriannan guests even if we must hand
them over to our Mycinocroft friends, who doubtless will be
most anxious to return some of the violence heaped upon
them over the centuries."

"What about that young priest you just frightened into

soiling himself?" said Misty. "I'll wager he would speak
without much coercion."

"I'll wager you are right. Very well. We'll give him a little

time to get cleaned up, then question him."

* * * *

Blue remained in the Library after Misty departed to attend

Blackbird. He could hear Wess and Monshikka speaking with
Silver, but he paid little attention to them, continuing to flip
through the books on unicorns. He stared at the drawings and
paintings, feeling listless and depressed at the images of the
beautiful, wild creatures. He flipped a page and found himself
staring at an image of a female Guedelph and her foal,
grazing side by side on one of the huge hummocks of spongy
earth that dotted the Gnome Swamp.

He tried to recall his mother, tried to conjure images of her

and the other Guedelph that had made up his family. The
memories were vague and fleeting. He could, if he tried very
hard, bring up some small images. He remembered lying in
the sparse grass by the edge of an open span of water,
looking up at his mother. She had been worried about
something, looking around, snorting. She had been a silver-
blue color, with one white foot. He seemed to recall his own

color being somewhat darker, and his forelegs had been white
from the knee down. But that was well near a thousand years
ago. Blue wasn't sure anymore what he truly remembered
and what was just wishful thinking.

He had been so young when they came and took him

away: just two or three days, at most. He could vaguely recall
an indigo-black stallion with the white mane killing two of the
men before being slain. They took his iridescent hide, as well
as the hides of several others, Blue remembered. He had to
sleep on them during the trip to the Princess' keep.

Blue slammed the book shut and abruptly rose out of the

chair, rage setting his blood on fire. He forced himself to put
the book down rather than throw it against the wall, then
noticed Monshikka, Wess, and Silver all staring at him. Blue's
anger subsided, and he smiled shyly.

"Shouldn't read books on unicorns," he said softly, his

voice quivering.

Wess and Monshikka exchanged glances, then Wess rose

to his feet and came to Blue's side, taking his arm and
leading him out of the library.

"I wish I could say something," said Wess.
"I wish you could as well," said Blue. "I keep telling myself

I should stop thinking about it. Rather difficult, given my
present condition." He sighed heavily. "I would all but kill for
some oats and sliced apples in brown sugar."

"Well, let us do this," said Wess softly. "I will walk you to

your chambers, where we shall order for you whatever your
little equine heart desires. You and I will have a lovely snack,
and then we will plot."

Blue looked up. "Plot what?"
"Oh, terrible, dark, evil plots. First we shall plot to find an

old and wise Guedelph mare for you to speak to, who can
perhaps give you some insight and advice. Then we shall
need to find a way to get Silver to go fawn over someone
other than Monshikka."

"Well, perhaps we shall introduce Silver to that little Thief-

friend of Infamous', Dusty. He's sweet, attractive, and he's a
virgin."

Wess gave Blue an odd look. "How would you know he is a

virgin?"

Blue smiled. "Please, Wess. I am a unicorn."
Wess smiled, then leaned over to give Blue a kiss on the

temple. "Yes. You are."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Five

Roer arrived in the reception hall just as Blackbird, the

Moonhound, Misty, and Sly were preparing to leave. He was
in his finest clerical garb: soft leather of midnight black,
leather boots with matching gloves, and a ruff of blood-red
lace around his throat. He approached Blackbird and bowed
with a flourish, removing his hat with the dyed black pheasant
feathers.

"You summoned me, and here I stand."
"I was about to summon you, you mean," said Blackbird

dryly.

Roer straightened. "I saw my clan-brother arrive with

Pendrake and Klynrhye. He gave me a brief description of
what was happening. I assumed you would wish for me to go
tell the Master."

"You assumed correctly," said Blackbird. He passed Roer a

note, sealed with his personal insignia. "Find your Master and
give him this. Given the circumstances, you are going to have
to read it to him, but this is for Infamous alone, do you
understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Very well. Now, go."
Roer turned and walked quickly away, heading toward the

stables. Blackbird and his companions resumed their way to
the healing rooms, where the young priest he had frightened
so badly would be.

"We should get Monshikka," said the Moonhound. "This

man may be more willing to speak to his prince, rather than
us."

"I was just thinking that," said Blackbird. He glanced

toward Misty, who nodded and began making his way quickly
to the Library.

* * * *

They met at the doors to the healing rooms, Monshikka

arriving with Misty. Together, the five went into the simple,
clean chambers within the main healing house that were
meant for those not desperately ill. The young priest was in
the first bed they saw, and he sat up at their approach.
Before any could speak, he began talking.

"I beg sanctuary of you," he said.
Blackbird was surprised. "Sanctuary? Here, in such a

debauched and vile realm?"

"I cannot go back to Kirianna."
"But why?"
The young man looked pained with worry and turned his

head away, wrestling with some inner conflict. Finally, he
seemed to reach a decision.

"It is a bad thing to be a traitor," he said softly, "but

perhaps it is less evil when the betrayal saves one's home."

Monshikka stepped forward, cold, white, and regal.

"Speak," he said softly. "Tell me what troubles you, and you
have my word that you may dwell here, so long as you agree
to follow our laws."

The man sighed heavily with relief, bowing his head. "I

thank thee, my prince." He raised his head and looked at
Blackbird. "I am Sennith. Years ago, I joined the Temple of
the Right Hand of the Creator out of a desire to do good, but
there is no good left in that sect; it is naught but politics and
plots and favor-seeking. I resigned myself to working within a
bureaucratic system that I daresay would confound a
Mycinocroft. And it was love for my realm and my desire to do
good that kept my mouth shut, but no more. Silence will
damn us all."

He drew a deep breath, then reached with shaking hands

for a cup of tea that rested on the small stand beside his bed.
He took a sip and resumed speaking.

"Kirianna is bankrupt, run into the ground by gross

mismanagement and arrogance."

Monshikka's jaw dropped. "But that cannot be! The King

and Queen arrived with a great tithe of goods and foodstuffs!"

"Aye," said Sennith, "The spring harvest, that should have

rightfully gone to the people. But instead it was sent here, as
proof that Kirianna is still a mighty power that can well afford
such gifts. The small group of soldiers that you took to be a
raiding party, come to rescue the King, was, in fact, the
remains of our army. Kirianna is defenseless, her people
starving and demoralized. And now that the King is
imprisoned she will fall. She has not a leg to stand upon. And
I blame the Grey Lady."

"Who is she?" asked Monshikka.
"A mysterious figure, clad in grey from foot to head. Not

even her hands are to be seen, and her voice is soft and

cracked, like that of a crone. She arrived two years ago and
gained an audience with Maron and the King. Since then,
things have not gone well. She seems to have convinced
them to make foolish, foolish decisions, and the King is too
vain and blinded by his own superiority to see the damage
they cause. Taxes have risen to a ludicrous level, most of the
citizenry are slowly starving or in the poorhouse. Huge gifts
have been given to the mayor of Twin Lakes, for what
purpose I do not know, while shipments meant for Stone
Realm and White Palace rot in storehouses, feeding the rats
when they should bring wealth to the people. Kirianna lives
like an extravagant queen, when she is little more than a
scullery maid these days. And ever the Grey Lady speaks ill of
White Palace. She demands war, to seize the wealth of your
people, but in truth the most we could do to your city, we
have done. And it was sad little. Not only does she preach
war, she sends forth fell mercenaries, squandering yet more
gold we do not have on eradicating the gentle Children of
Marakim. Your Master Thief was not injured at random—his
disfigurement was the one part of her scheme that worked."

"But why?" said Blackbird. "Why? For what reason does

she wish to kill the Thieves?"

Sennith shook his head. "I do not know, but she has

offered the fell servants of SkullDigger the royal jewels to go
after the Snoweaver Clan. And last month, the King's
youngest daughter, the babe Princess Khirra, vanished from
her crib. No search was made. The Grey Lady told the King
and Queen it was one of the royal hunting hounds. But I
believe she was sacrificed to SkullDigger by the Grey Lady.

She claims to be a priestess of the Creator, but if she is, then
much has gone afoul within their temples."

Blackbird looked toward his wife, noticing she had gone

silent with thought.

"Other than ourselves, who is a major power in this area?"

he asked her.

"Well, Kirianna, or at least they used to be. Infinity

Mountain is too small to be a power, and Stone Realm is too
far away," said the Moonhound. "So, if Kirianna fell, we would
be alone. And it seems it has. Infinity Mountain is too small to
help if we ever faced a real assault, and Stone Realm would
never reach us in time. The honor guards they sent aren't
large enough forces to fight a war." She looked at Blackbird.
"We're being squeezed. I will bet anything I own that this
Grey Lady is none other than dear Takeshta, and the wealth
she is funneling into Twin Lakes is going to Berengar. You
know how corrupt the place is. It would be nothing for him to
gain power."

"But Berengar doesn't want Twin Lakes, he wants the

Crystal Mages," said Monshikka.

The Moonhound turned and walked away, heading toward

the Library. They followed after her, eventually making their
way into Monshikka's private areas. The Moonhound walked
over to a huge map on the wall and pointed to Kirianna.

"Look, here's Kirianna. Here is Twin Lakes. Here is

Silverwood. And here we sit, our attention focused on
Silverwood, which is where we thought Berengar was plotting
from. But he's not. He's here, hoarding wealth. For what? An
expedition into the Palaklais Mountains? The ruins of Palaklais

City are just to the south. Granted, it's a hard route, but if
they take the Narrow Way, he could cut his travel time in
half. And look here ... there's Twin Lakes, and there is
Silverwood. Dead in between is Stone Realm, probably more
in the dark about this than we are."

"But if Berengar is in Twin Lakes, and Takeshta is in

Kirianna, then Silverwood is empty," said Blackbird.

"No," said the Moonhound. "I don't think it is. I think we

are looking at a plan worthy of the craftiest Mycinocroft. I
think ... I think Takeshta has done what we never thought
she would dare to do. I think she has called home Rhaklan
the Damned."

Blackbird felt the blood run out of his face. His tiny body

sagged, then he wavered. The Moonhound caught him, and
she helped him sit. His voice was shaking as he spoke.

"Rhaklan. We are not strong enough to face Rhaklan; we

never were!"

"We may not have to," said the Moonhound.
"What do you suggest?"
"A sudden attack on Kirianna."
"Aren't they expecting that?" asked Monshikka.
"No, I don't think they are. I think they are planning on

building up a force in Silverwood, all the while undermining
Kirianna until they are destitute, and in no position to save
themselves, let alone us. No, I think there is only one thing to
do to buy us some time, and that's attack Kirianna. It will
take little effort to take the city, then we set up someone we
can trust on the throne and send in food and resources. With
that pompous fool of a King and his High Priest out of the

way, we can strengthen them while rebuilding relations." She
looked at Monshikka. "Who would you put in charge?"

"My eldest sister, Lykara. She is very intelligent, and has

an exceptional grasp of policies and matters of state. My
brothers I would not trust with a deceased toad. I would put
Lykara on the throne and exile my brothers. I have little
doubt they are contributing to this mess, as it lines their
pockets."

The Moonhound nodded. "Lykara it is, then. Monshikka,

you will have to ride out with me. Be prepared to leave at
dawn of the day after tomorrow. Have with you anything you
deem important. I have a feeling once the fighting is over,
there will doubtless be the deathly dull business of policy and
politics."

Monshikka nodded, then departed for his private offices.

The Moonhound went in search of her chief officers, leaving
Blackbird seated before the map, staring at the dot that
indicated where his city, Palaklais, used to be. He looked up
at Misty.

"It's going to be messy," he said quietly.
"We'll be fine," said Misty. He carefully helped Blackbird to

stand and, escorted by Sly, led the small mage off to
Blackbird's chambers.

* * * *

Teaching Uncle Smash to be Seer was not going to be

easy.

Arrowsmith was beginning to think it would just be easier

to stay home instead of journeying to the Palaklais, though he

did not want to do it. But Smash was not terribly interested in
learning what was required of him. In truth, Arrowsmith
wasn't sure that Smash understood the gravity of their
situation, or what could happen if Smash was found out.
Finally, at his wit's end, he decided just to take Smash to the
back of the Palace and let him watch the Mycinocroft in their
little village, going about their lives. They needed a break;
they could do some more work later.

Arrowsmith climbed up a trellis to the top of the iridescent

stone wall and waited for Smash to climb up after him. Then
his mom decided to come with him, and together the three
sat, drinking beer and watching the Mycinocroft.

"It is so pretty here," said Popsicle, "so quiet. I don't ever

want to leave. Johnny, what are those big otters called
again?"

"They are Mycinocroft, mom. The name means 'River

Wolf.'"

"Do they bite?"
"Shred the flesh right off your bones."
"So I shouldn't pull one's tail."
"I wouldn't, their teeth are sharp enough to drive right into

your temple and kill you."

"They look so soft, though."
"I'll find you one that's safe to hug."
Arrowsmith laughed quietly as all the Mycinocroft abruptly

vanished, either into their homes or to the bottom of the lake,
at the sound of great wings approaching. A Palaklais Eagle,
shining white and the size of a horse, flew lazily past. The
eagle was not interested in Mycinocroft, but they did not care

to take a chance. The eagle flew on, and soon grey, silver,
and white muzzles began to appear at the surface of the lake,
like furry snorkels. The owners of the noses did not emerge,
however, and Arrowsmith looked around. Soon he saw the
reason why: it was a group of eight wolf-warriors, in search of
their day's meal. He recognized their red-haired leader. Her
name was Malice, and it was a moniker she lived up to. She
was leading her group slowly to the far right of the lake, to
where a small group of Aushai grazed.

"Mom, I don't think you want to see this."
"See what?"
"Well, those are wolf-warriors, and they are hunting those

huge, white deer. And in just a few minutes, there is going to
be a huge, bloody mess."

Popsicle wasn't daunted. "Seen those," she said, sipping

her beer.

Arrowsmith watched the group warily; the pack was a little

closer than he would have liked, and wolf-warriors in a killing
frenzy were extremely dangerous. Still, as long as the pack
was not interfered with in some way, there was no reason
they could not observe. Arrowsmith stayed on his feet and
watched the pack as they slowly split off, cautiously encircling
their target before it noticed them. They had chosen a young,
inexperienced stag, a little removed from the group and
inattentive. He would be an easy meal.

"What are they going to use to kill it with?" asked Smash.
"Depends," said Arrowsmith. "If this is just lunch, they'll

use swords, daggers, maybe a cudgel. If it is an initiation,
they'll use their bare hands and teeth."

"Initiation?" said Popsicle. "I don't understand."
Arrowsmith smiled. At least his mother was paying

attention. Maybe they should try to disguise her as the Seer.
"They are elite warriors, Mom, with a culture and way of life
that goes back thousands of years. A new warrior must prove
her worth by feeding the pack with nothing but her own skill."

"Oh!" Popsicle watched the warriors. "Must be an initiation;

I don't see any swords."

Arrowsmith nodded. "I think you're right."
The pack closed in, and too late, the stag noticed what was

happening. He bolted, then darted left, attempting to dodge
his way out of the trap. Malice lunged forward, driving the
animal back to the newest member of the pack, who
managed to land on its head. She tried to pull it down, but
was not in quite the right position to use enough leverage to
get the stag off its feet.

"Better than Jerry Springer," said Popsicle. "Beer me,

Johnny."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mom."
He hopped off the wall into the yard and walked to the

little house. Going inside, he paused at the familiar sight of
Mother, asleep in his chair, a copy of 'Easy Rider' magazine
on his face. Arrowsmith went to the fridge and got three more
bottles of beer, and was walking back to the door when he
heard the shot.

Mother sat up, startled and confused, and Arrowsmith just

froze, a sudden tightness in his chest. "Oh, Creation, tell me
that what I think just happened did not happen."

He left the beer on a nearby chair and ran outside, hastily

scaling the wall and pulling himself up beside Popsicle. "Mom,
what happened?" he asked, feeling sick inside.

"Oh, I shot the deer for them," said Smash. "They were

having a hell of a time."

Arrowsmith stared at the pack. The stag was lying on its

side, blood soaking its white coat. The pack was slowly
milling, checking the area, trying to determine what felled
their quarry. Arrowsmith heaved a sigh of relief. They did not
know what direction the projectile had come from; there was
a chance they could escape this.

"Mom," said Arrowsmith quietly, "get down from the wall

and into the house, okay? Smash, get your fool ass up here
before they figure out who shot their dinner."

"Ah, I was just doing them a favor," said Smash.
"No, you were not, you were being a stupid bastard. You

killed their deer, which means they can't use it now. They had
to kill it themselves."

"They can still use it," said Smash dismissively. He opened

his handgun and checked it.

Arrowsmith shook his head and ground his teeth. "Smash,

get your stupid ass up here. Now."

The stag suddenly lunged upwards, and Arrowsmith felt a

huge weight lift off his chest. The bullet had only stunned it.
Malice and her warriors could kill it honestly and feed upon it
and be nourished by its meat. It was no longer a useless
carcass to them. Arrowsmith breathed a sigh of relief.

"Smash, come on, we..."

Smash fired again. The stag fell, and this time there was

no mistake, the animal was dead. And this time, the pack
knew where the shot had come from. They might have no
idea what a gun was, but they were familiar enough with
weapons that fired arrows and bolts. And now they knew who
had rendered their meal into a useless heap of dead flesh.

"I should just leave you here," said Arrowsmith as the pack

turned and began bearing down on them. "Smash, get up
here."

"Why? If they want to get into a pissing match about..."
"Fine, die here. Mom! Come on!"
Popsicle looked at the approaching group. Arrowsmith

knew his mother well. He knew she had fought many times in
her life, and that she would know to the core of her being that
this was different. This time, something was heading toward
her that was best left unchallenged. She nodded and hopped
off the wall.

"Smash!" Arrowsmith yelled. "Get your stupid fucking ass

in here, or I really will leave you to die!"

Smash stared at the approaching pack, and Arrowsmith

felt his stomach drop as the red-head in the front uttered a
horrid, roaring bay. She flashed silver, a brief flame of light,
and he saw a huge, ravening wolf, fangs dripping, eyes
blazing.

"I fucked up, didn't I?" Smash said.
"GET IN HERE NOW!" Arrowsmith screamed.
Smash turned and leapt, catching hold of the wall and

trying to pull himself up. Arrowsmith grabbed his hand to pull
him onto the top of the wall, and suddenly was yanked down

as Malice took hold of Smash's jacket. Arrowsmith tumbled
head first over the wall and straight into the midst of the
pack. He felt fangs tear into his wrist, his thigh, his calf.
There was blood everywhere, and without knowing how he
managed it, his body functioning on terror and instinct, he
somehow managed to tear free. He could hear Smash
screaming, then the boom of a shotgun. There was the high-
pitched scream of a wolf in pain, and both Arrowsmith and
Smash were momentarily free as the pack briefly scattered,
startled by the noise. The two were over the wall in a second,
while Popsicle took aim with the shotgun a second time. A
huge silver wolf leapt up and ripped it out of her hands, jaws
crushing the barrel. Popsicle scrambled down off the wall and
into the house after Smash and Arrowsmith.

As soon as she ran inside, Arrowsmith threw the door shut

and locked it. "Smash, if we survive, I will kill your stupid ass
myself!"

"Johnny, you're bleeding!" cried Popsicle.
"Gonna be bleeding worse than this if..." Arrowsmith

stopped as he heard something heavy land on the roof. "Oh,
we are in so much shit..."

It leapt off the roof and slammed into the door. There was

a splintering sound, and a crack appeared down the center.
Then a window shattered, and the pack was in the room.

Arrowsmith threw himself before Malice. She was blazing

white fire, and he could see the wolf shape surrounding her,
dripping saliva that sizzled as it struck the floor. He could tell
that she did not recognize him, and her thoughts were only of
killing the one who had interfered with them. A second

warrior came in, and the door shattered. They were now
surrounded.

"Johnny?" said Popsicle, her voice high and tight with

terror.

"No one move," said Arrowsmith. "Not a muscle!"
Malice tried to lunge around him to get Smash, and

Arrowsmith stepped into her path. "No!" he said. "You
misunderstand! We did not mean to interfere! It was a gift.
The stag was a gift, in honor of the Wolf. We did not mean to
take your prey."

Two more of the warriors came into the room. Arrowsmith

knew if they did not believe him, then they were all dead. He
swallowed hard and kept talking.

"It was a gift," he said softly, his voice level and calm,

though he could feel himself shaking. "We give it to you, and
your Goddess, in gratitude for the protection and safety you
bring to this land. No insult was meant."

Malice stared him down, snarling quietly, turning his words

over. For a long, tense moment, no one moved. Then,
quietly, Malice turned and left, taking her pack with her.
When the last warrior departed, Arrowsmith collapsed into a
chair, shaking. He lowered his head, bringing his hands up to
his face. Without meaning to, he began to sob heavily.

"Johnny, I'm sorry..." began Smash, but Arrowsmith put

up one hand, stopping him.

"You just shut up. I told you, but no, you had to be Mister

Tough Guy and kill the fucking deer for them. You have not
listened to a thing I have said since you got here, and you
damn near got all of us killed. So just shut the hell up."

"Johnny, you're bleeding," said Popsicle softly.
"I'm going to be sick," said Arrowsmith.
He felt cold and began to shiver, blood soaking the chair

beneath him. He felt someone put a blanket over him, and he
sat, shaking. The door pushed open, the splintered remains
falling with a bang. Slowly, Silver stepped into the room,
looking around at the blood and chaos. His voice was quiet
when he spoke.

"What the hell happened here?"
"I'll tell you about it later," said Popsicle. "Smash, how are

you? Did she bite you?"

Arrowsmith looked up at his uncle. Smash had indeed been

bitten, but his heavy leather jacket had spared him any
injury. However, the sleeves were slashed and ripped, and he
had red welts on his arm that would soon turn into bruises.

'Typical,' thought Arrowsmith, searching his pockets for a

cigarette, 'he starts the fight and I get torn to bits.' He
glanced up at Silver. "What are you doing here? You're
supposed to be studying."

Silver shrugged. "Yeah, but I met this guy named Dusty,

and the prince caught me trying to kiss him in the hall,
and..."

Arrowsmith stood up and walked out of the house, leaving

the blanket on the bloody chair. He crossed the yard and
walked into the Palace, heading for his private chambers.
Once there, he locked the door, closed the windows, drew the
drapes, and dropped onto the bed.

"We're fucking doomed," he muttered.

* * * *

Arrowsmith dozed off and on for the rest of the day. He

awoke at sunset, stuck to the sheets by his own dried blood,
roused by the rich scent of good Palaklais coffee. He opened
his eyes and saw Monshikka sitting beside him.

"Heard you had a bad day," said Arrowsmith softly.
"Heard you had a worse one," said Monshikka. "The

Moonhound went to speak to your mother."

"Oh, crap. Did she kill Smash?"
"No, no, your uncle is quite alive and well. I understand it

was he who began the fight."

Arrowsmith shook his head. "I told him not to shoot the

deer. I told him. What's going to happen to him?"

"I am not certain, I believe the Moonhound is deciding

upon an appropriate punishment. His actions resulted in you
being injured and the death of a wolf-warrior."

"Death?" said Arrowsmith, sitting up. "Who died?" He

suddenly remembered his mother brandishing a shotgun.
"Oh, crap, is my mom in trouble? It was Mom, wasn't it?"

Monshikka smiled. "Yes, it was your mother. The lady is

most fierce when it comes to defending her baby. But no, she
is not in any trouble. She was defending her child, and the
Moon Goddess counts that as no crime. However, she
considers taunting her warriors, inciting them to attack, and
getting one of them killed a very serious crime indeed, and
Smash's insistence he did not know they would attack is not
going over well. Your mother says you tried to tell him a few
times."

"Yeah, I did." Arrowsmith sat up and accepted the coffee

from Monshikka. "What are they going to do to him?"

"Well, the Moonhound thought we should leave that up to

you."

Arrowsmith nodded. He sipped his hot, sweet coffee. "He's

got to learn, Monshikka. He's got to learn to respect this place
before he gets himself killed. And I was wrong, there's no
way he's going to be able to pretend to be me any more than
Silver is going to be able to pretend to be you. I brought
them here for nothing."

"Do not be so quick to dismiss them," said Monshikka.

"There is still time for them to learn their roles. Though,
granted, they are no longer exactly a secret. But we may still
be able to make it work. However, we have other problems.
As of today, we are at war with Kirianna."

Monshikka told Arrowsmith all about the meeting with

Sennith, while Arrowsmith drank his coffee and listened. As
Monshikka finished the tale, Arrowsmith sighed heavily and
shook his head.

"We're going to war to save Kirianna. That's it, I can die

now, I've heard it all." He set his cup aside and thought. Then
he grinned. "I know what to do to Uncle Smash."

"Oh?" said Monshikka.
Arrowsmith looked at Monshikka. "Well, Smash is used to

being the biggest and the baddest, and therefore the rightest
guy in the room. I mean, he's a great guy, and I love him,
but I'm starting to think a dose of reality would not kill him."

"What do you suggest?" asked Monshikka.

"I suggest we turn him over to Lady Trask and subject him

to a couple months of doing what the ladies do. Getting up at
dawn to run a couple miles, hunting something they can kill,
eat raw, and, after a cold bath in the river, they can start
fight practice."

"He will not be amused."
"He's not meant to be. Look, Smash has done a lot of bad

things in his life. He's never once been caught, he's never
once had to account for his actions. And plainly, even though
he gave me his word that he would help, it was just one more
chance to save his own ass and take the easy way out. He
thinks I'm going to bail him out because I have connections.
But I'm not going to. He's finally in a position where no one is
going to bail him out. And since his punishment is to be
decided by me, I say hand him over to Lady Trask for three
months and force him to work in a group. He wasn't even
injured in today's fight! I got holes in me; he just ripped his
jacket. No! No more! He won't even 'fess up to whether or not
he's my dad, and I know he knows, despite all this 'fuzzy
memory' and 'it was a long time ago' crap. He's been sliding
his way out of shit all his life and leaving others holding the
bag. I love Smash, I really do. He's a great guy, but he's got
this habit, and I'm sick of it. I thought this time he really
wanted to help." Arrowsmith stared down at the sheet,
picking at the edge. "I'm sorry about Silver."

Monshikka shook his head. "Do not concern yourself. His

actions serve only to harm himself. Now, take your clothes
off, we have to get those bites cleaned before they infect."

Arrowsmith grumbled. "Fine." He rose slowly and stiffly

and began trying to remove his jeans, and groaned when he
could not get them off. "They're dried into the bites. If I pull
them off, it's going to rip the cuts open."

Monshikka examined the garment, noting the huge tears in

the fabric. "We'll have to cut them off, then clean the
injuries."

"Cut them off?! Oh, come on, this is my only pair!"
"I apologize, but I do not think engine grease and dirty

denim are beneficial to your wounds."

"I'll soak them off." Arrowsmith removed his socks and T-

shirt, then made his way to the bathing chamber, wading into
the tub. The water began to turn red, and as the fabric came
away from the wounds, they opened and began to seep
blood. Monshikka seated himself on a low bench meant for
towels.

"Good thing Infamous wasn't here when this happened,"

Arrowsmith grumbled. "He would have skinned both Smash
and Silver alive."

"It's quite all right," said Monshikka, "Really. At least, as

far as Silver is concerned. He is really not my type. Besides, I
am rather enjoying Wess' chivalrous and old-fashioned
courting."

Arrowsmith's head went up. "Wess? I know Seth thought

he had a thing for you, but I'm surprised he announced his
intentions this fast. Doesn't it usually take a priest of
Shallougha ten years to decide if he wants eggs for breakfast,
and then afterward another ten to discuss the philosophical
ramifications of eating what was a potential life form?"

Monshikka smiled. "Yes. But I think he has been going

over this in his mind for quite some time. I think Silver's
arrival pushed him into making a decision."

Arrowsmith grinned. "Well, the way Wess moves, you'll

have four lifetimes to figure out if you want to be his lover."

Monshikka laughed quietly, then both he and Arrowsmith

looked up as they heard the bedroom door close.

"Johnny?"
Arrowsmith rolled his eyes. "In here, Smash."
Smash walked into the bathing chamber, walking slowly,

looking around at the lavish surroundings. "When they told
me this was your room, I didn't believe it. How ya doing?"

"Well, I have been carved up like a roast, and now I am

picking ground-up threads out of my ground-up ass."

Smash sat down on the floor and lit up a cigarette. "Oh,

well, as long as you're okay. Got anything to drink? Hey,
Snowball, get me a glass, will ya?"

Arrowsmith and Monshikka exchanged glances, but before

either of them could say a word, a pair of Thieves stepped
into the room. Arrowsmith recognized them immediately as
Dusty and Darkrist—two of Infamous' Chosen. They bowed
formally to their Master's lover. Arrowsmith nodded his
acknowledgement.

"What brings you two little ferrets to my room?" asked

Arrowsmith, grimacing as he picked fabric out of a wound.

"My Lord Seer, this man has stolen from you."
Arrowsmith's head snapped up. "Stolen?"
He was flabbergasted. To the Children of Marakim, 'wealth'

was an intangible concept. If a person took a few gold pieces

to feed themselves, or a cloak to warm themselves, then that
was fine. It was also no crime to take pretty things to play
with. Arrowsmith had lived with Temple Thieves for centuries;
he was so used to having them rifle through his stuff, he was
almost insulted when they didn't. The only time they reacted
to theft was when something was taken that was either
sacred or irreplaceable. Things that were important or had
great sentimental value were never taken or played with. And
for them to come forward now and tell him Smash had stolen
from him, Arrowsmith knew it was bad.

He looked at the Thieves, feeling his heart sink and his

stomach twist. "What did he take?" he asked.

"I didn't take nuthin'!" exclaimed Smash, indignant.

"They're fulla shit. Snowball, pass the wine."

Dusty, with a dream-like ease and grace, reached into

Smash's pocket and pulled forth a brooch that Arrowsmith
knew well. It was the crest of the Snoweaver Clan. Smash
had not only stolen from his own nephew/son, he had insulted
another god as well. Arrowsmith opened his mouth to speak
and heard Seth's voice come out.

"Discipline him as you see fit. After you are done with him,

please be so good as to turn him over to Lady Trask. Tell her
that he is to live as her warriors do for the next three months,
and I do mean as her warriors, including the same
punishments. Then, after she is done with him, he is to go to
the Temple of the Creator for insulting a virgin prince of her
faith."

Dusty and Darkrist bowed, and before Smash had a chance

to say anything, he was hauled to his feet and out of the

bathing chamber, screaming and swearing. Arrowsmith
sighed as he listened to Smash get dragged into the depths of
the Palace. He looked at Monshikka and smiled wearily.

"Fair Prince, would you mind terribly pouring me a very

large glass of brandy?"

Monshikka smiled. "My pleasure, I could use one myself."

* * * *

Roer rode swiftly over the rolling plains, the hooves of his

raven black steed scarcely touching the ground as the little
horse flew beneath the light of the silver-blue moon. The
touches of silver on the harness glittered in the darkness, and
both man and horse were the color of the night.

He could not seem to locate Infamous and wondered if he

had been wrong to think the Master would take the more
private paths that only the Temple Thieves and Highwaymen
rode. He slowed his horse and stood up in his stirrups,
scanning the way ahead for a sign of a campfire, or anything
that would mark their presence, but saw nothing. All around
was darkness. Reluctantly, he pulled his horse to a slow trot,
cooling the animal down before stopping for the night.

At last they stopped, and Roer got down from his horse's

back, removing its bridle and kissing the soft, ink-black nose.
He talked quiet nonsense to the beast, removing its tack and
rubbing it down as best he could in the dark. He left the horse
to munch grass, then started a small fire so he could see to
make camp.

The arrows slammed into him, each making a loud 'thud'

as they struck and shattered bone when they drove into his

back. The horse bolted, fleeing into the night, and Roer slowly
sank to his knees, feeling his own hot blood run down his
body. There was no pain, just confusion, then silent darkness
as he slowly fell forward, landing heavily on the grass.

* * * *

Two figures, clad in rusty greens and browns, stepped out

of the dark. They yanked their arrows out of his body, then
rifled his pack for anything of value. They took his angle-
bladed dagger and snapped it before casting the remains into
the fire, along with anything not of interest. Then they tied
his ankles together and threw the other end of the rope over
a tree branch and hung him, like a hunter's fallen prey,
before cutting his throat. They put out the fire so it would not
attract attention, and melted away into the darkness, leaving
Roer's dagger glowing from the heat of the embers, the
remains of Blackbird's letter slowly turning to ash.

* * * *

Arrowsmith managed to get his jeans off, then drained the

bath and refilled it with clean, hot water. Monshikka joined
him, and the two relaxed in peaceful silence, broken only
occasionally by the sound of night birds. The white, silk
curtains of the bathing chamber blew lazily in the warm
breeze, and the candles filled the room with a soft, warm
glow.

There was no splash, but the water began to slosh quietly

in the bath, and Arrowsmith looked up, having the impression
that something had just joined them. He expected to see

Ducky, but all he saw was undisturbed bubbles. Then he felt
something move in the water. It did not touch him, but he felt
the current of its passing.

"Monshikka?" said Arrowsmith, "what just got into the tub

with us?"

Monshikka tried to move the bubbles aside, but saw

nothing. "It moves like a Mycinocroft." He reached under
water, feeling around, then smiled. "Definitely Mycinocroft,"
he said dryly.

"Tell it to get outta my bath! What's a Mycinocroft doing in

my bath?"

"Swimming."
"Oh har, har. You should have been in vaudeville."
The bubbles parted, and the intruder stood up, his tanned

skin softly luminous in the candlelight, his long hair streaming
water as it stuck to his bare chest in tendrils. The pale grey
eyes looked at Arrowsmith briefly, but did not seem to
register him. He arched down silently into the water with
otter-like grace, revealing the telltale stripe of grey fur that
followed the line of his spine.

"It's Sly," said Monshikka, a look of disbelief on his face.
"Why is Sly in my tub? Sly doesn't share his bath; in fact,

Sly doesn't even share my bath."

"Probably upset about marching to war with Kirianna," said

Monshikka. "He gets oddly friendly when he's concerned he
may die horribly."

"He's biting my foot."
"Well, move it out of his way."

"It's my bath in my room! Fuck him! OW! SHIT! Okay, I

moved it. Furry-backed asshole."

Sly settled onto the bottom of the bathing pool, where he

could happily remain for up to an hour. After ten minutes,
Arrowsmith set his drink aside. "Excuse me," he said to
Monshikka.

Monshikka smiled and tipped his glass slightly in

acknowledgement as Arrowsmith sank into the heated water.
He found Sly, sitting cross-legged on the bottom, eyes closed,
apparently meditating.

'And you could not do this in your own bath?' he thought.
The pale grey eyes opened and stared back at him, eerie

in the diffuse light and strange setting.

No.
Arrowsmith gasped, then shot to the surface. He came up

coughing and sneezing, his nose burning from inhaling water.
Monshikka leapt out of the bath.

"He's not dead, is he?"
Arrowsmith coughed, shaking his head. Finally he croaked

an answer. "He talked to me! I was thinking couldn't he do
this someplace else, and he opened his eyes and spoke!"

"Nonsense, he can't speak, he never could, he has no

vocal cords."

"He spoke to me. I heard it in my head!"
Monshikka slowly got back into the bath. "But I thought he

could only do that with a few..."

Arrowsmith reached under the water, catching hold of a

ridge of fur. "Get up here, you malcontent!"

Sly surfaced, mouth wrapped around Arrowsmith's wrist.

He was chewing on it, but without causing pain or doing
damage, grey eyes full of mischief. Arrowsmith realized with a
start that he was playing. He could not think of a time in
which he had ever seen Sly play.

"Quit gumming my hand."
Sly crunched down with a purpose, and Arrowsmith yanked

his hand back. "Ow! Hey, how come you never told me you
could talk?"

I can't.
"Communicate, then."
You never tried to communicate with me. I am not always

able to do this. My mind gets ... clouded. I am ... clear. I
came to ... ask.

"Ask?"
Home soon?
It was not easy to read Sly. It was much like listening to a

radio with too much static. Arrowsmith struggled to
understand him. "Home?"

They say Palaklais. Home? To Great Hall? We fight for

home and take it back. Not hurt anymore. Mountain magic
make me not ... clouded. Home.

Arrowsmith drew a slow breath. "Sly, are you telling me

that, all these hundreds of years, you have been crazy and in
pain because we took you out of the mountains?!"

Monshikka sat up, horrified at the concept. Sly's voice

came back, stuttering, fading in and out, but there.

Better in Grey Haunts, went there few days, get ... senses

... hear we go soon. Had to know ... took ... long time ...
understand enough to ask.

"Yes. We're going soon, as soon as Kirianna is taken. Sly, I

am so sorry, none of us knew. Why did you not tell us?"

You all happy. Me ... I happy you happy. We go to

Palaklais now, we all be happy.

Arrowsmith put his arms around Sly, hugging him tightly,

tangling his fingers into the soft fur and hair at the back of his
neck. "Sly, we could not have been happy if we knew you
weren't."

Sly did not seem to know what to do about the embrace,

but did not fight it. Finally he closed his eyes and relaxed. He
exhaled a long sigh, one heavy with unspoken pain and fears.

Know now. Good enough.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

Arrowsmith was snuggled into bed, and all around him the

night was deep and still. He had his face partly buried in the
grey silk comforter, while his duck slept at the foot of the
bed, his bill under his wing. The breeze blew gently in through
the window, bringing the warm fragrance of night-blooming
plants and the soft trill of crickets.

The bed shifted ever so slightly, and Arrowsmith rolled

onto his back, still half lost in a dream. He felt someone lean
over him, and he reached up, drawing the slim body down
against his chest and kissing him. His sleep-addled brain
eventually registered that the person he was kissing was
pushing back, and he released him, opening one eye. It was
Dusty, and the young Thief was wiping his mouth on his
sleeve.

"Sorry," said Arrowsmith.
Dusty shook his head, looking like he had just licked a dirt-

covered lollipop. "Quite all right, Lord Seer, I'm certain you
did not know it was me."

"Just don't tell your Master I did it." He rubbed his hands

over his face. "Why are you sneaking up on me in the middle
of the night?"

"Well, your uncle is demanding to see you. He told me to

tell you that if you did not get him out, then you would never
know the truth about your father."

"Yeah, like he's really going to tell me anyway," grumbled

Arrowsmith. He sighed heavily, then flung the covers back,
searching for his jeans.

Dusty handed them to him and sat on the bed, watching

as Arrowsmith struggled into his clothes. He yawned, then
glanced over at Dusty, who was still shaking his head and
making little spit noises.

"Look, it was only a kiss, you'll survive."
"It wasn't the kiss. What were you eating before bed?"
"A fried garlic and fish sandwich, why?"
Dusty shook his head. "Is that what that taste is?"
Arrowsmith laughed quietly. "Come on, take me to dear

Uncle Smash. Let's see what line of bullshit he's spewing
now."

* * * *

The passages within the Palace were dark and eerie,

winding their narrow way like slender snakes past strange
doors and portals, some hanging several feet above their
heads with no rhyme or reason. The passages would shift
periodically, and anyone unfamiliar with them would never
find a way out again. Dusty skipped along lightly, darting left
or right, plainly knowing exactly where he was going.
Arrowsmith followed after him, finally exiting a door and
stepping out of the passages and into the great underground
Temple of Marakim.

They had emerged in the main prayer chamber, and

Arrowsmith was keenly aware of many sets of eyes gazing at
him from the darkness. Foxes stared at him from their posts

and perches about the room—there had to be at least two
dozen of them. They were sacred to Marakim, and over the
centuries the little furry red felons had learned this was the
best place to hide after a busy night of stealing hens.
Currently, they were the only occupants in the chamber. The
only visible ones, anyway.

The great room was round, and the ceiling was domed.

The arches that supported it were of stone, glinting with gold
and other metals trapped within them. The ceiling itself was
plain, and the floor was smoothed, grey slate. The walls were
grey brick, and the entire chamber was oddly somber and
silent, save for a natural spring, its sides carefully built up
into a low wall to create a little pool. There was a small,
natural opening in the wall behind the pool, which permitted a
shaft of moonlight. It struck the surface of the pool, its water
so clear that the fish within it seemed to be suspended in air,
save for the faint silver ripples across the surface, caused by
the trickle of runoff from an underground stream. Standing
within the fountain, carved entirely of black stone, was the
Dawn Thief himself.

The water ran down his body, following the lines and

curves of fabric and muscle. He was blindfolded and stood
facing down at the water around his feet, his right hand
extended a little ways from his body and turned upright in a
casual pose. In it, he held what looked to be a lotus flower.
His hair was wild and carved in such a way as to suggest it
was wet. Indeed, with the water flowing over it, it looked as
though one could reach out and stroke one's fingers through
it.

"Thousands of years ago, there was a city where this one

now stands," said Dusty. "When it fell into dust, this chamber
remained. It was a cistern for collecting the water from the
springs in the area. When Marakim found it, all that could be
seen was that hole, clawed out by cave devils. He came in
and found this place. That was how Hercandoloff came to
choose this area to build his new Palace. This was the last
refuge of Marakim, before he was finally caught and
executed. We leave this chamber much as it was when
Marakim discovered it." Dusty took Arrowsmith's hand. "This
way."

Arrowsmith gazed at the statue in the pool until they left

the chamber, walking into a corridor. Dusty led him to a door
at the far end and said quietly: "This way. This leads to the
cell where your uncle is."

* * * *

Arrowsmith walked into the underground cell. It was dark,

but it was dry and clean, with a cot, washing area, and
simple, and more importantly, private, toilet facilities. Smash
may not have had his freedom, but he was hardly being
abused or demeaned. However, his mood was far from
cheerful. Smash was in a rage, sucking on a cigarette as
though his existence depended on it. When he saw
Arrowsmith, he jabbed the ember in his direction.

"You get my ass out of here now!"
Arrowsmith heard Seth speak. "Shall I handle this?"
Arrowsmith shook his head, unconcerned with whether

Smash thought he was odd or not. He answered his former

incarnation aloud. "It's okay, Seth, I'll deal with it, but stay
close, okay?"

"Very well," said Seth, and fell silent.
Smash watched Arrowsmith warily, "Get me out of here.

These people seem to think you're some sort of a big deal."

"I'm Court Seer. And they respect me because I respect

them and their ways. You stole a sacred object, Smash. Your
ass it right where it should be."

Smash stared Arrowsmith down. "You get me out of here

right now; I'm not putting up with this."

"Yeah, well, you'll have to. For once in your life, you're

going to face the consequences instead of just leaving
somebody else holding the bag."

"You get me out right now or I'll never tell you the truth

about your father!"

Arrowsmith nearly punched him, but managed by a force

of will to stop himself. "No! This is how it works, Smash. You
tell me about my father or you'll never get out. I can arrange
it, Smash. I have enough power to make sure you never see
daylight again!"

Smash stared at Arrowsmith, the rage and resentment

blazing in his eyes. He snapped the butt of his cigarette at
Arrowsmith.

"Fine. I'm not your dad."
Seth asked the next question, his Victorian upbringing

demanding to know what had become of the woman who bore
his future incarnation. "And what about my mother?"

"Oh, what about her? She was a skinny little tramp named

Libby who thought she was better than everyone."

Arrowsmith uttered a short gasp. "You said her name was

Sylvia."

Seth interjected, "You also said you hardly knew her.

Apparently, you were more intimately acquainted with the
lady than you led us to believe."

Smash shook his head, visibly disturbed by how

Arrowsmith could not only switch between accents, but
voices. "Oh, who the hell cares what her name was. I told you
what you wanted, now let me out."

Arrowsmith grabbed him by the front of his shirt, snarling

with rage. "You tell me everything, you son of a bitch, or I'll
make sure you rot here!"

For once in his life, Arrowsmith saw indecision in Smash's

eyes, and fear. He was finally beginning to realize that he was
not the one in control of the situation. He pulled away from
Arrowsmith and straightened his shirt.

"Fine. You want the truth. Okay. Your mom was a fifteen-

year-old hottie who had a thing for your dad. He met her
when he was seventeen, at some church group, if you can
believe it. He was repairing his bike, and she was having a
picnic with her granny." He curled his lip and snarled the next
words in a mocking tone. "She was a nice little girl."

Arrowsmith's third incarnation chose that moment to speak

for the first time. He chuckled softly, then spoke with a
pronounced Scottish brogue, "He means she would nae gi'
him a tumble."

"A lady of some taste and quality, apparently," said Seth.
Arrowsmith grinned. "Look, Seth, Angus, please, I can

handle this myself, okay, fellas?"

"Off ye go, then, laddie," said Angus.
Smash was beginning to look like a man coming unglued.

"Will you stop that! It's freaking me out!"

"Oh!" piped up Angus enthusiastically. "Scared, is he? Let

me call up Harry the Saxon!"

"No!" said Arrowsmith, his tone horrified, but laughing

despite himself. "Just leave Harry where he is, or I'll never
get any answers."

Smash was becoming increasingly frightened by

Arrowsmith's behavior. "All right! I did know her! I wanted
her, but she wouldn't give me a chance, so I fixed the bitch!
Three weeks after Mickey was killed, I went to visit her, but
she wouldn't talk to me. Told me to get lost. Then she and
her parents moved to Prince Edward Island, where she had
you. So, since she was too good to go out with me, I took
you. Just went into the nursery while she was at school and
her mother was in another room and took you. Wrapped you
up, put you in my saddlebags so no one would see, and took
you back to BC to give you to Popsicle."

Arrowsmith was horrified. "Took me? You told me that she

abandoned me!"

"So what, you had a decent home."
"You told Mom and Dad that I was abused!"
"Yeah, well, after you traveled across country in a

saddlebag, you didn't look that great, I had to tell them
something. So I told them that I found you in her old house in
Comox, and she was living with some other guy."

"So that's why they believed you. It's roughly an hour's

drive from Comox to my house. They didn't know I had spent

days crossing country with you. Tell me this, did you feed
me? Change me? Talk to me? Or did I just lay in there for a
week?"

"I fed you when I got the chance. Changed you a couple

times."

Arrowsmith ran his hands down his face, sickened and

shocked by what he was hearing. "You put her and me
through hell because she wouldn't fuck you, is that it?"

"Hey, she took off cross country. You're my nephew; I had

a right to see you."

"Did you also have a right to ruin her life? Ruin my life?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but you were the person to turned
me on to heroin. Was that part of the game, too? I was to
O.D. in an alley somewhere so you could tell her about it?
Never mind, I don't want to know. You sick son of a bitch.
Neverin!"

A Thief appeared. "Yes, Lord Seer."
"Turn this bastard over to the city jail, I don't want him in

the Palace. I don't want him anywhere near me."

"Yes, Lord."
"Hey!" yelled Smash. "Hey, you said you'd let me out if I

talked!"

Arrowsmith stared at him, his gaze icy. "And you're getting

out. But did I say where I would put you afterward?" Then he
turned and stalked out of the jail area.

He made it as far as the pond beneath Marakim's feet

before he collapsed, sitting down hard. He felt Dusty come to
sit with him, as well as several foxes. Arrowsmith caught one
of the soft, furry animals and held it close, crying into its red

fur. He felt spray from the spring water touching him,
dampening his hair. He sat there for a while, making up his
mind about what to do with his information. Then he came to
a conclusion. Passing Dusty the soggy, rumpled fox, he stood
up.

Rather than heading through the passages alone, he used

a private entrance he had seen Infamous use, one that led
out into the garden. He stepped into the moonlit night and
began walking toward the trellis beneath Blackbird's bedroom
balcony. He climbed it with no problem, then, as he landed on
his feet, was confronted by a dragonhawk.

"Do you know what time it is?" Wess asked sleepily.
"Late," said Arrowsmith. He patted the slender, black neck

and stepped around his friend and into Blackbird's bedroom.

"Infamous, get lost," said Blackbird almost reflexively most

likely in reaction to the door being opened.

Arrowsmith smiled, then did a reasonable impression of

one of Infamous' leaps onto the bed. Both Blackbird and the
Moonhound were nearly sent flying with the force of
Arrowsmith's huge, two hundred and twenty pound body
landing on the mattress. He perhaps should have considered
his actions before doing such a thing. Times were stressful in
Dargoth, and in this Palace in particular. Before Wess or
Arrowsmith had a chance to shout out to the king and queen
that they were not being attacked, there was a huge rush of
blue magic, and Arrowsmith was thrown off the bed and into
a heap on the floor.

* * * *

"Ow."
"It's your own stupid fault. What in the name of Creation

were you thinking?"

Arrowsmith winced as the Moonhound cleaned out a burn

on his arm. "I just ... didn't want to be alone."

"Well, you're getting lots of attention now, you nut," said

Blackbird. "You're lucky it wasn't a Coldfire spell or a
Bonecall. We'd be having this conversation in your next life."

Arrowsmith pouted, but said nothing. Blackbird yawned

and asked "So, what possessed you to do this?"

"I wanted to ask you to help me go see my mother."
Blackbird rubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand.

"She's in the garden in a rotten little shack with some goats
and your father, who may be the same thing."

"No, my real mother."
"Come again?"
Arrowsmith told Blackbird all about his recent interaction

with Smash. "I have to see her. I have to see her before we
go to Palaklais. What if I die there? She'll never know what
happened to me. She'll live the rest of her life wondering who
has me and what they did to me and if I'm okay. She's gone
twenty-six years wondering what some sick sack of shit did
with her baby. I don't want her to have to live her whole life
with that question."

Blackbird nodded. "All right, all right, I can't very well deny

you that. But the travel crystal only works if you have been
someplace before."

"I was there before. I mean, I was only three months old,

and maybe she's moved since then, but I was there."

"Do I have to dress like a biker again?"
"No."
"Darn. All right, we'll go. Tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow," said the Moonhound. She finished with

Arrowsmith's burns and stood up, naked in the moonlight, her
long, red hair hanging loose down her back. She stepped
lightly across the rugs, her bare feet making no sound, and
made her way to the tall wardrobe of Red Amranth wood from
the Gnome Swamp. Arrowsmith wondered how many people
had died collecting the rare timbers. She opened the door and
pulled out her best uniform and began dressing.

"Time to get the troops up and go play war," she said. She

looked at Wess. "Can you go find Sly?"

"Sly's in my room," said Arrowsmith. "He's in the bathing

chamber, in the tub."

Wess walked across the floor, moving daintily to keep his

claws from slicing the rugs to bits. He pushed the door open
with his head and departed. A serving woman screamed.

"I don't like this," grumbled Blackbird, yawning and

reaching feebly for a robe. Arrowsmith passed him one.

"It won't be a long campaign," said the Moonhound, "and

we promised the Houses we'd help. Where's Monshikka?"

"Here," said a soft voice.
Monshikka entered the chamber, followed by a serving

woman carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and different
things for breakfast. She set the tray down, then left,
grouching about having the wits scared out of her by a free-
roaming dragonhawk. Monshikka poured himself some coffee
and sat down.

"Looking forward to seeing home again?" asked

Arrowsmith.

"Oh, easily as much as I would to having the hairs plucked

off my nether regions," said Monshikka. "The place is an
absolute pit. The only good thing about this mess is your little
friend Silver showed up a half hour early for lessons and in
proper garb. He can almost spell his name. You should be
proud of him."

"Silver did?" said Arrowsmith, astonished.
"Yes. Apparently all he needed was a little time to adjust

to the situation. But, as you said, his grasp of the written
language is atrocious. He's barely literate, and that's in his
own tongue."

Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah. But he's not dumb."
"Well, it's going to take more than a year to get him to the

level he would require. I speak and write five languages; it
would be too much to get Silver to do that, even were he
able."

"I have enchantments that can help," said Blackbird,

sleepy and befuddled and trying to figure out his robe. Plainly
their little wizard was not a morning mage. "I used them in
university."

"Hence your final grade, you shit," said the Moonhound.

"Never saw anyone graduate from all their courses with
marks like yours. Even the instructors were suspicious,
especially since all you did was drink, have sex, and pass
out."

"And end up in the hospital," said Monshikka.

Blackbird wrestled himself into the robe, ending up with it

inside out and backwards. "At least give me credit for figuring
out the cheat spells."

"My little genius," said the Moonhound. She was fully

dressed by now, the silver trim of the uniform jacket glinting
in the pre-dawn light. She buckled on her sword belt and
sheathed her great silver sword with the double-wolf hilt and
the crystal pommel. Then she went over to Blackbird and
kissed him. "You sleep, and we'll be back very soon."

"Not soon enough."
She kissed him again, then turned and walked away.

"C'mon, Blackie."

Monshikka rolled his eyes and stood up. He looked at

Arrowsmith and Blackbird, then smiled, his expression
worried.

"If I die, bury me in that horrid formal outfit."
"It'll rot," said Blackbird.
"Precisely."
Arrowsmith snorted, then got up and walked over to

Monshikka. He took Monshikka's hands between his own and
kissed him. "Be careful, Ice Prince."

"Like a wolf on thin ice," he said.
Monshikka departed, leaving Blackbird and Arrowsmith

alone in the chamber. They ate breakfast together in silence.

* * * *

"It's not going to be easy to find this place," said Blackbird,

fully awake now and properly dressed. "You were, as you
said, three months old. That means things are going to look a

lot different than you perceived at the time. For one thing,
you were much smaller. I suggest you meditate on it a bit or
ask Seth. He would have been with you then, and his memory
would be more reliable."

Arrowsmith nodded, then drew a deep breath, feeling a

sick knot in his stomach. "Seth? Can you get us there?"

"Of course," said Seth in his polished Victorian English

accent. "Leave it to me. I shall get you there. Blackbird will
get you home."

"We can't stay long," said Blackbird. "A day, at best. And I

am assuming you don't want me hanging around, so what
would you like me to be?"

"I don't know, something small I can keep close. A bird?"
"A bunny!" enthused Angus.
Arrowsmith rolled his eyes. "And no remarks from the

peanut gallery, you hear, guys? Seth? Angus? Harry? You too,
Phil, I know you haven't spoken up yet, but it's just a matter
of time."

Arrowsmith heard several grumblings, then a pouting, "We

promise."

"Mouse?" suggested Blackbird.
"Bunny," said Angus quietly.
Arrowsmith sighed heavily. "Angus wants a bunny."
Blackbird smiled. "I can do a bunny. Are we ready to go?"
Arrowsmith nodded. He swung one long leg over Harley's

back and waited for the Wizard-King of Dargoth to transform
into a rabbit, which he did with ease. Moments later,
Arrowsmith was looking at a small, black rabbit, wearing a
tiny, black leather jacket fitted with chains and studs. He had

on a headband and shades, and a tiny studded leather
wristband around one forepaw. He seemed quite pleased with
himself. Arrowsmith sighed and picked him up, studying the
small rabbit.

"Hell's Rodent."
"Bite me."
Arrowsmith chuckled. "Sit in my pocket; I don't want you

flying off the gas tank at sixty miles an hour."

Blackbird snuggled in one of the pockets of Arrowsmith's

jacket, his twitching, furry, black nose poking out. Arrowsmith
started the engine of the motorcycle and slowly rode out of
the great Palace and down to the gates of the city. Soon they
were out on the plain, and once they were out of sight, they
vanished to another world.

* * * *

It was a nice place.
That was the first thing that struck Arrowsmith as he

slowly rode Harley down the streets. The gabled houses were
clean and well maintained, and the streets were straight and
orderly. Elderly couples maintained flowering gardens, and
there was a peace to the place he had never known before. It
was reminiscent of all the cultures that had come to live
there, yet somehow unique unto itself. He could smell the
ocean, the fragrance ever-present on the small island, as he
and Harley paused on the quiet street near Victoria Park in
Charlottetown. Arrowsmith didn't know what address he was
looking for; he just followed his instincts, and they took him
to a place near the waterfront, by the line of trees that

separated the neighborhood from the park. There he stopped
his motorcycle, turned the engine off, and looked up.

It was a little two-story white house, with a little white

fence and a curving trellis over the front gate. A small dog
stared at him suspiciously, growling, the little tag around its
neck telling him its name was Fred. Behind Fred was a well-
kept lawn, with small border gardens and lsmall flowering
shrubs.

There were five people outside, all staring at him with

interest as he got off the bike and stood up. He looked like a
rat, he knew. His long hair was wild from the bike ride, and
he hadn't worn a helmet; he never did if he could get away
with it. He had on his wrap-around shades and was wearing
his leather jacket with his club colors. Under that he had on a
plain, leather tunic from a shop in White Palace. He had on
his jeans and chaps and his motorcycle boots with the chains
around the ankles and the razors shoved beneath the upper.
For the first time in his life, Arrowsmith was in a place where
he was ashamed of how he looked. He was the personification
of the life he had led on earth: nasty, smelly, dirty,
unpleasant. He wasn't a nice person; he didn't belong in a
nice place. He almost lowered his head and slunk back to his
bike, departing to never be seen here again.

Fred barked, and Blackbird stuck his head out to look at

the small dog, nose slowly twitching. Arrowsmith took him out
of his pocket and held him close, scratching the long ears. He
stepped back a pace from the gate, unsure what he should
do. It was not as though the people had not seen him; they
had. They were looking right at him. There was an elderly

couple sitting on the porch in matching rocking chairs, the
man with a quivering hand on a cane, the woman holding a
basket of peas, which she had been shelling. On the steps
leading up to the porch were another couple, these two in
their sixties, tanned and quite trim. Plainly they were not a
duo to spend their retirement years gathering wool. The
woman had on a wide brim hat and pink gardening gloves,
the man was shirtless and wearing dreadful plaid shorts and a
pair of brown socks on his sandaled feet. Arrowsmith hoped
that, if he ever began dressing like that, Infamous would
shoot him.

The person who held his attention, however, was a woman

who was standing on the walkway that led to the gate
currently guarded by Fred. She was thin and wasted looking;
Arrowsmith couldn't guess what her age must be. He sensed
she was somehow aged beyond her years. She had a thin,
gold chain around her neck with a cross hanging from it and
was wearing a sleeveless, white blouse with little flowers
printed on it. Her gardening gloves were yellow, and she held
a small gardening rake. Plainly this was not a family that
would have approved of his wild nights of shooting smack
while making love to his male friend in an overgrown back lot.
Arrowsmith wondered if he should risk looking like a complete
loon and just flee.

The old man on the porch slowly got up. His body

quivered, but there was a fierce light to his eye. He would not
last long in a fight with this ratty interloper, but a fight he
would certainly put up if need be.

"Can we help you?"

Arrowsmith took off his shades and heard the woman on

the walkway gasp audibly. He blinked at her, then said: "I'm
not sure if this is the right address, but..."

"Johnny?" the woman said, her voice a bare whisper.
He blinked in surprise. He had half expected to learn

Smash had changed his name. He nodded. "Yeah."

The five stared. The elderly woman on the porch dropped

her basket of peas and slowly stood up, bringing her blue-
veined hands to her face. The man in the ugly shorts took one
step toward him, but paused, uncertain.

"Johnny?" said the woman on the walkway. "You look just

like your father."

Arrowsmith grinned, uncomfortable with the effect he was

having. "Hi, Mom."

She ran to the gate, yanking it open, and was through in a

second. She wrapped her arms around his neck and just
cried. Fred latched onto his ankle and bit for all he was worth,
but could not penetrate the leather motorcycle boot.

The man in the shorts came over to scowl at him, looking

him up and down. "Look, you're not the first vagabond we've
had show up to play on our grief. How do we know you are
who you say you are?"

The woman crying on Arrowsmith abruptly turned to face

the man. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a
small wallet, which she snapped open. "Look at him! Look!
They could be the same person!"

The man was plainly not convinced, but he seemed to be

the only one. The woman in the hat and pink gloves came
over and took his face between her hands. "Oh, would you

look at that. Spitting image! I never would have believed it."
She smiled at him. "I'm your grandmother, Sarah. The rude
bastard who can't dress himself is your grampy Robert."

His mother grabbed him away and held him tightly, still

crying for all she was worth. Blackbird kicked out with a hind
leg to let it be known that he did not appreciate being
crushed, and Arrowsmith passed him to his grandmother. He
hoped she didn't do something daft like give him to the dog,
or something would probably happen that he never could
explain. Arrowsmith was finally hauled onto the porch, where
he was cried on, fussed over, and offered a haircut by his
great-grandfather.

"Something nice and short, ya look like a girl!"
"No," said Arrowsmith, "I don't want the other bikers to

laugh."

Libby sat him down in the old man's chair, looking at him

with green eyes that held an unreadable expression: pain,
desperation, uncertainty, other things mixed together.
"Where have you been? We searched and searched, we had
no idea where you were or who took you or if you were alive."

Arrowsmith drew a deep breath. He took Blackbird back

from his grandmother, Sarah, and rubbed the 'bunny's' ears.
Arrowsmit accepted a beer from his grandfather. "Well, do
you remember Smash?"

Libby's father brought her a chair, then stood behind it,

listening. Libby took a seat. "Yes, I remember Smash. He was
your dad's creepy brother."

"Well, he's still a creep, but he's safely incarcerated for the

rest of his life. He took me. Tracked me to this house, waited

for a chance to grab me, and took me all the way to BC. I've
been living on Vancouver Island in a little shack on Marsden
Road with a couple of Dad's friends, who are under the
impression that you abandoned me."

Blackbird was offered a carrot, which he accepted. He sat,

chewing, wearing his little biker outfit, and likely making
plans on what to do to Smash when they got back, if
Arrowsmith knew him at all. Fred growled at the rabbit, very
quietly, then cringed and went silent as the small bunny
flicked its paw, causing blue sparks.

"Why did he do that?" Libby asked, anguish and confusion

in her eyes. "Why? I never did anything to him!"

"No, and you never did anything with him, either, which

seems to be his justification for all this. Look, I don't know if
he's crazy or just evil, but this is all his doing. But, like I said,
he's locked away. He's not going to be hurting anyone."

"So ... he's still alive, then?" She looked puzzled.
"Yeah," said Arrowsmith, "alive and swearing the last time

I saw him. Why?"

"Well ... he did come see me just after you were born. He

behaved quite nicely. I thought perhaps your dad's death had
softened him. We had a perfectly pleasant afternoon, then he
left. But later that night, he was hit by a semi truck."

"I remember that," said Sarah. "Oh, yeah, it was a horrid

thing. Fellow was cut nearly in half."

Arrowsmith started to get a creepy feeling. "It can't have

been Smash."

"Well, they found the body of a man wearing the colors of

a motorcycle gang," said Libby. "That's why I remember. It

was the same as your dad's. But there was no bike, and the
police didn't know how he got out there. Perhaps it wasn't
Smash after all. They never did identify him."

"Oh, it was awful," said Hazel, his great-grandmother.

"Didn't the news say that it looked like someone had been at
him with a big knife?"

"Haven't you heard this story?" asked Libby.
Arrowsmith shook his head. "No."
Arrowsmith felt Seth poke him mentally, and he thought

about the motorcycle Smash had been riding the day he had
returned from Dargoth. Specifically, the angel painted on the
gas tank. She had been blond, wearing a flowing gown of
white. Her wings were white, partly upraised, and there had
been dots of snow about her. She had one hand upon her
belly, and in her other hand she held a shard of crystal.
Realization rushed over him, and he felt sick. It had not been
an angel at all. It was the Snow Mage, as Berengar last saw
her. Young, beautiful, and carrying his child.

Arrowsmith felt sick. His body was cold, and he felt

clammy and ill. He began to shiver, and he looked down at
the bunny in his lap. Carefully, he gently picked it up and
cuddled it close.

"Look, Harry, dandelions. I bet you'd like to munch on

those!"

"Will he be okay on the lawn by himself?" asked Libby.
"Oh, sure, he's a very smart bunny," said Arrowsmith. "He

travels everywhere with me. He knows to stay close."

Arrowsmith carried the rabbit down to a low bush and set

him down, but before he placed him on the grass, he
whispered into his ear: "Smash is Berengar."

"I gathered," said Blackbird. "I'll be back for you."
Blackbird casually chewed dandelions, then crept under the

bush, supposedly in search of more. Arrowsmith went back
onto the porch, shaken, and looked up at the five people
gazing back at him. Nice people, in a nice town, who never
did or said anything odd. Certainly they were not equipped to
learn that the child returned to them was the Seer of a magic
kingdom on another world, and the man he thought was his
dead uncle had just turned out to be the servant of a group of
powerful mages who had been missing for thousands of
years.

"So, do you work?" demanded his great-grandfather

Harold. Arrowsmith stared at him, blinking. He supposed the
old fellow was allowed to be suspicious.

"Yes. I build custom motorcycles." He pointed at Harley.

"Like that."

"Good. Y'married?"
"Yes," said Arrowsmith. It was the truth, after all.
"Kids?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Arrowsmith stared at him, having the sneaking suspicion

the old fellow was challenging him, trying to determine his
worth. The regiment tattoo on his arm told Arrowsmith that
he had served in the Second World War. Arrowsmith decided
just to be himself, and honest. If they turned him away, then

he did not need to be there anyway. He leaned forward and
stared the old man in the eye, hearing the four people behind
him giggle, then gasp at what he said.

"Because my husband isn't likely to have any."
"Queer, huh? Explains the hair. You could adopt."
"Look, I have a duck and a wolf and a rabbit. I have kids."
"Those aren't kids, they're pets. Does he work?"
"Yes. He runs a ... children's charity."
"Sissy work. Does he drink beer?"
"Old man, he could drink you so far under the table, you'd

be on another level of the house."

"Bullshit. We gonna meet him?"
"Not this visit, but if you want to, I can bring him over."
"C'mere, I brew my own stout. I'll show ya." The old man

rose shakily, leaning heavily on his cane. Then, slowly, he led
Arrowsmith into the house, but he paused to point a finger at
Libby.

"Told ya that stupid fluffy blanket would make the kid

queer."

"Oh, it wasn't the blanket and you know it," said

Arrowsmith. "It was all those butch tattoos you have."

Harold laughed uproariously, then poked him with the

cane. "Welcome home, Johnny. I can see we're gonna get
along fine."

* * * *

Blackbird appeared in the hall and shapeshifted back into

his usual form. He knew that Smash was being transferred to
the larger jail in the city center, and he gathered up his robes

around himself and ran to the nearest wall, pounding on it
with one small fist. He was exhausted from the trip and the
transformation, but this was not something he could put off.
He was relieved when he saw Neverin appear before him.

"Your Majesty, what..."
Blackbird coughed, then sucked in a lungful of air. "Do not

take Smash out of the cell, he is not what he seems, he..."

Nevrin suddenly gasped, and Blackbird watched in horror

as the head of a huge, steel-tipped bolt suddenly blew
through Nevrin's chest with force enough to send him to his
knees. The Thief collapsed to the floor in a heap, surrounded
by a widening pool of blood. Blackbird looked up and saw
Berengar, clad in Smash's clothes and wielding a crossbow of
strange make. It boasted two bows and an array of pulleys
and strings of twisted wire instead of gut. Berengar had used
one bolt on Nevrin and now had the second fixed on the mage
before him.

"Well, you were curious as to how I was getting in and out

of the Palace, weren't you? Still interested in trying to lure me
back into the fold?"

Blackbird cast one of his worst spells at Berengar, the

Bonecall. It was a spell that would literally yank the skeleton
out of most men, and it very nearly worked on Berengar. He
dropped to the floor and screamed as huge rents opened in
his flesh and his bones began trying to shed his flesh like a
ghastly coat. Blackbird did not wait around to see if it worked
or not; he turned and fled.

He was nearly at the end of the corridor when he heard a

scream of rage and agony rise up from behind him. It began

as a human voice, but ended in a howl and a smell of rot and
pus. Blackbird knew he had to get to the Tower of Magic, and
quickly.

He grabbed a pillar and used it to whip himself around the

corner. He opened the heavy velvet outer robe and dropped
it, leaving it on the floor. He began running all the harder as
he heard the paws galloping after him; eight paws, with claws
that gouged the stone floor and shot up sparks.

Blackbird knew he was in real trouble. The only other

member of the Court in the Palace was Blue, and the
formidable Wolf Warriors were now crossing the plain to
Kirianna with their leader. Still, he was not utterly forsaken,
and he bolted past a group of Crucib guards, thirty in all, and
kept running for the Tower of Magic. He suddenly ran
headlong into Blue, knocking both of them to the floor.
Blackbird hit hard and heard a sharp 'snap!' sound. Pain shot
up his wrist, and he knew it was broken.

"Blackbird, what's wrong?" asked Blue, grabbing him by

the shoulders.

Blackbird shook his head and coughed blood. His weak

body was not meant for such strain, but he would not lie
down and die. Behind him he heard screaming, and a steel
bolt cut past, slamming into the wall.

Blue looked up, his eyes becoming wide as he saw the

thing heading toward them. It had been the embodiment of
SkullDigger, but as they watched, it turned into a Guedelph, a
silver-blue stallion with a long, white horn. However, the eyes
were not blue, but red, and there were seven of them.

"Miss me?" it asked.

Blue stared at Berengar. It was a fixed expression, the

muscles of his jaw clenching, the blue eyes narrowing.
Blackbird recognized the expression from centuries ago; it
was a prelude to rage. The mage got to his feet and
scrambled toward the tower door, which he could just see
ahead.

He heard the ensuing brawl behind him, Blue and Berengar

hitting with an audible thud. Berengar screamed, and Blue
made the roaring sound of a raging horse. Blackbird paused
to cast a glance at Blue. He was hanging onto one of the
monster's ears, stabbing at the seven eyes with a long
dagger. Satisfied that his friend was, for the moment, all
right, Blackbird ran in the tower and slammed the door
behind himself. He collapsed on the steps and coughed, a
wet, unhealthy sound. Blood spattered in a fine spray onto
the stone. Blackbird groped for and found the travel crystal
that he kept tucked under a stair for emergencies and
teleported himself into the dusty room, full of odd bits of
stray magic.

Blackbird went to the case with the rings in it, taking out

three and putting them on. He felt his lungs clear and his
strength return, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He opened
another case and pulled out a staff of black wood, topped
with the symbol of Shallougha: a sword twined with
battlefield roses. Then he grabbed a dagger of what looked to
be smoked glass and gold. His wrist was now strong enough
to use, but Blackbird knew that was only the power of the
ring he wore, and once he took it off he would be in agony.
Taking a deep breath, he teleported back into the hall.

Blue was holding his own admirably against Berengar,

though he was bloody and starting to flag. Blackbird grabbed
him, activated a crystal, and seconds later they were standing
before Arrowsmith's mother's house in Prince Edward Island.
Content that Blue would be safe, Blackbird went back to the
Palace, leaving the unicorn in the middle of the road with his
jaw hanging.

* * * *

On the step, Arrowsmith hoped to hell nobody had noticed

what had just happened. He jogged down the steps and out
of the yard, walking over to his friend. He took his jacket off
and put it around him, then looked into the strange, diamond
eyes.

"Blue, are you okay? What's happening there?"
Blue shook his head. "I don't know, Blackbird dragged me

here and went back again. I ... don't have a crystal! How will
we get home? He's fighting that thing alone!"

"It'll be okay, Blue. Somehow."
"But no one knows where we are! If he dies, we're..."
"Screwed on oh-so-many levels," said Arrowsmith. "I

know. But if worst comes to absolute worst, I know where the
gate is that takes me from this world to Dargoth, okay? I
have Harley. It will be a long, weird ride, but we are fine. Do
you have an amulet of languages on you?"

"No."
Arrowsmith dug into his pocket. "I have a spare. Okay.

You were riding your motorcycle and you wiped out, so you
came to track me down. Okay?"

Blue nodded and permitted Arrowsmith to lead him into

the yard and up to the porch with the five people who stared
at them both. Nice people. Nice house. Nice neighborhood.

Poor bloody folks, thought Arrowsmith.
Harold looked Blue up and down. "Whole gang's queer,

right? Not just you."

"Well, who wants to be queer alone?" said Arrowsmith.

"Uh, this is Blue. He's a little shook up right now. He dumped
his bike a few streets over."

"Oh, poor boy," said Sarah. "I'll get some bandages and

iodine."

Libby looked from Blue to the street, then back to Blue

again. A puzzled expression crossed her face, then she
carefully poured the rest of her beer into her father's glass.

* * * *

Blackbird returned to the hall and activated the second

ring, pointing it at Berengar, who was once more in his
SkullDigger form. A hail of ice shards fired from it, slashing
him badly. Then Blackbird struck out with the staff, screaming
again and releasing an explosion of white fire. It hit Berengar
full on, flipping him over backward and slamming him onto
the floor. Blackbird invoked the staff again, sending out a
second blast, flinging Berengar end over end down the hall.
He knew that the moment Berengar had a chance, he would
shapeshift and recover once more. Blackbird had to beat
Berengar down and kill him before he could do that, or he
would never survive the battle.

Berengar screamed in utter rage and began trying to drag

his battered body up off the floor. Blackbird pulled off the
third ring and threw it. It hit the floor with a 'ping,' then
suddenly rose up in the form of a unicorn made entirely of
white gold. The animal reared and skewered Berengar with its
horn, effectively nailing him to the floor. Berengar screamed
and slashed out with his claws, but was unable to damage the
enchanted metal. With Berengar pinned, Blackbird drew the
dagger and ran over to where the stinking beast that had
once been a friend writhed and raged beneath the metal
unicorn. Berengar looked up as Blackbird drew near, the three
heads with their blazing red eyes watching him, and when he
spoke, all of the heads spoke as one.

"You can kill me, but you will not be rid of me, for I shall

rise again!"

Blackbird looked down at him, sweat drenching his tiny

body. "Berengar, do you honestly think I am stupid enough to
leave you intact after I kill you, for some fool to dig you up
and raise you at some later date? No, no, no, see, this is how
we play this game. I have my guards round up alllllllll the
stray dogs in the area, and after we chop you into pieces, I
feed you to them, and I do it personally. Then, to quote our
dear Arrowsmith, the next time anyone sees you, you will
look like shit. Goodbye, Berengar."

Berengar began to scream, but the sound stopped short as

Blackbird slit the throats of the trio of heads.

* * * *

Blue and Arrowsmith had dinner with his family, a strange,

quiet little affair, with Arrowsmith both glad to be with his
family and worried sick about the events unfolding at the
Palace at this very moment. What if they could not get back?
What if he was stuck here for the rest of this life, caring for
Blue? And what about Blue's foal? It would be doomed on this
world, if it were even born. And what sort of tragic mess
would be awaiting them in the next life? Would there even be
a Dargoth as he knew it? Oh, so many horrors to think
about...

"More potatoes, Blue?" asked Hazel.
"Give him some pot roast," said Harold. "Boy's skinny.

Short, too. You need a haircut, boy."

Arrowsmith heard Blue make a rumbling noise of irritation.
"Blue is a vegetarian, Great-Grampa," said Arrowsmith.
"That's why he's queer; he needs meat. Here, boy."
Blue stared in horror at the slab of bleeding flesh dropped

onto his plate. Arrowsmith took it off his plate and put it on
his own.

"And why am I queer? I eat meat."
"It was that fluffy, pink blanket with the ribbon-wearing

sheep on it! Your great granny thought you'd be a girl!"

Arrowsmith noticed that his grandfather Robert rarely said

anything. Probably, after years of listening to Harold, he had
developed convenient hearing loss.

"It wasn't the sheep, Great-Grampa," said Arrowsmith.
"Well, what was it then?"
"John Wayne movies. He's so macho."

Libby spit her iced tea across the table, then grabbed a

napkin to wipe her mouth. Blue scraped the bloody gravy off
of his plate and onto Arrowsmith's, then stabbed his fork into
Arrowsmith's carrots and began eating off his plate.
Arrowsmith was so accustomed to Dargothian habits that he
didn't even think about it. He stabbed his own fork into Blue's
potatoes, then sighed when Blue turned and ate the potato
off his fork.

"I wanted that!"
"You have your own," said Blue.
"No, I don't, you're eating them."
"And they're good, too."
"Get your own, you tie-dyed nuisance."
Harold raised an eyebrow. "Do you two go through this

dog and pony show at every meal?"

"It's more like a human and pony show," said Blue. "Got

your carrots."

"Give them back or I'll tell Infamous."
"No. Hey, wanna play 'Look'?"
"No! Geez, Blue, I'm with my mom here, try to behave,

eh? Next thing I know, you'll want to play 'Beer Hunter.'"
Arrowsmith reached around Blue for his glass, then rolled his
eyes as Blue slithered into his lap. Arrowsmith edged out from
under him and into Blue's chair. Just another mad tea party
with the Arrowsmith family and a unicorn.

"Oh, there's your bunny!" said Hazel, "I was beginning to

wonder about him."

"So was I," said Arrowsmith. He rose from the table and

went to pick the small animal up, and knew in an instant that
things were not well.

"We have to leave soon," said Blackbird.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine in this body." Blackbird sneezed and blood

sprayed onto his hand in a fine mist. Arrowsmith stared at it,
horrified, then looked at Blackbird.

"I thought you just said you were fine!"
"I am. Really. Just ... say good night to your family and

let's get back."

"You're sure."
"Yes. I swear."
Arrowsmith nodded, then turned to look at his mother.
"Mom? Um, I have to go, the rabbit is bleeding. I have to

get him to the vet."

She stood up, her face drawn and anxious. "When will I

see you again?"

"Well, I have to leave first thing in the morning to get back

to BC. I ... have to finish this order for a bike." Arrowsmith
felt sick for lying to her. "But ... I'll be back in a few months,
if you want to see me...?"

She ran to him and embraced him, then gently scratched

Blackbird's ears. "Poor Harry. You be a good bunny."

Arrowsmith departed with enough pot roast and potatoes

in his saddlebags to feed most of White Palace. His mother
was most reluctant to see him leave again, as were his
collection of grandparents. Harold seemed convinced at last
that Arrowsmith was who he said he was. At least, if he was a

fraud, he was not asking for money. They cried on each other
in the street for almost twenty minutes. At last Arrowsmith
got on Harley, Blue behind him, and Blackbird in his pocket,
and the three drove off into the warm evening.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

Arrowsmith, Blue, Blackbird, and Harley materialized in

Arrowsmith's bedchamber in the Palace. Arrowsmith set the
small rabbit down on the bed and watched as, slowly,
painfully, Blackbird reformed into his natural shape. He
coughed, a fine mist of blood covering the pillow, and he
clutched his broken wrist. Arrowsmith was horrified.

"Blackbird! By god, you said you were fine!"
"I was, in the rabbit form. But not in my own."
He coughed again, drawing breath with a horrid, wet

sound. Arrowsmith seated himself on the bed and began
removing the bloody, filthy robe. "Blue, go get Lady Seraph,
would you? What a mess..."

Blackbird coughed and tried to sit up. "No!"
Blue stopped in his tracks, startled by the outburst.

Blackbird panted. He had gone a chalk white, and black
circles were forming around his eyes. "No healer! No one! If
word gets out that there are only the three of us here and I
am ill, we will be overthrown within hours!"

"He's got a point," said Blue softly.
"He's going to die!" said Arrowsmith. He felt sick at the

sight of his little friend, badly bruised and gasping for air,
coughing red flecks. His tiny left wrist hung limp, broken.
Arrowsmith knew Blackbird had died from less trauma than
this.

"Blackbird, you have to..."

"No ... healer!" He gasped and coughed, his breath coming

as a heavy, asthmatic wheeze. Arrowsmith relented.

"No healer! Okay! No healer! Just don't get upset! Here..."

Arrowsmith stripped off his boots, socks, T-shirt, and jacket
and got into bed, propping himself up on some pillows. Then
he carefully pulled the little mage into his arms, holding him
against his chest so he was in a semi-upright position.
Arrowsmith glanced toward Blue. "Can I order you around a
bit?"

"If it keeps our mage from dying."
"Close the doors and windows and get some water boiling

in the fireplace. We'll try to generate a little humidity in here.
Then I need you to go into Blackbird's room and get that jar
of aromatic oils the Moonhound keeps for these special
moments."

Blue nodded and ran off to do as he was bid. Blackbird

coughed miserably, a mist of blood covering Arrowsmith's
chest. The small wizard looked up and was about to speak,
but Arrowsmith silenced him with a gentle touch.

"Hush. Rest. We'll look after you."
Arrowsmith carefully pulled the covers over Blackbird, then

reached for the drawer of the small, ornate table beside the
bed. He pulled out a World War II German Luger pistol and
set it on the table. "Anyone busts in that I don't like, he gets
a nasty surprise."

Blackbird coughed, then sucked air with a wet sound. "I'm

fine."

"You're bloody well dying. Close your eyes, rest. Just ...

calm. We can't have you upset."

Blackbird sucked air again, lying against Arrowsmith's

chest, gasping like a fish on the sand. Arrowsmith stroked his
hair, doing his best to sooth him.

"You'll be okay. Really. We'll take care of you."
Blackbird wheezed blood. "Why am I in bed with you?"
"So you can fall asleep and I can keep you semi-upright. It

will ease your breathing."

Blackbird settled against Arrowsmith's chest, unable to

support himself any longer. He seemed reassured to hear the
beating of the great heart and know he was not going to fall.
He was warm and safe, settled against a body that he could
easily use for a chair. Then he squirmed, reaching down.

"What am I sitting on?"
"My belt buckle."
Blackbird opened the belt and moved the offending buckle

aside, then settled against Arrowsmith once again. He
coughed, but he seemed to be calming.

"What are you going to do about my wrist?"
"I can set it. I've set your little bird bones before, you

know."

Blackbird coughed. "When?"
Arrowsmith laughed. "Oh, how quickly they forget!

Seventh lifetime? Thee and me in the Mountain Cabin in the
dead of winter. We hadn't Recalled yet, and no one else had
arrived? I seem to remember something about three bottles
of elderberry wine."

"Oh, yeah. That."
"'That,' he says. Thank thee a bunch."

"Well, I don't want it getting around!" Blackbird blushed

furiously.

Arrowsmith nuzzled his hair and growled playfully. "You

were great."

"I was a drunken little twerp."
"You were adorable. And nobody knows. Look, you got

hammered and decided you wanted to see what it was like
with a guy. You're a mage; you're supposed to be inquisitive."

"Yes, but when I do these things I am supposed to

remember them later." He looked at Arrowsmith. "I was
good?"

"Yeah, you were."
"How did I break my wrist?"
Arrowsmith cleared his throat and grinned. "Oh, you so do

not want to know that."

Blackbird looked Arrowsmith up and down. "I'm assuming

that you did not get on top of me."

"No. At no point was I on top of you. I had no urge to pick

your corpse out of the mattress."

"Penetration?"
"Uh, we tried. Wasn't working."
"I should think not. So how did I break my wrist?"
"You ... I'm not saying."
"Why?"
"Because it's one of those great moments in sex that does

not bear repeating. But I will tell you this: you are not afraid
to try anything."

"Apparently," Blackbird muttered. He settled against

Arrowsmith and sighed, sleepy and safe. He coughed again,
but it was not as bad as before. "Never tell anyone."

"Yeah, like I really want your wife and my husband to

know." Arrowsmith pulled the covers up a bit higher, then
carefully pulled Blackbird close. "Now rest. Blue and I will look
after you."

Blackbird nodded, shifting himself into a comfortable

position, then dropping into sleep with a swiftness that
worried Arrowsmith. He gently stroked Blackbird's black hair
and kissed the top of his head. Then he relaxed on the pillows
to wait for Blue, drifting into a light doze. He awoke sometime
later, hearing Blue return with the items requested. He
carefully squirmed out from beneath Blackbird, gently settling
him onto the pillows. Then he went to assist Blue with the
water and oils.

"Thanks," he said softly.
Blue shook his head. "It's fine. I would have done it

anyway for Blackbird." Blue looked toward the small body on
the pillows. His sensitive, equine ears picked up the wet
wheeze of his breathing.

"He may die."
"I know," said Arrowsmith, "but he's right. If it comes out

that we are this vulnerable, we're in big trouble. So let's just
pretend he is as well as he ever is."

Blue nodded. They did what they could for Blackbird, which

was sad little without the aid of a healer. Arrowsmith carefully
bound the tiny wrist into a cast, while Blue set the water and
therapeutic oils to simmering. Then they settled on the bed

with Blackbird, listening to the horrid, wet sound of his
breathing. Arrowsmith slid under the covers and pulled
Blackbird onto him and stroked the long, glossy hair.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Arrowsmith softly.
Blue changed into a nightshirt, then settled himself on the

bed as well. "You know what glitter-bugs are, right?"

"Yeah," said Arrowsmith. "They're those tiny little gnat-

sized fireflies you see in the orchards."

Blue nodded. "They lay their eggs in rotting fruit. The eggs

hatch out tiny furry green caterpillars, which eat the fruit."

"Yeah, I know this," said Arrowsmith. "So what does this

have to do with the mage there?"

"In wet weather, there are more places for the flies to lay

eggs. If a summer is very wet, and too much of the fruit rots,
the glitter-bugs multiply to the point there is not enough fruit
for them to nest in. Then they begin nesting anyplace they
can, sometimes even in the moist sinuses of humans and
animals. The eggs are inhaled, they hatch in the lungs, and
the worms cause extensive damage, if not death. Blackbird
survived such an attack as an infant."

"But how does that explain his current condition?"
Blackbird coughed, turning his head to one side and

speaking softly. "The nature of the magic of the Red Jewel is
such that it preserves us as we were when it was first
created. I shall always have this ailment, just as Infamous
shall always be a twin, Monshikka shall always be albino, and
Sly a half-Mycinocroft."

"And me an ex-junkie," said Arrowsmith.

Blackbird nodded. "That is who you were at the time of the

Jewel's creation."

"Well, technically I was not an ex-junkie, I was just denied

the object of my desire. You're supposed to be resting."

"I am resting." Blackbird coughed quietly. "But I'm cold."
Arrowsmith got up to tend to the fire, checking the pot of

water and aromatic oils to see how low it was. He did not
even look up as a figure clad all in white entered the room;
his mind told him it was Monshikka. It was a moment before
he remembered that Monshikka had departed with the
Moonhound for Kirianna. Arrowsmith turned and stared at the
figure clad in the white robes with the pale blue trim.

"Silver?!"
Silver smiled and waved. "Hi."
Arrowsmith shook his head in disbelief, then looked him up

and down. "My gawd, Silver, you're hot!"

Silver smiled, pushing his fine, white hair back behind his

ears. He looked down at himself. "The illusion's not perfect,"
he said. "My hands are ... well..." He held out his hands and
looked down at them. They were scarred, the knuckles large
from hard labor, the nails still dirty. Monshikka's hands were
slender and elegant. Silver's eyes were the wrong color as
well, but the overall effect was most compelling.

"You look fantastic," said Arrowsmith.
Silver grinned, then shoved up his circlet. "So, want to

meet your husband?"

"Huh?"

Silver looked toward the door, and in stepped a small

figure with long, corded hair, beaded with onyx and silver,
and clad in black robes.

Arrowsmith's knees nearly gave out. "Sjaan? Sjaan, tell

me that's you."

Sjaan smiled. "It's me. Silver talked me into it. I told him

I'm not good at anything."

"Oh, I disagree," laughed Arrowsmith. "I vehemently

disagree. You look awesome!" He walked over to Sjaan,
looking him up and down. "I honestly would not know you
were not him."

"Until I opened my mouth," said Sjaan.
"Yeah, that might be a giveaway, but other than that, you

really look great."

Sjaan fluttered his eyelashes. "Do I get a kiss?"
Arrowsmith chuckled, kissing his brow. "That's for being

cute. This is for putting your neck on the line playing this
role." He kissed his lips, not surprised in the least when Sjaan
hopped up, wrapping his arms and legs around him and
parted his lips. Arrowsmith raised an eyebrow as he felt
Sjaan's tongue enter his mouth, and he kissed Sjaan back
passionately before breaking it off and setting him down.
Arrowsmith gave him a swat on the backside.

"Mind your manners," he said.
Sjaan watched Arrowsmith walk. "Must I?"
Arrowsmith seated himself on the bed beside Blackbird,

grinning as the tiny mage pressed close for comfort.
Arrowsmith held him, kissing his brow.

"Well you're certainly getting your fair share of the action,"

said Silver, parking himself on the bed as well.

"I'm Seer," said Arrowsmith.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I don't know. But it must have something to do with it

because I'm the guy getting kissed."

Blue and Sjaan also came to sit on the large bed. To

anyone looking in at the scene, it would have seemed as
though five members of the Court were sitting and conversing
together. Few would have realized two were not who they
appeared to be. Eventually, one by one, the five fell asleep,
taking comfort in one another's presence.

* * * *

Arrowsmith was woken out of a light doze by the soft

sound of a page turning, and he opened his eyes, looking for
the source of the noise. Silver was still in the white robe, but
he had taken off the circlet. He was currently looking at the
pictures in a book. Arrowsmith was quite sure that Monshikka
would not have approved of this particular tome being taken
out of the Library, but Arrowsmith was just glad to see Silver
look at a book.

"What ya reading?" Arrowsmith asked, glancing down to

see how Blackbird was. He was still wheezing, but at least he
was breathing, though the warm, steamy air was not
comforting anyone save the mage.

"'Reading,' he says," Silver answered softly.
"Okay, what ya looking at?"

"Don't know, can't read the cover. Pretty pictures,

though."

Arrowsmith laughed quietly and reached for the ancient

book, carefully taking it. "Ah. The Crystal Mages. Monshikka
did not give you permission to take this out, did he?"

"Well, he didn't say no, either." Silver moved closer to

Arrowsmith. "These are the guys you're going to look for,
aren't they?"

Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah, they are." He flipped the

pages, looking at reproductions of reproductions of art that
had been gone for centuries, most of the book transcribed in
Monshikka's and Wess' handwriting.

"There's the Storm Mage," said Arrowsmith, "lord of storm

magic, bringer of the hurricanes, typhoons, and natural
disasters. Here is the Sea Mage, and there's Snow Mage."

"Which one is Spice Mage?"
Arrowsmith grinned and lightly bonked him over the head

with the book. "Brat."

"So, how many of these mages are there?"
"Nine, altogether." Arrowsmith struggled with the ancient

writing, reading slowly. "Yeah, nine. Snow, Sea, Rain, Storm,
Fire, Eagle, Raven, Earth, and Crystal. All representing
different natural elements."

"Eagles and ravens are elements?"
"Well, no, not exactly. But the Dargothians count elements

differently that just earth, air, fire and water. Raven
represented the lesser winged creatures and the lesser air
spirits. Robins, sparrows, song-dragons, breezes, clouds,
summer winds. Eagle represents greater avians and air

spirits. Eagles, condors, dragonhawks, storms, efreets, stuff
like that. And Storm is the greatest of avians. Dragons,
tornados, tempests, monsoons, typhoons. All things fit into
groups of three, and thus the two lesser form a powerful base
to support the greater." Arrowsmith laughed at himself. "I
can't believe all that stuff Wess has been telling me has sunk
in."

"So it's the same with Rain, Earth and Fire? But the other

three don't seem to fit that pattern," said Silver.

"Snow, Crystal, and Sea are the evolved forms of three of

the elements; Storm into Sea, Earth into Crystal, Rain into
Snow. They were, apparently, the most powerful of the
group."

Silver leaned forward and looked at the picture of the

Snow Mage. "Hey, she's preggie."

"Mages have babies, too," said Arrowsmith, amused.

"That's where apprentices come from."

"Oh, I know, I was just thinking it's kind of an interesting

coincidence."

Arrowsmith looked at him. "Coincidence?"
"Yeah," said Silver, taking the book. "Nine mages, nine

Court, and both groups containing seven men, two women,
and one woman pregnant."

Arrowsmith glanced over at Blue, who was looking back at

him. "It is an interesting coincidence," said Arrowsmith.

"Well, that's all it is," mumbled Blackbird.
"Well, how do we know?" said Arrowsmith. "Hey, maybe

Blue is the Snow Mage."

"Oh, maybe I'm a carrot, dreaming that I am a unicorn,"

said Blue.

"I'm just saying it's interesting."
Blue came to sit on the bed, taking the book to look at the

picture of Snow Mage. Blackbird opened his eyes and
carefully sat up. Arrowsmith kissed the top of his head.

"You are supposed to be sleeping."
Blackbird squeaked, rubbing his nose with his little fist and

eliciting a universal 'awwwww' from all gathered. Blackbird
snuggled up to Arrowsmith.

"Piss off," he muttered.
Blue showed Blackbird the book, while Arrowsmith pulled

the covers higher over the little wizard.

"Arrowsmith thinks I am the Snow Mage."
"Bean curd," stated Blackbird.
"See?" said Blue. "The mage doesn't think I am the Snow

Mage."

Sjaan squiggled around in the bed, pulling the covers over

his head, speaking through his yawn. "Well, if you were, you
could cast ice magic."

"I can't cast magic," said Blue.
"Did you ever try?" asked Arrowsmith.
"No," said Blue, "because I am not a follower of the

teachings of Hercandoloff, and therefore not a magic-user."

"I thought all unicorns could use magic," said Silver.
"Yeah and Elves live in trees," Blue muttered. "And

Arrowsmith does not even hail from this world, so how can he
be a Crystal Mage?"

"He's Leather Mage," said Silver.

Arrowsmith carefully got out of the bed and stood up, clad

only in his jeans. "I'll try, just for the hell of it. How do I do
this?"

Blackbird smiled. "You ... have to concentrate ... magic

comes from the land around and from the wells and streams
of magic. Channel it."

"Channel it," said Arrowsmith. "Okay. I'll give it a shot."
Arrowsmith closed his eyes and focused, not really certain

what he was trying to do. Blackbird was in no shape to give
in-depth instruction on how to cast a spell. Arrowsmith
cleared his mind and focused. He knew how to astral project,
and he decided the two were not so different. He
concentrated, shutting out the external distractions, sending
his thoughts out to the streams of natural magic that ran
through the land. He heard the crackle of electricity and
smelled the scent of rain. The air grew damp and cold, and
the four on the bed watched as Arrowsmith's body began to
crackle and spark with electricity. He felt the hair on the back
of his neck stand up, but that seemed to be the extent of
what he could manage.

"Bravo," said Blue. "A stunning display."
"Wait, I can do this." Arrowsmith concentrated hard,

willing himself to focus, to channel, to direct the natural
power. After a few minutes there was a noise not unlike a
dispirited fart, and a scattering of sparks shot from his
fingertips. He heard giggles and snorts from the group on the
bed.

"Well, it's a very good attempt," said Blackbird

encouragingly. Sjaan went to build up the fire, while
Arrowsmith settled once more in bed.

"Well, I tried," he said. "But I still think it's more than a

coincidence."

"No, it's not!" exclaimed Blue heatedly. "We cannot be the

Crystal Mages!"

The four looked up as Blue seemed on the verge of

hysterics. Arrowsmith blinked in surprise at the outburst.

"Why not?"
Blue looked at him with frightened eyes. "Because if I'm

the Snow Mage, then who got me pregnant?"

"You said it was another unicorn," said Sjaan.
"And so I believed! But even Dream Creatures have their

exceptions to the rule."

"Meaning?" asked Silver.
"Meaning," said Blue, teeth clenched, showing some of his

old anger, "was it indeed another unicorn, or a shape-shifter
who was meant to father it? When I was fighting Berengar
alone in the hall, he knew I was pregnant, and..." Blue's voice
trailed off.

"Blue," said Blackbird, "I don't know what Berengar said to

you, if anything, but many magic users can shapeshift. Me,
for example. But just because Berengar could turn into a
Guedelph does not make him a Guedelph, and unless he was
a Dream Creature to begin with, he cannot have fathered
your child. Even if he knew about it, that does not mean he
had anything to do with it. We have no idea what he may
have heard before we found out about him."

"But what if..."
"Blue," said Sjaan softly. "There has never been one single

case of a Guedelph mare bearing a foal by one not a Dream
Creature. Even mares who have lived most of their lives in
human form and taken human husbands have never managed
it."

"I know you are frightened and upset," said Blackbird. "But

no matter what you may be thinking, Berengar had nothing to
do with the making of your child ... foal ... offspring."

Blue still looked worried. "You're sure?" he asked.
"Absolutely," said Blackbird.
Blue nodded, but his friends could see he was still very

troubled.

* * * *

Miles away, unaware of what had transpired the night

before, the Moonhound awoke an hour before dawn. She sat
bolt upright, flicked the covers off, and rose from the pallet
on the floor of her light tent. She skimmed into a pair of
breeches and boots, then pulled on a loose silk shirt. She
pulled her sword out of its sheath, then stepped over to the
flap of her tent, throwing it back and walking into the cold,
pre-dawn air. Her mere appearance had troops scrambling.
Calls went up, the camp began to be broken down, and
without a word from their General, they began to mobilize.
Wess stepped out of his own tent, hair askew, blinking at the
stars above.

"Moonhound, I realize you may be aware of this, but in the

off-chance you are not, I should like to point out it is still
night."

"That's what I like about you, Wess. You're a genius."
"Thank you. When's breakfast?"
She paused and looked at him, blinking in surprise.

"Breakfast?"

"Breakfast. Tea, scones, fruit, first meal of the day. I

believe you have heard of it."

She thrust a heavy device at him, constructed of chain,

leather, and some sort of chitin. "I've heard of breakfast.
You'll get it after we have a little tour of the area."

Wess took the device and held it up distastefully. "This is a

dragonhawk bridle."

"And you are a dragonhawk."
Wess sighed. "Fine. Let me find some open ground."
They were about to walk to the outer perimeter of the

encampment, when one of the soldiers ran up to the
Moonhound, grasping her arm.

"My Lord, we have found something terrible. You must

come see."

"I'll be right there," she said, then looked at Wess. "I need

you to fly around and see if there is anything out there I need
to know about."

Wess nodded, then he shifted into his dragonhawk form

and launched himself into the air, his wings making a sound
like ringing crystal. He banked in the cold, pre-dawn light,
skimming just above the Moonhound's head, the rush of wind
from his wings blowing through her hair.

* * * *

Wess smelled the burned area before he saw it, and landed

on the charred grass. The ruined encampment was very close
to where the Moonhound's army had spent the night, though
somewhat hidden in a large depression. Wess gazed at the
body of the man, clad in black, hung by his boots from a tree
limb. His throat was slashed, and his own blood was dried
into his face and hair. Wess could smell the rot that had
begun to claim the body, and he backed away, shaking his
head in disgust.

Noticing something glinting, he turned his attention to the

dead remains of the fire and found the snapped dagger. Wess
reached in and carefully pulled the pieces out, then looked
toward the Thief hanging by his boots from the tree limb. He
was stiff and white, and it was hard to tell how long he had
been dead because of the damage inflicted by the carrion
birds and scavenging animals. But Wess knew in his heart this
could only be Roer.

He walked over to the body and raised himself on his back

legs, carefully grasping Roer about the ankles with one paw,
using one deadly, eight-inch claw on his free paw to cut the
rope. He carefully lowered the dead Thief, then looked over
his shoulder as he heard someone approach. It was
Monshikka, and the Ice Prince froze as he saw Roer. He
backed up a pace, bringing one hand up to his face in horror.

"Oh, no, oh, poor Roer."

"He did not get a chance to give Infamous the letter, it

seems," said Wess. "Come, let me take you from here, you
should not have to see this."

Monshikka turned away, and he and Wess walked from the

gruesome scene. Wess led him to an area by one of the large
campfires and said quietly, "Wait here for me, I promised I
would scout the area."

Monshikka shook his head. "No. I'll come with you. I do

not wish to be the only useless person on this journey. Let me
change clothes, and I'll join you."

Wess cocked his head. "You can ride flying creatures?"
Monshikka smiled briefly. "Wess, I am a prince, I was

trained on both star winds and dragonhawks. Believe it or
not, I can fight whilst on a winged mount."

Wess bowed in his dragonhawk form. "I am most

impressed, Your Highness."

Monshikka waved him off. "I shall meet you here. Find

someone to get your gear onto you."

Wess watched Monshikka go, following the retreating form

with his eyes. Then he sighed and looked at the nearest
soldier.

"Well, you heard your prince, get me saddled."
The man ran off to do as he was bid, returning shortly with

the cumbersome saddle and harness. Wess muttered to
himself as the thing was loaded onto his back. It was not
heavy, but he was not fond of it. Next came the bridle, which
he endured with annoyance. There were very, very, few
people in the land for whom Wess would endure such an
indignity. Monshikka was one of them.

Monshikka returned quickly, armed with a sword, bow and

quiver. He was dressed in riding gear, complete with spurs,
Wess noted sourly. He shook his head, the tack jingling, but
closed his eyes in pleasure as he felt Monshikka touch his
long neck.

"Well, don't you look magnificent," said Monshikka.
"I feel like a mine donkey."
"You look smashing. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Hmph. I am a scholar and a guardian, not a riding pony. I

endure this only for you. Oh, one last thing, just a moment."

Monshikka waited, then, and gasped with astonishment as

his friend's color abruptly shifted from the common black with
crimson lines to brilliant blue-white, the wings and head crest
now edged with gold.

"May as well match," said Wess dryly.
"How did you do that?!"
"Oh, just a small spell I had Blackbird perform before I

left. Do you approve?"

"I do, indeed."
Wess watched from over his shoulder as Monshikka took

hold of the pommel and swung up with ease and expertise,
settling himself in the saddle. It was an odd device, meant to
protect the rider's legs from the deadly sharp wing-blades and
to provide a better grip on a flying steed. One did not sit on it
so much as crouch. Small handles jutted from the side that fit
behind the rider's knee, helping one to stay on when the
animal banked. Monshikka leaned down and snapped closed
the leather straps on the stirrups. They fastened around his
ankles and were meant as an added means to keep the rider

on his beast. Wess waited for him to get settled, then began
walking forward, making his way out of the crowd of busy
soldiers. He began chuckling.

"And what is amusing you?" asked Monshikka.
"Oh, it's just that when I had all those fantasies of you

mounting me, I had something a little different in mind."

Monshikka's jaw dropped, and he flushed red, rendered

speechless. Then he laid into Wess with both spurs. Wess
yelped and leapt into the air.

"Mind those!"
"Mind your manners."
Wess huffed, and banked, and was surprised when

Monshikka leveled him out with a firm pull of the bridle.

"No games, I am not fond of mounted flight."
Wess sulked and muttered, annoyed at having to actually

obey his rider. He was, however, impressed with Monshikka's
skill. He maintained a low altitude, and they soared across the
plain, searching for anything that required their attention.
Wess glanced at Monshikka, perched on his back, white hair
blowing free in the wind. He was beautiful, there was no
arguing that. Monshikka smiled, very faintly.

"Watch the way ahead, not me."
"I would rather watch you."
"I would rather not have my current life ended due to you

flying your silly self into the ground."

"Point taken," said Wess, looking ahead. He squinted.

"What would that be, there on the ground?"

Monshikka stood up in his stirrups. For a man who

despised flying as much as he did, he was certainly brave
enough when the situation called.

"Riders, but I am not certain who they could be.

Highwaymen?"

"No. No, they are not Highwaymen, their garb is wrong.

Shall we fly over?"

Monshikka nodded. "Yes, I think we should. With all that

has gone on in this land, we cannot risk letting them go if
they are the ones murdering the Children of Marakim."

They flew toward the group, Wess' wings making a delicate

ringing sound. They were very close to the group when Wess
suddenly yelled, "Hang on!"

Monshikka grabbed onto the saddle as Wess banked

sharply, dodging a huge, metal crossbow bolt. Once Wess had
leveled, Monshikka fitted an arrow in the bow and fired. The
shot went wide as Wess darted, avoiding another arrow.

"We have to stop them!" cried Monshikka. "By the time the

army gets here, they will be gone!"

"Hold on, I'm going in low."
Monshikka crouched low in the saddle, holding on as Wess

dove on the attackers. There was a horrible series of jolts as
Wess abruptly spread his wings and the deadly blades
severed flesh and bone. Then they rose up into the air once
more, and Wess looked over his shoulder at the riders on the
ground. Five of the men were dead, lying in pieces on the
ground. Two were whipping their horses, fleeing as fast as
they could. One loosed another of the sinister, metal arrows.
Wess felt a sickening thud, and Monshikka cried out.

"Monshikka! Are you hit?"
"I am fine. Keep your mind on what you are doing!"
Wess felt Monshikka take the reins and direct him into

another death-dive. Wess dove out of the sky, wings out,
claws extended. The two men separated in an attempt to
escape Wess, but the move was in vain. Wess slashed out
with his tail, sending his blades into the skull of one man.
Monshikka fired his bow and killed the other. Wess pulled up,
rising to a safe height and began to circle, looking down at
those they had slain.

"Look at the garb," said Wess. "Servants of SkullDigger. I

will wager Takeshta hired them. But now that we have some
of their weapons, we can use them to our benefit." He looked
over his shoulder at Monshikka. "How are you?"

Monshikka was holding a cloth to his face. "Lucky to be

alive. Had that bolt come any closer, it would have split my
skull. I am fine, truly, the only real damage was to my vanity.
Let us..." He paused, then gasped, pointing straight ahead.
"Wess!"

Wess looked and saw a black dragon bearing down on

them. He narrowed his eyes and rolled abruptly to avoid it.
The massive animal tore past them like a hurricane, trailing a
stench like the grave. As it turned to come back at them, they
could see the strange, corpse-like figure riding it. It was a
male figure, clad in rotting cloth and armor and wielding a
great black sword.

"That is not Rhaklan," said Wess. "Nor is it Takeshta. Who

is it?"

Monshikka cried out in horror. "It's one of my brothers, the

second youngest. Falin! Falin, what did she do to you?!"

The enormous dragon bore down on them, opening its

great jaws and ejecting a stream of acid. Wess darted like a
swallow, avoiding it. In his dragonhawk form, the acid could
do him no harm, but it would kill Monshikka.

"What do you wish me to do?" called Wess.
He looked back at Monshikka, who clearly felt ill. Wess

knew that, though he had never been close with any of his
brothers, it made Monshikka sick to see what had been done
to the only brother he had remained friendly with. But Falin
was dead; the only decent thing to do was destroy this
animated pile of rotted meat and bury him, and Wess knew
Monshikka understood this.

"We have to kill him, and the dragon, else they will head

after the troops," said Monshikka softly.

"That will require some very fast flying."
Monshikka took up the reins. "You just worry about the

dragon."

Wess turned in the air, heading directly for the dragon.

Falin directed his own steed toward them, and the warriors
bore down on each other. Wess watched as the dragon
sucked in its cheeks, drawing acid in preparation for spitting.
Then Monshikka hauled on the reins, and he and Wess spun
out of range of the stream of acid.

Wess was not used to being directed in flight, but he was

coming to trust Monshikka's judgment. He was plainly a most
skilled rider and knew what needed to be done to keep both
himself and his mount safe. He and the dragon shot past each

other, and he allowed Monshikka to steer him in a loop to
come back around at the beast. The dragon was not as fast
as Wess; indeed, few dragons survived battles with
dragonhawks. The huge, black creature was still coming
around when Monshikka nudged Wess into a full charge.

"What am I doing?" Wess shouted back to Monshikka.
"Just do what I tell you," said Monshikka.
Wess felt the bit shift and knew instruction would come

soon, but he was not expecting what was demanded of him.
Then, Wess felt Monshikka throw his weight to the right just
before they hit the dragon, and Wess rolled onto his back,
suddenly finding himself upside down and shooting under the
dragon's wing.

"Kick!" screamed Monshikka.
Wess did, claws slashing huge rents in the beast's flesh,

shredding through the dragon's harness while his razor-edged
wings cleaved through the dragon's side. The black dragon
screamed and spiraled to the ground, hitting with a
resounding boom and a great spray of earth. Falin was
smashed beneath the huge body. The dragon raised its head
and moaned, but then the eyes rolled back, and the
enormous animal shuddered and died, claws curling up as it
went through its slow death spasms. Monshikka and Wess
circled, watching. When it was clear nothing was moving,
they turned and made their way to camp.

They flew in silence, finally reaching the camp. Wess flew

in low, dropping his hind feet and lighting on the ground. He
watched the Moonhound as she approached, cocking his head
in curiosity as she stopped short, blinking. Then she turned

and yelled for assistance. Two soldiers ran up and took hold
of his bridle, and Wess became deeply concerned. He felt
Monshikka's weight on his back, unmoving, and heard the
Moonhound speaking to someone. Then he heard Monshikka's
voice, tired and irate.

"Just do it."
Wess heard the snap of the stirrups being undone, and

then there was a sharp tug on the saddle, and Monshikka
uttered a cry of pain. Wess tried to turn his head, but the
men still held him. Angered, he spread his wings.

"Release me, I am no animal!"
The men released him, and Wess turned to look at

Monshikka. He was seated on the ground, blood running from
beneath a cloth he held to his face, and one of the metal bolts
through his leg. The thud Wess had felt had been the arrow
slicing through Monshikka's leg and stapling it to the saddle.

"Monshikka!"
The Ice Prince looked up and smiled, very faintly. "One

does not turn aside from combat until one is victorious or
dead," he said.

"Will you be all right?"
"He'll be fine," said the Moonhound, though her tone was

not reassuring. She had a stretcher brought, and they carried
him to her tent.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eight

It was the dark of night, and the full moon hung low in the

sky, as though the heavens were losing their grip on its
heavy, silvered weight. The walls surrounding Two-Fifty-Mile-
House were alive with swirling, misty colors, brought out by
the moon's glow, and the entire town seemed enveloped in a
ghostly shroud as Infamous and Brysis rode up to the town's
gate. They made their way down the darkened streets like
shadows, taking their horses to the stable behind the Stagger
Inn. Shadowed figures stepped out to take the beasts, and
Infamous and Brysis entered the Inn, making their way
silently to the underground temple.

Infamous had been to this temple many, many times, in

this lifetime as well as previous ones. But this time, in the
utter dark of his blindness, it seemed misshapen and strange.
Things were not quite where he remembered them, and the
walls were always slightly longer or shorter than he expected.
He finally found a chair and seated himself. He smiled as he
felt Simon's wet nose nudge his hand.

"It is going to be difficult," said Infamous quietly, "making

our way through the Narrow Way and up into the mountains.
It would be dangerous enough for a large group."

"We do not have to use the Narrow Way," said Brysis.

Infamous heard someone bring them hot tea and supper. He
reached out to touch the mug, following the heat with his
hand.

"What other way is there?" asked Infamous. "Other than

the travel crystals. But it has been so long since I have been
there."

"I have been there," said Brysis quietly. "But I was already

blinded. I doubt I would be of much help."

Infamous smiled briefly. "We will try the crystals. At worst,

we will end up in the wrong building. But I think I recall
enough to get us there."

Brysis smiled. "I was hoping you would say that. I do not

fancy taking the Narrow Way again. The road is alive with
wild things and bandits. I dare say you and I would make
easy prey."

Infamous snorted. "Even blind, I am a match for some

mere mangy bandit. We will depart after we have eaten and
outfitted ourselves."

Brysis seemed surprised. "So soon?"
"The sooner the better. I have brought a suitable sacrifice

for Marakim. I hope he enjoys it."

"No doubt he shall," said Brysis, "especially as it comes

from his descendant."

Infamous smiled. "I wish I could have met him. He was

long dead before I was born." Infamous thought about the
pictures of his grandfather in the album Monshikka had shown
them. A tall, pretty rake who had been hung by his boots and
had his throat slit for daring to want better.

"Master?" asked Brysis softly.
Infamous shook his head, hearing the beads in his hair

click. "'Tis nothing, Brysis. Let's finish our dinner and gather a
few things. We are likely going to be in the Palaklais Temple

for some time, and I, for one, do not care to be moving about
during the day."

"Nor I," said Brysis. "Bandits are so tedious."
Infamous sipped his tea. He would tell Brysis the truth

later, that there might well be something worse than bandits
in the ruined city. There was no need to worry him.

* * * *

Arrowsmith awoke in the morning, cramped and

uncomfortable and entirely too warm. He reached up one
hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes and was aware of a
weight on his chest. He gasped, suddenly recalling Blackbird,
and sat up, moving the tiny body, stroking Blackbird's long
hair back. The little mage was warm, his face flushed, but he
was alive.

He cradled the wizard in his arms like a child, watching

him worriedly. Blackbird was either heavily asleep or
unconscious, and Arrowsmith suspected the latter. He glanced
up as Silver shifted, rolling onto his back and looking at them.

"How's the pocket-wizard?" he asked.
"Sick," said Arrowsmith. "I just hope he hangs on until the

Moonhound gets home. Silver, do me a favor, would ya? Fill
the tub in the next room with cool water. Not too cool, I don't
want to shock him, but we have to get the fever down."

"Right." Silver got out of bed and went to do as his friend

asked. Just then, Sjaan sat up with a glazed expression on his
face, so reminiscent of Infamous that Arrowsmith grinned.

"Hey, beautiful."

Sjaan stuck his tongue out at him. "I'll have breakfast

brought up," he said softly. "And I will go to the healer."

Arrowsmith would like nothing better than to go to the

healer, but Blackbird had said no. "Sjaan, I don't think you
should."

Sjaan smiled. He walked over to the mirror and adjusted

his garb a bit, then turned to look at Arrowsmith. When he
spoke, Arrowsmith would have sworn it was his husband.

"Hello, Lady Seraph, how are you? Listen, I need a few

things for Arrowsmith, he seems to have woken up with a
case of bronchitis and a fever; I think he has an infection of
sorts. Could you give me a few things for the big lout? No, of
course he won't come see a healer, that would make too
much sense. I'll let you know how he is. Honestly, I think all
he needs is a swift kick in the backside. It's a good thing I
love him."

Arrowsmith grinned. "Sjaan, I've said it before, I'll say it

again. Never let anyone tell you that you are useless."

Sjaan blew him a kiss, then left the room. Arrowsmith

heaved a sigh of relief, then got out of bed, carrying
Blackbird. He paused briefly to look at the small lump still
under the covers that was Blue. He had not awakened, and
likely would not for some time, having been up most of the
night in near-hysterics over the thought that the child he
carried might be Berengar's.

Arrowsmith left him to sleep and carried Blackbird into the

bathing chamber. Silver had filled the bath, and Arrowsmith
carefully lowered Blackbird into the tub, taking care to keep
the cast around his small wrist dry. Arrowsmith sat on the

edge of the bath and picked up a cloth, dampening it and
stroking it over Blackbird's face. He wiped away the traces of
dried blood.

"Hey, come on, wake up, little wizard," he said quietly.
Blackbird stirred and opened his eyes, making a small

sound of annoyance. He coughed, and tried to speak, but he
had no voice.

"You're fine," said Arrowsmith quietly. "Sjaan went for

medicine. Not for you," he hastened to say as Blackbird
struggled to speak. "For me. Seems I'm ill with a fever and
possible lung infection."

Blackbird closed his eyes. "It's too cold!" he managed to

whisper.

"No it's not, it just feels cold."
"It's too bloody cold, it hurts!"
Arrowsmith warmed the water slightly to make it a little

more bearable. Blackbird was still uncomfortable, but he sat
and shivered, saying nothing.

By the time Sjaan returned, lugging an enormous, leather

carrying case, Blackbird was back in bed, and Arrowsmith was
helping him to sip some broth. Sjaan hauled the case over to
the bed, setting it on the covers, then opened it and took out
an array of herbs, potions, poultices, and syrups. Then he
lifted out a silver-white puppy with ice-blue eyes.

"That's a white wolf!" said Arrowsmith. "Sjaan, you didn't

steal that, did you? Those are sacred animals; we'll be
castrated with a rusty hedge clipper."

"I did not steal it," said Sjaan. "Lady Seraph made me take

it, and this one. They're for the Moonhound, for when she

returns from thwarting Kirianna. A gift of thanks from her
temple."

Arrowsmith stared sourly at the two fat puppies. One was

scratching behind his ear; the other one was happily chewing
on the quilt. "Fab. Well, at least we got the medicine. Let's
shove it into the wizard and pray he doesn't turn the lot of us
into toads."

Blackbird flicked sparks at Arrowsmith, then smiled as Blue

finally sat up. His long, white hair was a mess, and his eerie
blue eyes were red-rimmed. He reached for his blue-tinted
glasses, pulling them on.

"Hey, you all right?" asked Silver gently.
Blue placed his hand on his stomach, a fine sweat breaking

out on his face. He turned an odd shade of grayish-white,
then red, then green. Then he leapt off the bed and ran for
the bathroom, managing only to reach the bathtub as he
vomited. Arrowsmith sighed heavily and watched as one of
the white puppies hopped off the bed to go 'wee' on a three-
hundred-year-old area rug.

"Fabulous," he muttered.

* * * *

Wess sat by the Moonhound's tent, nervously fiddling with

his pipe as he awaited word on Monshikka's condition. He
heard the tent flap move and looked up sharply. He rose to
his feet as he saw the regal form before him.

"Monshikka, I am so glad to see you, I was so worried."

Monshikka did not look at him. Instead, he tried to step

around him, shielding half of his face. Wess gently caught
him, and Monshikka froze.

"You are all right, aren't you?" asked Wess.
At first, Monshikka said nothing. The he raised his head,

letting Wess see for the first time the patch covering one eye
and the upper portion of his cheek. Wess just stared, horrified
for his friend.

"Oh, Monshikka, I am so sorry."
Monshikka glanced away. "It is nothing. I daresay others

have lost more in battle. But ... it will take some getting used
to, I fear."

Wess took Monshikka's hand between his own. "Not to me,

it will not. So long as you are well."

"I am fine. Really. The leg is mended, and so is the eye, or

rather, the damage caused by its loss. It will be my next life
before I am once again able to enjoy depth perception."

Wess smiled. "You do not need it. You are beautiful."
Monshikka let out a short laugh. "Ever the charmer, were

you not?" He smiled at Wess, a little sadly. "And why are you
out of your gear and back in your more usual form? We have
scouting to do. And I confess I would prefer not to have any
commenting on my eye patch until I have had time to adjust
to the idea."

Wess nodded. "As you wish. But once we are airborne, you

must tell me why such a skilled rider and fighter as yourself
dislikes mounted flight so much."

Monshikka nodded and walked away to change his ripped

and blood-soaked breeches. Wess sighed, then glanced
sidelong at a young soldier.

"Shall I saddle you, my lord?" the soldier asked.
Wess sighed heavily. "I suppose."

* * * *

Transformed and saddled once more, Wess glided low over

the ground. Monshikka sat in silence. In the distance behind
them came the army, the Moonhound at its head on her
massive, grey horse. Behind them was noise and dust, ahead
was uncertainty. But here and now was peace.

Monshikka gently pulled up on the reins, and Wess rose a

little higher. He flew slowly, letting the wind carry him on his
long wings. They moved over the plains with no sound save
for the delicate ring of Wess' wing blades, scouting in peace,
enjoying the day. Wess was actually startled when Monshikka
spoke, breaking the silence.

"All children of royal birth are taught to ride winged beasts

in Kirianna," said Monshikka quietly. "Daughters as well as
sons. Mounts are chosen based on their gentleness as well as
beauty. After all, one does not wish to have one's child
pitched off at one thousand feet. My father did not wish for
me to learn, however. He would rather I had remained hidden
from the world. But I begged, and pleaded, and eventually he
relented, and I was permitted to learn to ride. I became very
good very fast, and it was not long before I was one of the
best flyers in the kingdom. I couldn't understand why no one
seemed pleased, but I did not mind. I loved to fly. Then, on

the day of my seventeenth birthday, I was given a star wind.
He was one of the most beautiful flying horses I had ever
seen. I could not wait for the opportunity to ride him, and,
first chance I got, I went flying." Monshikka idly stroked
Wess' neck. "He shot straight up to twelve hundred feet and
threw me. Fortunately, one of my father's guards had been
attending me. He was riding a dragonhawk, and the beast
caught my garb in his claws and slowly lowered me to the
ground. It was a short but harrowing trip; the beast's claws
kept slashing through the cloth. I was terrified it would drop
me." He paused in his tale, falling silent for a few moments.
"I found out later my father purchased that particular star
wind specifically because of that trait. It was supposed to
have killed me. Anyway, after that I rather lost my taste for
flying."

"I am so very sorry," whispered Wess. "For both of you.

That you had to bear such cruelty, and that he is so damaged
and corrupt a human being as to attempt such a thing."

Monshikka shook his head. "It matters not." He stroked his

hand over Wess' neck and smiled. "I can fly with you."

* * * *

The room was cold. That was the first thing Infamous

noticed as they teleported into the huge temple. His feet
made little sound on the polished floor, save for the soft
'crisp' sound of long-dead leaves crushing beneath his boots.
There was a very faint, soft moaning as the night wind
ghosted through the cold stone beams far above their heads,

and pushed the dead leaves about listlessly on the black
stone floor.

"What do you see?" asked Infamous softly.
Brysis walked slowly to the great opening that had once

held the black and gilded doors of the temple, describing all
he saw to Infamous. The doors lay on the ground, rotting,
covered in moss, still where they had been torn off their
hinges and tossed down by dragons nearly one thousand
years ago. Down the side of the mountain, stone stairs were
cut into the living rock. The steps went all the way down the
side of the low mountain, winding along natural paths,
leading to temples higher up as well as the city below. Above
them, the Temple of the Moon Goddess glowed silver-white in
the light of the moon. Directly beside it, on the opposite side
of the stair, was the Temple of the Sun God. It was quiet in
nighttime slumber, and would not shine with hot, golden light
until the sun touched it. Topping the mountain was the
Temple of the Creator, blazing silver in the light of moon and
star, surrounded by statues of all the deities, good and evil,
for everything that called Dargoth home was her child.

Across from the Temple of Marakim was the Temple of

Hercandoloff. It was little more than a heap of black stone
rubble now, but when Palaklais was still alive and occupied, it
had been a glorious structure cut of a rare black marble,
polished to a gleam, and perched upon by the ravens and
crows that were his symbol. Further down the mountains
were the temples of Sheoloptra, Goddess of the Dead and of
Gravediggers, and her husband, Shallougha, God of the Arts
of War. Both of their temples has also been turned to heaps

of broken stone, and, over the centuries, small animals had
stolen anything shiny from the damaged frescoes. The statue
of Sheoloptra herself still stood, however, hidden in her robes
of white fur. In her hand was a spider, her spy and
companion, who dug into the hidden paces of the dead and
told her if all was as it should be. It was her duty to make
sure the dead were not disturbed. Judging by the utter silence
of the ruined city, she had been performing her duties
admirably.

"We are on the Mountain of Temples," said Brysis softly,

"in the Temple of Marakim."

Infamous listened to the wind moaning sadly. "It has been

so long," he whispered. He looked to where he instinctively
knew the statue of Marakim would be, turning his blind eyes
toward his grandfather. "If all is safe, then we should begin
the ritual. Have you the incense?"

"Simon does."
Infamous smiled and called his old wolf, kneeling before

the animal and taking the small pouch that hung around its
neck. He kissed the greying muzzle, then made his slow way
to the great brazier before the statue of the god, surprised he
could still recall where it stood. He dumped the fragrant bits
of scented wood and resin into the brazier and felt Brysis
come to stand beside him, taking his hand, and both froze,
sensing they were not alone.

"What is it?" asked Infamous.
"You are not going to believe this..."
"Try me."

Brysis spoke softly, describing the shadowy figures

stepping cautiously out of the hidden recesses of the old
temple to Infamous. They were tall and robed in black, utterly
silent. Their eyes were black as well, or appeared to be, and
their long, heavy, black hair hung loose and wild. Their skin
was white, cold and fair as moonlight, and they moved
cautiously, like wild deer. There may have been as many as a
dozen of them; it was hard to tell in the dark.

"Black Elves," said Brysis.
Infamous turned abruptly, and the Elves halted. All was

still, as though those standing in the temple had turned to
stone. Infamous swallowed, knowing nothing of these Elves or
their ways, only that, in his first life, his mother had been
one. He waited, wondering what they would do.

These Elves seemed to be unarmed, but that did not mean

they were not dangerous. One stepped forward, cautiously
approaching Infamous. The Master Thief did not move,
though he could sense the Elf coming closer. Infamous could
not hear the Elf, but Infamous could smell him. He had a
scent like wild things of the forest, of green trees, moss, and
streams. The air around the Elf was cold, and as he came
closer, Infamous shivered.

Other Elves drew near as well, and Brysis held his ground.

Infamous would not start a fight if there was no need, but he
and Brysis knew nothing of these Elves, save for a few scraps
of tales learned from Highwaymen who claimed to have run
into them..

The Elf who had first approached Infamous was now

directly before him, moving with utter silence and grace,

surrounded by an aura that smelled of rain. He touched
Infamous' face, and Infamous gasped audibly. The touch was
like ice, and he shivered. He could feel the nearness of the
Elf, could even feel the soft touch of his robes. But more than
that, he could feel waves of unspoken communication, coming
through like faint birdsong borne on a wind in a dream.
Infamous touched the Elf and knew that the Elf knew him,
knew his name, though Infamous did not know his.

"Ilenya?"
"Yes," whispered Infamous. "Or rather, I used to be."
The Elf's cold hands traced over his face and his hair. Then

Infamous was pulled against a body of ice and held. The Elf
did not say a word, but Infamous could hear him nonetheless.

"Little Ilenya, you have come home. Your mother would

have been so pleased to see you. But she has traveled deep
into the mountains, to the high Northern Palaklais, and we
have not seen her in centuries."

Infamous leaned into the coldness. It was not a terrible

cold, like that of death, but rather the natural cold of winter
and the frozen stream. He listened to the beat of the Elf's
heart, slipping his arms around the Elf's waist and losing
himself in the knowledge that here, at last, were his own
people.

The world seemed to fade. Nothing mattered. Not his eyes,

not Marakim, not the creeping danger that stalked his friends
in White Palace. All earthly concerns seemed to turn to smoke
and vanish. Infamous thought he heard someone calling his
name, but that did not matter, either. He was not of this
world. He was a Black Elf, and his home was in the depths of

these mountains, hidden away from darkness and evil. He
would go with these beautiful beings and live as they did,
marking the passage of time with black eyes, watching the
sun and moon pass in an endless race neither could win. He
would watch the ice form and melt, the blossoms bloom and
fail, and the fruit ripen and rot. He would drink the warm
white wine and never be caught looking at the sun by mortal
eyes again. He tilted his head back and permitted the Elf to
kiss him, giving in to the dream he had fallen into. All the
world turned to smoke and ash, and the temple became a
silent chamber woven of living green, the floor soft moss,
touched with golden flowers. The air smelled of spring, and
apples, and growing things.

Infamous stood naked before the tall Elf, looking over his

slender, ice-white body. It did not seem strange to him that
he could see again. Nothing seemed strange. In fact, the
world, for once, made perfect sense. He was a Black Elf, and
he was home. He lay down on the moss with the Elf, not
caring that he did not know his name. Names were incidental
and needless. He kissed the Elf, and gave himself over to the
simple pleasures of making love in the sunlight.

* * * *

The days passed, and finally Kirianna appeared on the

horizon. Monshikka had spent the better part of the trip on
Wess' back, scouting the land, neither saying much. They
watched as fertile farmlands dried up and became dead plain,
and orchards that had once been alive with leaves and fruit
now became little more than dead firewood. It had not been

more than a few years since Monshikka had seen his
homeland, but the changes were drastic and they sickened
him.

They flew over the dying lands, the army not far behind.

Monshikka gently urged Wess to fly higher, and they rose into
the air, approaching the walled city above the range of
arrows, slowly circling the battlements, looking down into
lifeless streets. They could smell the dead soldiers, rotting
where they had fallen at their posts. The great gates were
locked and barricaded, and it seemed the city had been in a
state of siege. But there was no sign the city had been
attacked.

Wess flew lower, and the stench grew worse. They saw the

trebuchets, loaded and waiting, and the great stores of
arrows and other weapons, and the casks and barrels that
had held food and water.

"What has happened here?" exclaimed Monshikka,

horrified. He looked around, but saw no enemy; indeed, he
saw no sign there had even been an enemy. "Land on the
battlement, I think that soldier is alive."

They alighted on the stone wall, Wess' claws sinking into

the rock and holding him fast to his perch. The soldier stirred,
raising his head. He was starved and dehydrated, but did not
seem to be injured. He looked at Monshikka and struggled to
speak through cracked lips.

"My prince. We prayed you would come home."
"What has happened?" asked Monshikka. "What army has

threatened you so?"

"White Palace! The Wizard-King holds your father and the

princes, and now he has gathered his armies all around us!
The water is poisoned, the crops burned, and the stores
infested with rats! They mean to starve us out!"

Monshikka stared in disbelief and looked around. The army

of White Palace was certainly advancing, but it was not laying
siege to Kirianna. He passed the soldier his water flask, and
the man drank the contents greedily. He gave him a bit of
food as well, and flew off to explore the mighty cisterns that
held the city's water supply. He found them filled, and the
tiny fish that dwelled in them to keep the insects from
tainting it seemed none the worse. Wess sniffed the crystal
water.

"I smell no poison." He took a sip.
"Wess! If that water is poisoned..."
"Then it will have no effect on me in this form." Wess

drank, tasting the water. "There is nothing wrong with it.
Likely the food supply is still good, too."

Monshikka shook his head, confused. "Then what are

they..?"

"I suspect a spell," said Wess. "One cast by a very

powerful mage, one whose power would rival Blackbird's."

"Takeshta."
Wess nodded. "What better way to level a city in secret?

They see a vengeful army outside, so they lock themselves in.
But the water and food supply are spoiled, so they now must
choose between starvation or murder."

"Take me back to that soldier, I will ask him where she is."
"Monshikka, we cannot take on Takeshta alone."

"No, but we can tell the Moonhound and her army what rat

hole she hides in!"

Wess spread his wings and took Monshikka back to the

soldier. The man seemed already a great deal better. He
looked at his prince with hopeful eyes.

"Are we to be spared, Your Majesty?"
Monshikka looked out over the plain. He knew little about

illusion spells, save for what he had read in Blackbird's books.
He knew that, to the soldier, the army and poison seemed as
real as death. Telling him it simply was not there would do no
good; the man was not going to take Monshikka's word over
what his own eyes told him.

"The army that lays waste to your city is not White Palace.

This army comes from Silverwood, in the guise of our friends.
They have cast spells to make you think the food and water
are tainted, but I have been to check them myself. They are
safe. Go, and tell the people. White Palace approaches, and
Silverwood will be defeated and gone in the hour. Gather any
who are strong enough to help distribute food and water.
Where are my brothers?"

"Gone with the Grey Lady to seek aid."
"Why does that not surprise me?" muttered Wess.

Monshikka stroked his neck.

"And my sister?"
"The Princess Lykara is in the tower, under guard."
Monshikka nodded and said to Wess, "To the tower."
Wess spread his wings, the wind picking him up like a kite.

Within moments, they had landed on the balcony of her tower

bedroom. Monshikka slid down from Wess' back and said to
him quietly, "Tell the Moonhound what we have learned."

Wess nodded, then was gone once more, dropping off the

balcony and swooping away with the grace of a seabird.
Monshikka went into the bedroom and saw the emaciated
form of his sister lying on the floor. He ran to her, picking her
up.

"Lykara!" he said softly, and heaved a sigh of relief as she

opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Monshikka," she managed to say, her throat so dry she

could hardly utter a word.

He placed her on the bed, removing a small pouch from a

belt around his waist. He had given his water to the soldier,
but he still had fruit and smoked fish. She took the fruit and
devoured it like a wild animal. He left her to eat, making his
way to the chamber door, quietly opening it. The guards were
slumped at their posts, scarcely alive. He stepped around
them and grabbed a decorative chalice, carrying it to the
music room down the hall, where he knew there to be a small
fountain. He grasped the handle of the door and tried to open
it, finding it locked. No doubt to save the soldiers from the
temptation of drinking the poisoned water.

Monshikka pulled his sword and hacked at the door,

chopping until the wood gave way. He kicked the door open
and went inside, filling the chalice for his sister. As he
stepped out of the room, he saw one of the guards
attempting to sit up, waving a hand feebly, as if to warn him.
But no sound would escape his throat.

"The water is good," said Monshikka.

He drank from the cup to show them, then went back into

the music room, looking around. He saw a crystal decanter on
a table, but it was far too small to hold the amount of water
the men would need. Instead, he pulled the silk flowers out of
a silver and ivory vase and filled it. He gave it to the men and
carried the cup to his sister. Lykara grasped the silver cup
and drained it, not pausing for breath. When it was empty,
she let it fall to the bed and turned to her brother, putting her
arms around his neck.

"What has happened, Lykara?" he asked quietly.
She held him tightly, her dark hair coarse and brittle

beneath his hand. "It was the Grey Lady," she said. "She has
all the city under a spell. I saw through her evil illusions and
tried to warn the people, but she had me locked in here. She
has fled with our brothers, to where, I do not know."

"We will find her," said Monshikka. "The armies of White

Palace will be here within the hour. They will be sure the
people are given food and water."

"Then we are saved," she whispered. She sat back, looking

aged and grey, though she was but a few years older than
Monshikka. She touched his face, her slender fingers
exploring the eye patch he wore, sadness in her grey eyes.
"What happened to you?"

Monshikka sighed, not wishing to tell her the tale, and

what had become of their brother Falin. But she had a right to
know. He picked up the chalice.

"Let me get you more water and I will tell you."
He left the room, noticing the guards were gone. One had

dragged his companion to the music room, and both were

drinking the cold, clean water of the fountain greedily.
Monshikka elegantly reached between them to dip his cup,
then stepped away. He paused as he heard the blast of horns,
signaling an army approached, and, moments later, Kirianna
signaled back. He hurried out of the music room and into the
chamber where Lykara lay on her bed. He went to the window
and saw a few soldiers trying to pull away the barricade.
Wess hopped over the wall and landed on the street, using his
deadly claws to clear away the beams and debris.

"The army is here," he said to Lykara.
She drained the chalice a second time and lowered it.

"There are none here to meet them."

Monshikka turned and looked at his sister. "No," he said

quietly. "There is one. The only one of this family who ever
truly cared for Kirianna, and her people."

Lykara stared at him, eyes wide. "But ... I am an

unmarried woman! I cannot rule! I have no station! I cannot
greet the forces of White Palace!"

Monshikka heard the gates of the city open, and he

grinned at the sight of a mounted figure on a huge, grey
horse, clad in a uniform of grey trimmed with black, her red
hair tied back in a dusty knot.

"My dear sister, I do believe I have a friend you need to

meet. She's terribly ill-mannered and a very bad influence.
Just the sort of friend you need."

Lykara looked puzzled, then smiled shyly, chewing the

dried fish.

* * * *

Blackbird seemed to be getting well, though slowly. He

was breathing more easily, and his fever was gone. The
infection in his lungs seemed to have cleared up, and
Arrowsmith was finally convinced that their little mage would
survive.

Blue, on the other hand, had become impossible to deal

with. He was easily as ill-tempered, nasty, and
confrontational as he had been years ago, before he had left.
Arrowsmith hoped Blue did not simply pick up and depart
again, though there were moments Arrowsmith rather wished
Blue would. Still, if what Blue feared was true, then he had
reason to be unpleasant. Arrowsmith took him out to the
gardens, knowing they always seemed to cheer him up, and
seated himself on a stone bench by a fountain. Blue paced,
nervous and irritable, tossing his head. Arrowsmith sighed
and spoke softly to him.

"I still say it cannot be Berengar's. He's not a unicorn."
Arrowsmith was fully prepared to have Blue turn on him

like an irate mare, and he was not disappointed or surprised
when he did.

"How do you know it's not his?"
Arrowsmith was determined not to get into a fight with a

shape-shifted and pregnant unicorn.

"Because it doesn't work that way. You should know better

than anyone."

"But if we are the Crystal Mages and I am the Snow Mage,

then..."

"Then that does not prove it is his, either. And there is no

proof we are the Crystal Mages."

"And what if Berengar is the father?"
Arrowsmith sighed. He lit a cigarette, then snapped closed

the lid of his Zippo lighter. "And what if we're all chimps in a
zoo, dreaming this? What if death rays from Mars turn
Monshikka into an onion? What bloody if. We've all taken care
of each other in the past; I can't see that changing now."

"I don't want to have Berengar's baby!"
"I don't blame you; I wouldn't, either. So let's haul you

down to Lady Seraph and have her take care of it."

Blue stopped short, eyes wide at what Arrowsmith had just

said. "I ... beg your pardon?"

"She is a healer of a fertility goddess. She must know how

to rid one of unwanted passengers."

Arrowsmith had never seen Blue brought to a halt before.

It was rather fascinating to watch him stop dead and blink,
utterly without a response for the first time in his life.
Arrowsmith had to smile and mentally pat himself on the
back, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Well?" he said, flicking his ashes.
Blue did not move, frozen with thought. Arrowsmith could

almost see his equine ears twitch. Finally, he spoke in a soft
voice.

"But what if it is not his? And I never have this chance

again?"

"Well, there is that," said Arrowsmith quietly.
The fight seemed to have gone out of Blue. He looked

small and defenseless, and he wrapped his arms about
himself. Arrowsmith stubbed out his cigarette and walked

over to him, putting his arms around him and holding him
against his chest.

"I just don't know what to do," said Blue. "I'm so confused

and afraid. And the Creator knows I'm not young anymore."

Arrowsmith looked down at him. "Not young? How old are

you?"

Blue thought. "Let's see, I was ... two? When Misty bought

me? Two. Yes. That makes me ... nine hundred and eighty-
seven."

Now it was Arrowsmith's turn to be shocked. "You mean,

this is still life number one for you?"

"Well, I'm a Guedelph, we live about twelve to fifteen

hundred years."

"And you're nearly one thousand. So how old does that

make you in terms I understand?"

"Sixty or seventy. Bit old for babies."
"Oy." Arrowsmith ran his hand over his face. "Just when

we think it can't get any more interesting." He cuddled Blue
and sighed. "We'll get through this. All of us. Somehow." He
kissed the top of Blue's head and drew a steadying breath.
"The Moonhound will come home, we'll go pick up Infamous
in Two-Fifty, and go to Palaklais. Everything will work out."

"We hope," muttered Blue.

* * * *

Time passed. Summer faded to early fall, and the nights

became longer and colder. The leaves turned to gold, and the
harvesting began. White Palace shared what it could with
Kirianna, but there was no doubt the winter was going to be a

harsh one in the city. The king and his sons, however, had no
reason to concern themselves—they would be well fed in the
jail.

The Moonhound came home, bringing most of the army

with her. She had left a few units in Kirianna to assist with
rebuilding and harvesting what meager foods there were. She
announced her presence by kicking in the door to the sitting
room where Blackbird, Blue, and Arrowsmith were having
lunch. She strode in, covered in dirt and dried blood, and
yelled, "Mommy's home!"

Blackbird ran to her, embracing her and kissing her despite

the layer of matter coating her. Behind her came Misty, Wess,
and Monshikka. Sly skulked in last of all, making his way over
to the fire to warm himself.

"Hi, Sly," said Arrowsmith. Sly huffed and closed his eyes,

glad to be home.

"What happened to you?" exclaimed Blue, looking at

Monshikka. Arrowsmith turned his head to see what Blue was
talking about, and gasped.

"Blackie! What did those bastards do to you?!"
"Oh, it's been a fascinating trip," said the Moonhound.

"Undead mages, illusory armies, long-winded debates about
why women can't rule, and this." She tossed something to
Arrowsmith. He caught it and studied the ugly device.

It was a crossbow, but not a Dargothian one. Arrowsmith

knew very little about crossbows, but it took him mere
moments to pin down the point of origin for this creation. It
was huge, yet light, with a rigging of pulleys and a composite
body of lightweight alloys and fiberglass.

"Hey! This is from my world!"
"That's what I thought," said the Moonhound. "But this

ain't." She tossed him a bolt of polished metal. It looked like
stainless steel with a brush finish, but it felt wrong in his
hand. It was too light to be steel, too heavy to be aluminum,
and the metal had a slightly blue color to it. The head was
formed of no less than five long, slender barbs.

"Well, the head is Elvish," said Arrowsmith. "It's the barb

off of a war arrow. What's this metal?"

The Moonhound dropped into a chair and pulled Blackbird

onto her lap. "That, my friend, is polished zylibien. And you
can only get it in a few small mines in the Palaklais. Notably
the southernmost end of the range, right by Silverwood."

"So Berengar supplied composite bows from my world to

fire off arrows from this one and started wiping out the
Highwayman population. Very neat. He has been a busy boy,
our Berengar," said Arrowsmith. "He'd been stalking me for
years, it seems. I just can't figure out why he never killed
me."

"Why bother?" said Blackbird. "If he kills you, you're just

reborn."

"Hmph," said Arrowsmith. "Yeah, I guess it was just more

fun to see me get screwed up on drugs and hope I'd off
myself."

"He may have thought if he could get you to kill yourself,

even accidentally, then it would somehow interfere with the
magic that brings us all back," said Blackbird.

"I'd like to get my hands on him," growled the Moonhound.

Arrowsmith grinned. "Berengar is no more, my lady. He

was taken out in a fairly messy and spectacular manner right
here in these halls, by a great and powerful warrior."

Blue snorted with amusement, cuddled on a couch with

Misty. Monshikka had been about to pour himself and Wess a
drink, and paused.

"Warrior? What warrior?"
Arrowsmith chuckled and indicated the tiny person

snuggled on his wife's lap. "Him! Right there! Our own little
Wizard-King."

The Moonhound's jaw dropped. "You're lying. You have to

be."

Blue laughed. "You should have seen the mess. Blood up

the walls, bits of Berengar everywhere. Blackbird killed him,
then fed the chunks to the local stray dogs. If someone ever
wants to raise Berengar, they will have their work cut out.
He's in a thousand steaming piles all over the realm."

The Moonhound stared at Blackbird in utter astonishment.

"I can't believe it."

"I'm not just cute, you know," he said.
"No, but ... I heard nothing!"
"We covered it up," said Arrowsmith.
"I was injured," said Blackbird. "I did not want it known

that I was unable to defend myself. So I locked myself away
with just a few trusted friends to look over me."

The Moonhound just stared at him, jaw hanging, shaking

her head. Then she threw her arms around him and squeezed
him. "I'm so proud of you!"

"So we are down to Takeshta and Rhaklan," said Misty.

"Assuming Rhaklan's been called," said Wess. "We do not

know one way or another."

"Well, we will know when we get to Palaklais," said the

Moonhound. She looked around. "Hey, where's the Thief? I
have a message for him from Klynrhye."

"Haven't seen him," said Blue.
"Not since he went to the Temple to beg for his sight

back," said Arrowsmith.

"But that was over two months ago!" said Monshikka.

"Have you tried to contact him?"

Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah, I did. I sent a messenger to

Two-Fifty-Mile-House. My beloved husband is not there.
Seems he forgot to mention that the Temple he and Brysis
were going to was not the one in Two-Fifty."

The Moonhound stared at him, eyes wide. "You're not

telling me he's at the temple in Palaklais," she said, her voice
quiet.

"Seems that way. Brysis has not come back, either."
"Something must have happened to them," said

Monshikka.

"Well, when I find him, he had better be lying in a ditch

with two broken legs," said Arrowsmith, "or I'm gonna kill him
for making me worry!"

The Moonhound sighed, scratching her dirty hair. Then she

looked down at Blackbird.

"We have to go after him."
Blackbird nodded. "I know."
"So how do we get up there?" said Misty. "Ride up?"

Blackbird shook his head. "No. We'll use the crystals. That

way we can get out in a hurry if we have to. And nothing will
see us come in. The less attention we attract, the better. We
have to find Infamous before we do anything."

"We'll rest up and pack," said the Moonhound, "and set out

in four days."

Arrowsmith felt Wess put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll

find him," he said quietly.

Arrowsmith shook his head. He did not know why, but he

did not think they were going to see Infamous again.

* * * *

They appeared in the Temple of Marakim at sunset of the

fourth day, bringing their gear with them, along with a
tournament bed for Blackbird. The little mage was still not
well and sleeping on the icy floor was not an option for him.
Arrowsmith walked around, ignoring the beauty of the old
temple, searching for Infamous. He noticed a small figure,
hooded and cloaked, seated near the altar at the back, and
ran up to him, hoping it was Infamous. But then the head
came up, and the hood slid back, revealing long, white hair.

"Arrowsmith?"
"Brysis!" Arrowsmith looked around. "Where's Infamous?"
Brysis shook his head. "Gone."
Arrowsmith felt something cold clutch his stomach. His

knees began to shake. "What do you mean, gone?"

Brysis stood up, shoving back his long hair. "I mean he is

gone. Moments after we came here, a group of Black Elves

appeared and he went with them. I have not seen him since.
He did not even take Simon."

Arrowsmith saw the old wolf walk into view, head down,

skinny body showing grief and dejection. He perked up a bit
at the sight of Arrowsmith, but Simon had really only known
Arrowsmith a brief time. It was his master he wanted.
Arrowsmith crouched down to rub the old wolf's ears.

"I can't believe he would leave Simon. He loves Simon! For

that matter, he loves me, too. I think. You mean he's been
gone all this time? That's nearly three months!"

The Moonhound walked over, looking around. "Where's

Infamous?"

Arrowsmith was beginning to shake. "Brysis, are you sure

he went willingly?"

Brysis nodded. "I am sorry, Arrowsmith."
Arrowsmith just stared, feeling his heart shred like

Christmas paper; the shine and brightness that had once
wrapped it now tattered and discarded, leaving an open
wound that oozed shock and pain.

"He just left?" Arrowsmith said quietly. "No goodbye, no

indication he would be back? He left Simon? I ... don't
understand."

"From what I understand," said Brysis, "the Black Elves do

not exist on the same plane as we do. They live in our world,
but in a part that is veiled to us. There, time flows differently,
and the cares of the world are of no concern. He may not
even realize how long he has been gone."

Arrowsmith pulled Simon's skinny, frail body close. He

swallowed. "I feel sick," he whispered.

The Moonhound crouched beside him, putting a hand on

his shoulder. "Arrowsmith, I'm sure he will be back."

"But ... nearly three months..." said Arrowsmith weakly.

"And he ... never even tried to contact me..."

"He may not know how long he has been gone," whispered

Brysis.

"Why did he go?" asked Arrowsmith.
He felt like he was losing his grip on reality. He just could

not understand that his lover had simply left, without a
goodbye or an indication that he would ever be back. He
stared at Brysis, brown eyes large and full of pain and
confusion. He felt something begin to break inside, and he
listed to one side. Simon pulled away, and the Moonhound
caught him. The pair tried to comfort him, but he was
collapsing, inwardly as much as outwardly. He felt himself
begin to shut down, and he slumped to the floor in a heap.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nine

Arrowsmith sat on the floor, legs drawn up, his arms about

his shins, and his brow resting on his knees. He had been like
that for hours, saying nothing, rocking in short, quick
movements. He was in agony. He just could not believe
Infamous was gone.

He could hear his friends moving about, leaving him to his

pain in peace as they set up camp. They were moving with
uncharacteristic quiet, seeming reluctant to disturb him as he
grieved. He could feel their sympathy for him, as well as for
themselves. Infamous had been a friend and an important
member of the Court. His loss was a blow to them as well.
But to Arrowsmith, it felt that it might well prove a lethal one.

It was late when they finished setting up camp inside the

temple. The Moonhound came to sit beside Arrowsmith, trying
to get him to come to bed, but Arrowsmith would not move.
He was exhausted, but knew he could not sleep. Finally, she
just let him be. He did not move, but he could hear her
speaking quietly with the other Court members.

"This is not good. Infamous is gone, and Arrowsmith may

as well be. He's a wreck. What do we do now?"

"Well, nothing has changed," said Misty. "We need to see if

Rhaklan is here, and we need to seek out the chamber
beneath the well."

"I can shift into my dragonhawk form to look for the well,"

said Wess. "A dragonhawk in this part of the Palaklais won't
attract any attention; there are dozens of them here."

"I can look in some of the ruins," said Misty.
"I don't think that's a good idea..." said Blue, his tone one

of worry.

"Trust me," said Misty, "I would rather not, but with

Infamous gone, I'm the only footpad we have."

"No," said Brysis quietly. "You have me."
"We would rather not involve you in this if we do not have

to," said Blackbird.

"My Lord, I beg your pardon, but I am involved. Infamous

Keeper was Master Thief and High Priest of the Temple. With
him gone, that position now falls to me. I should be made
aware of all matters he was concerned with."

Arrowsmith did not want to hear anyone talk about

Infamous. He stood up, the abrupt movement catching the
attention of those assembled. He stalked past the group,
heading for a small room behind the statue of Marakim. He
entered the empty little square chamber with its webbed and
dusty walls, the leaves scattered over the floor crunching
beneath his heavy boots. He shut the door behind himself and
fell back, letting his back hit the wall. He slid to the floor and
began weeping once more. Infamous was gone. Not dead, but
departed, run off with his kin, leaving his old wolf and his
husband. Arrowsmith sat on the cold, stone floor, angry and
depressed and utterly miserable.

He stayed in the tiny room for a long time, sometimes

crying, sometimes just staring at nothing. He fell asleep
briefly, then was jarred into wakefulness by nightmares. The
temple was silent, and he knew it was getting very late. He
needed to rest, but he knew once he lay down, he would just

feel worse, and he would be tormented by images of
Infamous. He decided to get his pack, bedroll, and other
things, and bring them into the small room. At least he would
not disturb his companions. He rose to his feet and opened
the door, looking into the large chamber.

His friends had set up camp, or at least what they would

call camp. It consisted of more tournament beds set up
beneath a pavilion, complete with small lamps and a brazier.
Outside of the pavilion were daybeds and chairs, all arranged
around the ceremonial fire pit. It created a surreal, dream-
like scene inside of the old temple. The fire was lit, though it
was low, and Misty was keeping watch, seated on one of the
daybeds, his back against the wooden headboard, with his
legs outstretched. Blue was beside him, but he was settled
under the covers, asleep, his head on Misty's flat stomach, an
arm slung across his hips. Arrowsmith walked over to his
pack, which was resting near a chair. He nodded toward
Blue's sleeping form.

"How's the old grey mare?" he whispered.
Misty turned his head to look at his lover, touching the

long, white hair. "He's fine."

Arrowsmith shook his head and knelt beside his pack to

open it. "You have an odd little family, Misty. Your husband is
your wife and he's pregnant with a foal."

"I know," Misty said. "But it's mine."
Arrowsmith managed a tired smile. "You're lucky," he said

quietly. "Some of us would give a lot to have what you have."

"Arrowsmith," said Misty softly, "he will be back."

Arrowsmith held up a hand. "Misty, I appreciate it. But I

really don't want to talk about this."

Misty moved off the daybed quietly, taking care not to

disturb Blue. He came to Arrowsmith's side, seating himself in
the chair beside him. "Arrowsmith, I know you're hurt. I know
how it feels. Remember, Blue left me."

"It's not the same, and you know it. You and Blue had

been having problems for years. He didn't just up and take off
and completely blindside you."

Misty reached down and put a hand on Arrowsmith's

shoulder, squeezing it. "Maybe you're right. But at least I
tried to talk to him. I did not just assume he was gone."

"Oh, and what am I supposed to do, stand on a hill and

scream and see if he hears me?"

"No," said Misty quietly. "But there is a way. Black Elves

are Dream Creatures. They happen to be among the most
delicate, in fact. During the time before Hercandoloff opened
the wells again, they were virtually destroyed by the absence
of magic."

"Yeah, I know that. And you are telling me this ... why?"
Misty stared at him, becoming annoyed with his friend.

"Because, oh large and belligerent one, truly frail Dream
Creatures live almost exclusively on the astral planes. The
Sylvan Unicorns, the star winds, the song dragons ... they all
stay in the astral fields, they rarely come here. Maybe it
works the same with Black Elves."

Arrowsmith thought about that for a moment. He was very

familiar with the astral fields, and he certainly knew how to
get there. He looked at Misty.

"I don't want to do it here, I'll disturb everyone and fill up

the temple with quasi-toxic incense. I don't think Blue or
Blackbird needs that."

"Where will you go?"
"Neutral ground. The Temple of the Creator. Even if I am

seen, nothing evil can do anything about it, and better to
have anything evil focused there rather than here."

"Very well. But I'm coming. I will wait in the shadows and

none shall see me."

Arrowsmith nodded and smiled. He reached out to touch

Misty's face, feeling the skin like warm ivory. "Let's go."

* * * *

They left the Temple of Marakim and began walking quietly

up the long stairway to the Temple of the Creator. The night
was as silent as a dream, a soft, cool wind blowing down the
stairway, ruffling through their hair and cloaks. They heard
little, save for the rapid scurry of small animals fleeing them.
Once an owl flew past, silent, its eyes like burning, yellow
disks in the night.

They made their way up to the Temple, which was in

reasonably good shape, save for some weathering. Foul
things did not dare desecrate this Temple, the home of the
Mother of All. She had dreamed the good as well as the evil,
and her Temple was sacred to many things, both fair and
foul.

As Misty and Arrowsmith walked onto the great, black

stone yard that was laid before the Temple entrance, they
saw something move, a great, black shadow. Arrowsmith

gazed back at the thing, watching its ears twitch. It took him
a moment to realize that the thing in the blackness was a
Mycinocroft. It stared at them, sniffing, ears twitching.
Slowly, cautiously, it turned away, going down on all fours
and moving away in a strange, bounding gate.

"That was odd," whispered Arrowsmith, watching the

creature hop away.

"The Mycinocroft who live out in the wilds do that to

confound hunters," said Misty. "Usually by the time one
figures out what that odd, bouncing animal is, the Mycinocroft
has escaped."

"Certainly confused me," he admitted.
Arrowsmith glanced around, feeling the area out, listening

to what his emotions told him, trying to find the best place to
prepare for his psychic journey. The courtyard was a
rectangle of black stone, flanked on two sides by carved cliff
walls. Behind Arrowsmith was the Temple, and before him,
laid out in the moonlight, was the city of Palaklais, silent,
empty, her desolate buildings looking like bleached bones.
Directly across from the Temple of the Creator, on the other
side of the city, were the Halls of the Wizard-King. From his
position before the Temple, high on the mountain that the
temples were built on, the city looked like little more than a
great, white façade, a movie set, built to impress film-goers.
Behind the façade, however, were the halls and chambers
that had belonged to them, long ago.

"I would reclaim this place, if I could," said Misty softly.
Arrowsmith looked around. He had nearly forgotten why

they had even come here, so lost was he in the old feelings.

Palaklais, the Holy City that guarded one of the three Wells of
Magic. Arrowsmith could see the well from his post, protected
by Standing Stones, engraved with wards and glyphs, now
long rendered useless. He closed his eyes and breathed.

"Feels like home, doesn't it?"
Misty smiled. "It is a good place. Good stone. Good earth."

He smiled at Arrowsmith. "Good people."

Arrowsmith smiled, then leaned forward and kissed Misty

softly, lingering for a brief time, touching his shoulder. "For
luck," he said.

Misty laughed. "Since when is kissing Elves lucky?"
Arrowsmith touched the long, gold hair as it blew in the

night wind. "Last time I kissed you, I ended up finding the
one I loved. I'm hoping it works twice."

Misty smiled, his eyes full of sadness and concern for his

friend. They gazed at each other for a long moment, and then
Arrowsmith looked away. He began setting up an area to
meditate, laying out a green and gold prayer rug on the cold
stones, while Misty went to find him a brazier. He returned
soon with a great brass brazier, set upon a tripod of writhing,
gold serpents. He helped Arrowsmith to fill it with
sandalwood, myrrh, and resins from the Dragonblood Tree.
They then topped it up with fragrant cedar wood and lit it,
watching as the flames rose and flickered in the wind.
Arrowsmith threw in two small bricks of the meditation
incense, then seated himself on his rug and poured some of
the wine into a silver goblet.

Misty took up a perch on a stone outcrop, shaking his long

hair in the soft wind, seeming to relish being in the high

mountains once more. The faintest touch of purple began to
show on the distant horizon, heralding the slow encroachment
of dawn. Arrowsmith drank the wine and breathed deep the
scent of the incense. Already he could feel his spirit form
begin to part from his body. It had never happened this
quickly before, and he wondered if that had something to do
with where he now sat.

Arrowsmith drank another glass of wine and felt himself

begin to rise above his physical form. He could look down
upon the mountains and the temples; see the wind make the
flames of the brazier flicker and dance. He saw Misty holding
quiet vigil on his rock, and below, his own body, still and
silent, seated on the prayer rug. Then he turned and began
making his way to a hidden place, not far from the Temple.
He did not know how he knew where it was, but he found it
with little difficulty.

There was much about the Palaklais Mountains that made

little sense to those who called Dargoth home. Allegedly, the
mountains were the first part of Dargoth dreamed into
existence by the Creator, and the forces and magicks that
made their home in them paid little heed to the natural order
of things. Some areas were warm and temperate; other parts
were covered in perpetual snow and ice. A few areas were
isolated by magicks that did not permit one to enter; some
parts could be entered and not be left, and those who found
themselves there were never seen again.

Then, at the northernmost point, past the Grey Haunts

forest where the Court had dwelled, the head of a gigantic
dragon could be seen poking out of the rocks, a head so huge

that a village had once existed on the great muzzle, until, by
chance, a man trying to dig a well instead struck flesh and
bone. The monster shook its head, destroying the village,
killing hundreds, and causing earthquakes that could be felt
for miles. The entire mountain range seemed to exist on its
mighty back and outspread wings. Where the animal had
come from and how it came to find itself sleeping beneath the
Palaklais Mountains, none knew. But the village that had once
existed on the dragon's head was now gone, and few went to
the northernmost peaks for fear of waking the thing.

Arrowsmith suddenly found himself in a small valley,

surrounded by sharp cliffs of grey stone. The weather was
pleasantly warm, and the ground was covered by soft moss
and fallen leaves of gold and scarlet. The air smelled of
autumn and of the slender silver waterfalls that graced the
cliffs. He could see no houses, but there was an enormous,
black thicket of interlacing vines and huge, daunting thorns
that seemed to form a hall. He could sense living beings here,
but he could not see them. Arrowsmith did not wish to upset
the Elves that he knew were here by searching for them.
Instead, he seated himself on the ground and waited for them
to come to him.

Arrowsmith spied the first Elf after about ten minutes. He

was tall and beautiful. He did not have the awesome height of
the Stone Elves, but he was at least as tall as Arrowsmith. His
eyes were black, yet somehow not black; there seemed to be
a hint of blue to them as well. His skin was ice white, and his
hair was thick and black, falling heavily down his back. He
was clad in simple garb: cotton shirt, breeches, boots. Cotton

plants grew in only a few parts of Dargoth, and the Black
Elves guarded them carefully. About his throat was a strip of
black leather, with a simple, silver charm hanging from it. He
did not seem to be armed, but Arrowsmith did not wish to
upset him. Dream Creatures could have any number of
means of defending themselves.

Arrowsmith did not move. The Elf stepped closer, seeming

wary, but curious. Finally, he spoke. His voice was soft, and
though he spoke no language Arrowsmith knew, Arrowsmith
had no difficulty understanding him.

"Never have Men found our valley," said the Elf.
"I do not come to cause strife," said Arrowsmith quietly.

"Merely to ask a question. Then I shall go."

More Elves were appearing: some male, some female, a

few small children. All were elegant and wary in the way that
wild horses were. They would flee at the first sign of
something they did not like.

Arrowsmith heard something behind him and knew he had

been meant to hear it. Dream Creatures did not make sound
unless they wished to. Slowly, he glanced behind himself and
saw two Elves, clad in black and silver armor, carrying large
swords, each tipped with a backward-facing hook. Arrowsmith
had no interest in finding out how much damage they did. He
turned his attention once more to the Elves before him,
finding three children directly in front of him, eyes large and
curious, their nervous mother a few feet behind them. One of
the two little girls reached out to touch his face. Arrowsmith
did not move a muscle, hoping to the Creator he did not
sneeze. This situation could get very ugly very fast.

"Your hair is not black!" she said.
"No," said Arrowsmith. "I am not an Elf."
"How did you get here?"
"I asked the Creator for help. I only came to ask a

question."

The little girl was utterly fascinated. Her tiny hands

explored his face, the studs on his jacket, and his gold-brown
hair. Arrowsmith shifted his gaze from the child to her
anxious mother. He was not sure who he feared more, the
guards behind him or the Elf-mother before him. He could not
shake the image of his tiny bone-rack of an adopted mother
attacking a two hundred and fifty pound man who had dared
to slap him at age eight, and ripping one of his eyes out of his
head.

"Your mother is worried," he said softly. "Go sit with her."
The child did, taking the other two with her. Arrowsmith

breathed a sigh of relief. The Elf who had first approached
Arrowsmith stepped a little closer.

"What is it you wish to ask?"
"I wish to know if my lover is here, or if you have seen

him. He's small, with long, beaded hair, and was recently
blinded."

"You mean, Ilenya?"
"Yes. Ilenya."
"Why do you wish to see him?"
Arrowsmith carefully controlled his emotions, uncertain if

they could sense his anger. "Because I love him."

"He is with us now. He belongs with us. The outside world

is no place for a Black Elf."

"The outside world is not as unkind toward Black Elves as

it once was," said Arrowsmith softly. "I am John Arrowsmith,
Seer of the Wizard-King of Dargoth. You remember him. He
brought magic back to Dargoth. He saved the Dream
Creatures, yourselves included. He is here in Palaklais now.
We mean to take the city back and destroy Takeshta and
reopen the well of magic here. But we cannot do this without
Ilenya. And I cannot live without him."

The Elf shook his head. "No. The outside world is not for

us. He must stay here, with his people."

Arrowsmith felt his grip on his anger slipping somewhat,

but still he did not raise his voice.

"His mother gave him to Hercandoloff because she feared

what would happen to him if she brought a half-blood infant
home with her. Are you not those same people?"

There was a long pause. Arrowsmith could sense the Elf

was also becoming angry, but he did not have a response for
Arrowsmith. A second Elf stepped forward, a woman.

"It matters not," she said. "He has forgotten you. Go and

try to forget him."

"What do you mean, forgotten me? How could he forget

me?"

"The enchantment needed to bring him fully into our world

has cast you from his mind. He does not know you."

Arrowsmith clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind

together. He swallowed his hurt. "I do not believe you."

She shrugged. "Then see for yourself, Seer. He stands

over there."

Arrowsmith abruptly stood up and looked in the direction

the Elf-Woman was pointing. He did not have to look hard to
spy Infamous; there was no mistaking his thin frame, nor the
long hair, corded and beaded with onyx and silver. He was
only yards away, but he plainly had no interest in what was
happening. He was standing with another Elf, a young male,
his arms about the other Elf's waist, and they were kissing,
oblivious to all in the way new lovers were.

Arrowsmith rocked back as though struck. His legs began

to shake, and he dropped hard to his knees, jaw hanging, as
he watched his husband of centuries turn and walk away with
another. His throat felt hot and tight, and he tried to say his
name, but nothing came.

'This is a nightmare,' he thought. 'I'm dreaming ... He ...

couldn't forget me. Could he?'

Infamous slowly walked away with his new companion.

Arrowsmith felt everything inside of himself turn to jagged
glass as he stared. Abruptly, he got to his feet and ran after
him, watched by the Elves. He reached Infamous, grasping
his arm and turning Infamous toward him. Arrowsmith looked
into the face he knew so well and said hopefully, "Infamous?"

Infamous still had the silk blindfold across his eyes, still

had the symbol of Marakim on his tunic. "Do I know you?" he
asked.

Arrowsmith began to shake. "Lover, that's not funny. It's

me, Arrowsmith. Your husband? The guy who gets out of bed
at five in the morning to let you in through the window? The
big guy who lets you sleep on his back when you're cold?
Come on, lover, you have to know me."

Infamous shook his head. "You have me confused with

another, friend. My name is Ilenya, and I do not know you. I
hope you find him. Clearly you love him a great deal. He
would be fortunate to have someone like you."

Arrowsmith stared. Infamous wasn't joking; he really did

not know who he was. He swallowed hard.

"No," he whispered. "I was the fortunate one."
Infamous seemed to think about that, then turned and

quietly walked away with his companion. Arrowsmith felt his
heart rip in two and wondered if he was going to die on his
feet. He felt sick, and his whole body ached with physical
pain. Staggering, he turned and looked at the Elves, feeling
an anger inside that bordered on hate.

"Okay, fine. You win. You have him. But mark my words. I

and the other members of the Court are here to do battle
with Takeshta and Rhaklan the Damned, and we're not sure
we're strong enough to defeat them, but we have our backs
to the wall and we don't have a choice. You just cost us not
only my lover, but a key player in this little epic. And if we
lose, the first thing Takeshta is going to do is take Palaklais,
bring back alchemy, and plug up the wells. That means this
happy little alcove you are hiding in will vanish, and all of you
will once more be robbed of your Elven Graces, and you can
go back to haunting alleyways and eating stray dogs. But,
hey, don't let my problems bother you. Have fun watching
your kids eat plague rats."

Arrowsmith abruptly found himself back in his own body,

seated on the prayer rug. He gasped and collapsed to his
side. Misty was suddenly beside him, hand on his shoulder.

"Arrowsmith?"
Arrowsmith put his arms over his head and curled into a

ball. Misty said nothing else, simply sitting beside him while
the sun slowly rose, touching the bones of the dead city.

* * * *

The eight remaining members of the Court sat in their

encampment, silent. Infamous was gone, and Arrowsmith had
to be carried down the stairs from the Temple. He was
currently lying on his side in the little room he had set up for
himself, unmoving, unresponsive.

"I've never seen him like this," said Blackbird quietly.
"Well, the other times he lost Infamous, he knew it would

only be for a few years before he was reborn and Recalled,"
said Wess. "This is something quite different."

"We have to snap him out of it," said the Moonhound. "We

are already short a member; we can't spare him."

"Well, what can we do?" asked Monshikka. "Short of

having Misty stand in front of him and drop his clothes."

"Tried it," said Misty. "Even asked him if he'd like to

examine me for mosquito bites. Not a flicker."

Blackbird drew a steadying breath. "We have no choice but

to leave him for now. We'll just have to try to carry on
without him."

"Right," said Wess. "In that case, I'll go down by the well

and see what I can find."

"Take these," said Blackbird. "And be careful." He passed

Wess the shard of crystal Blue had given him, as well as a

long, thin, rectangular piece of carved crystal of the same
color.

Wess smiled. "Like a wolf on thin ice."
Wess rose and walked to the Temple doors, shapeshifting

into his dragonhawk form. Then he spread his wings and let
the wind pick him up like a great kite, his wings ringing softly.
Dragonhawks were plentiful in this part of the world; none
who saw him would pay him any heed.

A young female joined him almost immediately, flirting,

trying to get him to chase her. He did briefly, acting the part
of the dragonhawk, hoping she didn't suddenly stop and
expect him to mate with her. Fortunately, a young male
chased him off. Wess could have defeated the youngster, and
he snapped his tail to let the kid know it; he simply wasn't
interested in the female. He continued his way to the well,
dropping beside it, examining the base of the standing
stones. There, just as the Mycinocroft had said to Blue, was
the hole that led beneath it. He swiped at the dirt with his
huge claws, making the hole large enough for his body. Then
he began squeezing his way down the passage, claws
dragging him along, back talons pushing him forward.

The passage only went about ten feet down, then he

emerged through the ceiling of a chamber forged entirely of
crystal, fire-polished and the color of the sky. He dropped
from the domed ceiling and landed on the floor, his claws
slipping on the blue crystal. He looked around and tried one
of his talons against the softly luminous stone. Not a mark.

"Definitely magic, if it can stand up to a dragonhawk," he

remarked softly to himself, and then looked around.

He spied a tunnel and began following it, his claws clicking

on the stone. The tunnel, like the chamber, was of polished,
blue crystal, and it split and wove its way deep underground
like a tangle of worms. False leads branched off of false leads
and doubled back upon themselves. Clearly it was meant to
baffle any who came down, and the reflective crystal made
finding openings extremely difficult. Several times, Wess had
to backtrack, and a few times he became afraid he would
never get out of the weaving passages and tunnels. He even
tried swiping at the stone with his tail blades and succeeded
only in breaking one off. Swearing, and cursing, he grabbed
his bleeding tail. The quick was torn wide and was dripping
blood. He noted with annoyance that he could not even use
his own blood for a trail marker; it simply collected at the
lowest point on the floor, then slowly was absorbed into the
stone.

Wess sighed and picked up his tail blade. He turned and

suddenly found himself staring at a mark on the wall: a drop
of water suspended over the stylized form of a swimming
Mycinocroft. Beneath the symbol, scarcely visible, was a thin,
rectangular slot. Wess traced over it with a claw, making
certain he was not seeing things. Then he opened the bag
around his neck and pulled out the thin rod of blue crystal
and carefully fitted it into the slot. The mark on the door
faded, and moments later the wall before him silently melted
away like water, revealing a chamber.

He stepped into the large, domed room, looking around

cautiously, but he saw nothing immediately dangerous. The
walls reflected silent, green images of the depths of a placid

lake. Water plants waved gently, and small fish darted about.
Above came the gentle shine of sunlight on a lake's surface,
and quiet music played, accompanied by a hauntingly
beautiful, female voice. Wess did not know what words she
sang, but he found himself halted by them, standing and
closing his eyes, just listening. Then he shook his head and
forced himself to stop thinking of dreaming away the
centuries in aquatic peace.

In the center of the beautiful, unearthly chamber was a

sarcophagus, cut of a gemstone Wess knew very well. It was
a transparent blue crystal, shot with fine lines of gold, called
water-gem. All Dargoth was littered with it; indeed, the stone
was so plentiful as to be virtually worthless, but apprentice
gem smiths loved it because it was forgiving and easy to work
with. Blackbird also had a fondness for it, because it held
enchantments well. Certainly it was a sensible choice for a
mage who specialized in water-magic. Wess moved closer,
approaching cautiously, watching as the lid of the crystal
sarcophagus slid back. The interior was full of clear, rippling
water, and he gasped softly as he saw what else lay within
the coffin.

The man was very young, probably no older than his mid-

twenties, and very small of frame. He was clad in garb Wess
only recognized from history books: a long, belted tunic, and
breeches beneath an open-fronted, full-length garment,
something between a coat and a robe. His hair was dark,
almost black, floating about him in a soft halo. His left hand
rest on his stomach, and his eyes were closed. He looked
asleep, and, as the lid of his crystal coffin moved aside to let

in the light, he made a face and rolled to his side. He settled,
remaining deep in his enchanted sleep.

Wess gazed at the man in the crystal sarcophagus.

Carefully, he reached into the water and touched his
shoulder, feeling living flesh. He smiled.

"Well, look at you, all hidden away here in the dark. Now,

how do we safely awake you, if indeed we can? I think
perhaps we shall leave that up to Blackbird."

He drew his paw out of the water and looked around. He

noticed a small chest in the corner and walked over to it,
carefully opening it. Inside, he saw scrolls, books and small
items wrapped in bits of fabric.

"Well, well," he said softly. "Perhaps you do not need to be

awake to help us."

* * * *

Misty crept silently into the huge, stone structure, moving

like the ghost of death, shrouded in spectral shadows. He
kept low, his hair tied back and hidden beneath his cloak. He
was in the great black and silver marble entranceway, the
first hall in the massive structure they had named the Halls of
the King. Centuries ago, he and Infamous had played hide
and seek amongst the cold and silent pillars. Now he moved
alone, staying away from the moonlight, darting silently past
the black stone columns, heading for the doorway at the far
end.

He reached the three low steps leading to the doors and

paused. For a long time, he held utterly still and silent,
listening, alert for anything that might be moving. At last, he

approached the great, carved doors that rose high above his
head. They were intricately carved with scenes of wolves
hunting, and in the foreground was a great tree with a
blackbird perched in it. The tree spread across both doors and
had once been utterly seamless when they were closed. But
time and insects had eaten at the edges, and now the crack
down the center of the tree could be clearly seen. Termites
had eaten holes in the once polished surface, and the doors'
connection to their hinges was tenuous at best.

Misty peered through the crack, but saw nothing moving,

then grasped the great, gold latch and squeezed, hearing the
metal bar click ominously in the perfect silence. He froze,
gritting his teeth, hoping he had not announced himself to
anything foul that might be lurking inside. He heard nothing.
Bracing himself, he cautiously pulled open the huge door and
slipped into the chamber beyond, not daring to risk closing
the doors for fear they would collapse.

This room was also done in black and formal stone, with

great columns rising high, but there was no roof. It had been
an open-air chamber, and, on fair summer nights, parties had
been held here. Misty stood and gazed about at the great
ballroom. It formed a huge rectangle, the floor, crafted of
polished black marble, now covered in dust, dirt, and leaves.
The pillars numbered twelve in all, six on either side of the
room, holding up the night sky. Behind them were great,
paneled walls, painted with murals and frescos of hunting
scenes and ancient battles. The artwork had held up
amazingly well, protected by the remaining residual magic.
However, the tables and velvet couches and padded chairs

were rotted to nothing. The four great fireplaces that had
provided the light were still intact, and the great animals
carved into them still held silent vigil.

"I would reclaim this place, if I could," he whispered,

barely breathing the words.

A quiet wind blew softly through the hall, causing his cloak

to flutter. He stepped further into the room, moving silently,
staying in the shadows. He paused, listening, but all seemed
well. Still, there was no point in taking chances. He reached
for a dagger at his belt, pulling it. It was wrought of crystal,
filigreed with gold. He held it in his left hand while he dropped
to one knee, steadying himself with his right hand, fingertips
on the icy floor as he closed his eyes and uttered a quick
prayer. Slowly, he faded to mist, becoming little more than a
wisp of grey smoke or dust, blowing over the leaves that
skittered out of the way of his passing like dried spiders. He
could not risk making any more noise, and this was the safest
way to travel.

He wafted through the silent hall, unnoticed by the mice

that called the ruins home. He drifted under the door and into
a third chamber, not unlike the one he had just left. Beyond
this one would be the throne room, where Blackbird and the
Moonhound had once told Berengar they would finance no
more journeys into the Palaklais.

Had that really been so long ago?
Misty kept low, traveling as a waft of dust over the dirty

floor. Suddenly he froze, listening. He had heard something, a
noise rather like the faint echo of a hoof on stone. He spied
the rotted remains of a decorative chest, and he made his

way to it quickly, pouring into it like grey, smoky water
running in reverse. He held still, peering out. For a long time
he heard nothing else, but then there came the sound again,
the faintest clop of a hoof. Then, as he watched, the silent
form of a horse walked into view.

It was not a living animal. It looked like a smeared chalk

outline, moving with almost complete silence, baleful, white
eyes looking around the room, certain it had heard
something. Misty huddled in the box, glad he had taken on
the form of mist in order to explore. There were many things
that lived on Dargoth, and in these mountains especially, that
were neither good nor evil, but merely strange entities that
existed for their own purposes. And this was one of them.

The horse turned its head, examining the room one last

time. Misty slid out of a crack in the bottom of the chest and
went to the far wall, following it closely, edging past the
horse-creature unseen and over to the great, obsidian doors
that led to the throne room. He slipped under them and into
the room, and froze, the sheer power of the stench of the
chamber stopping him in his tracks.

The throne room of the Wizard-King and his Warrior-Queen

had been based on the style of throne rooms from the days of
the Crystal Mages. It was an open round chamber, with a low
balcony running halfway around the room, which formed a
place for personal friends of the Court when the room was
crowded. The ceiling had been domed with glass panels,
stained with images of leaves and birds, as if one were seated
beneath a great tree. The glass was gone now, and the
balcony a rotted mess. The great, carved stone slab that had

served as a podium was still there, as were the two thrones,
though all that had been once grand and lovely about them
was now all but dust. But it was not the stink of rot alone that
halted Misty as he entered.

Takeshta sat on the right-hand throne, her flesh dried,

mummified, her mouth frozen open in an eternal scream, a
few wisps of white hair stuck to her dried scalp. Misty had
heard tales that she had once been one of the most beautiful
half-Elven women to walk the land, but there was certainly no
sign of her former beauty now. She was clad in a rich crimson
and black velvet gown, now rotting and filthy, her prized and
coveted jewels dried into the flesh of her fingers and around
her throat, covered in the desiccated mire that had once been
her own decomposition. To her left lay an enormous, three-
headed dog, its humped shoulders rising high above the top
of her throne, the three heads resting on the stone floor,
forepaws fanned out beneath the heads in all directions, each
tipped with great, razor-like claws. The shaggy, black fur that
covered the animal reeked of pus. It was matted and filthy,
and Misty could see holes in it where open sores ran with
yellow matter.

Misty knew who the gigantic dog was; it was none other

than the corporeal manifestation of SkullDigger.

On the left-hand throne sat a being Misty had not seen in a

thousand years, but he knew who it was: Rhaklan the
Damned. He could never forget her if he lived to be a million
years old. She was clad in armor of black and gold, tarnished
and covered in the dust of crypts and centuries. Her helm hid
her rotted face, for which he was glad. It was said she was so

frightfully hideous that her gaze could cause a ravaging
sickness. She had her sword across her lap, her gauntleted
hands resting on the arms of the throne. During the fall of
Palaklais, Misty had watched her cast her spells of death and
plague with an obvious delight, relishing the blood and
disease and waste. It had been Monshikka who had referred
to her distastefully as 'The Merry Executioner.' Misty had
hoped to never see her again, but it seemed the 'merry
executioner' had returned. Both she and Takeshta were
utterly still and silent, deep in concentration. They were spell-
casting, but Misty could not see what they were concentrating
upon.

Carefully, silently, he rose a little higher, so as to get a

look at the top of the podium, and paused, uncertain as to
what exactly he was looking at. It seemed to be a collection
of distasteful bits—guts, meat, feces, and scraps of hair and
brown cloth. They were focusing all their energy on it, and as
Misty watched, one of the organs slowly squirmed like a
snake in pain and became larger. Misty suddenly felt a cold
rush of horror as he realized these were the remaining pieces
of Berengar on the slab. Rhaklan and Takeshta were casting a
recreation spell to slowly rebuild him from the pieces they had
found. It was an enchantment that not even the Moonhound,
for all her centuries of gathering and casting healing spells,
was powerful enough to perform.

He was about to leave to let Blackbird know what was

happening when he saw something come into the room,
something absolutely black, as if it was merely a hole in
space where something used to be. Then, finally, did Misty

understand at last the plot that had been launched against
the Court and the true level of dire menace they were facing.
He froze, terror-struck, and without the first thought as to
what they could do. They were damned. They were not
getting out of this. Not alive.

SkullDigger raised his three heads and stretched, backside

in the air, jaws gaping as he yawned, looking monstrous and
yet behaving like any old dog. He sat up, blinking from his
nap, his upper body supported by his four front legs. Then he
drew a breath and began to sing a very, very old Elven lay
about the rain, and the sounds of waterfalls, and how in
spring the fruiting trees would bloom. His three heads sang
his own harmony, and the sound echoed sweetly, innocently,
around the chamber. It was more than Misty could stomach.
He turned and fled.

* * * *

Wess returned to the Temple, landing softly, the small

chest clutched in his forepaws. He shifted into his human
form and carried the chest over to the bed where Blackbird
was resting. Wess seated himself on the edge of bed, smiling
as Blackbird slowly sat up, hair rumpled, eyes sleepy.

"What is this?" he asked.
"I do not know," said Wess. "But I found the Rain Mage."
Blackbird gasped. "You didn't! You did? Where? Was he..?"
"Under the well as the Mycinocroft said. Rain is asleep in a

sarcophagus of crystal, filled with water. I did not dare try to
wake him."

"Probably a wise move. What's this?"

"I do not know, I found it in his chamber, which I closed

and locked after I left. I did not see any of the other mages.
But I can say that, without the key, Rain cannot be reached.
The crystal is under some sort of enchantment." He pulled
something out of his pocket. "I broke off a tail blade."

Monshikka appeared, standing close to him, placing a hand

on his shoulder. "Oh, I am so sorry, that must have been so
painful."

Wess smiled at him. "It will grow back," he said softly. "No

need to fret. But I thought it would make someone a most
effective dagger, do you not agree?"

"Get a room," Arrowsmith snarled quietly. He was still on

the bed they had placed him on, but at least he was sitting up
and smoking, even if he did look like a bleached and angry
shadow of himself. Wess, Monshikka, and Blackbird chose to
ignore the remark. Blackbird opened the chest and looked
inside.

"You know," he said, pulling out a wolf figurine sculpted of

hematite, "Rain's going to be annoyed if he wakes up and
finds his toys gone."

"I'll be happy to return it," said Wess. "I merely wished to

show it to you. If there is something in there we can use in
our battle..."

Blackbird nodded. "I agree. Hopefully, we will have it back

soon." He carefully opened a scroll, and winced. "Ack! Cretin!
He's placed an enchantment on it so none can read it."

Arrowsmith exhaled blue smoke through his nose. "Can't

you remove the enchantment?"

Blackbird shook his head. "I would have to know what it is

first, and even then ... my knowledge of magic is limited
compared to theirs."

"Limited?" said Wess. "How can it be limited? You're

Hercandoloff!"

"Yes, I am," said Blackbird. "I am also merely a University

student who had to learn magic by digging through countless
battered tomes, some incomplete. This is the magic of a ten
thousand year old elemental mage. He's just a touch more
advanced than I am." He set aside the scroll, and pulled out a
small wand made of water gem. It was crafted in one piece,
the head of it wrought to look like a dragon. "This, however, I
can use. I'll borrow it."

He next picked out a small leather bag. He opened it and

peered inside and smiled. "And this our dear Monshikka can
use."

"What is it?" asked Monshikka, carefully taking the small

sack.

"Dust of the Swarm," said Blackbird, indicating the stylized

insect on the bag. "Very rare. You spread it around and it
creates a huge cloud of carnivorous insects. That should
cause a little confusion." He removed the scrolls and found
one last item, a tiny dragon figurine. "This and the wolf I shall
use. We can return them after the battle." He did not add: "If
we survive."

Misty suddenly blew into the Temple in a swirl of slate grey

fabric, hood down, gold hair blowing behind him.

"We're in trouble. We have to get to the Temple of the

Creator; we're not safe here." He began gathering up his
things and shoving them into his bag.

"What are you talking about?" asked the Moonhound.
Misty kept packing. "They're here. All of them. Holed up in

the Halls of the King. We came looking for Infamous and to
see if Rhaklan was here and the whole damned bunch of them
are in the Halls!"

They watched as Misty kept packing, throwing anything in

reach into his bag, his friends staring at him in astonishment.
Even Arrowsmith had raised his head, his eyes red, a
cigarette between his lips.

"What are you saying?" he asked softly.
Misty dropped his bag and ran a black-gloved hand

through his hair. "Look, we've known for a while that there
was a plot in motion against us, but all the signs pointed to
SkullDigger. Which didn't make a lot of sense, especially not
with this level of subtlety."

"Because SkullDigger is insane," said Blackbird. "He's evil,

but he can't formulate long-term plans."

"Exactly," said Misty. "So we assumed the plot was the

work of Berengar and Takeshta, and that they were going to
involve Rhaklan. But we had it wrong. Yes, Berengar is
desperate to see us dead, and yes, he wants the Crystal
Mages, though we can only speculate at his motives. And yes,
Takeshta wants us out of the way, too, so she can claim
Silverwood and spread her death and plagues, but they are
not the ones who orchestrated this." He sat down hard,

looking ill. "My friends, we are in more grave trouble than we
ever thought."

"So it's true," whispered Wess. "Takeshta called Rhaklan

home. But ... why are you speaking of Berengar in the
present tense?"

Misty was shaking, and he had turned a strange shade of

grey. "Because I just saw Rhaklan, and Takeshta. They had
... little scraps of rancid meat, and they were spellcasting
over it. I've never seen the spell before, but I've read about
it. It takes not one but two very powerful mages. They were
seated side by side on the thrones, absolutely still and lost in
concentration. They are casting a recreation spell. Somehow
they came by scraps of Berengar's flesh, and they are using
them to recreate him and raise him from the dead." He
gasped, tears coming to his eyes. "But that's not the worst
part. There is one more thing in there with them. A snake,
well over eighty feet long, made entirely of black shadow." He
looked at his friends, shaking, well on the verge of hysterics.
"That is what has been orchestrating this, that is what has
been plotting against us. And we didn't have the faintest
clue!"

Arrowsmith looked from Misty to Blackbird. "What ... what

is he talking about? What snake?"

For a long time, none of his friends spoke. All were silent,

and very much afraid. It was Wess' quiet voice that finally
spoke as Misty resumed packing.

"It's called the Night Serpent. It's a very, very old, very

powerful, and very evil god. It specializes in subterfuge, plots
... things that require the quiet stealth of a serpent. Then,

when the time is right, it strikes. Few have stood against its
venom."

Arrowsmith looked confused. "Night Serpent? Why have I

never heard of this thing? I've lived on Dargoth for a
thousand years, why did no one mention this?"

"Because the last known sighting of the Night Serpent was

over six thousand years ago," said Monshikka. "And he was
never widely worshipped. He's an obscure footnote in
history."

"So, what the fuck else have you been hiding from me?!"

Arrowsmith screamed.

"We haven't been hiding anything," said Blackbird. "How

could we possibly know he would rise up after six thousand
years to aid an anti-paladin against us? Who could predict
that?"

Arrowsmith rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I ... it's just that every time we turn
around, this gets a little bit worse." He dropped his hands to
his sides. "So, what do we do? We're short one member of
the Court and plus one evil serpent."

"And soon to also be plus one high priest of SkullDigger,"

said Blue.

"Soon to be short two members of the Court!" said Misty.
"Oh, no, you don't!" said Blue, stepping in front of him.

"No husband of mine is gonna be a coward!"

"Too late," said Misty. "Ana-lethan, my friends, meet you

in the next life!"

Arrowsmith caught him and slung him across his

shoulders. "You're not going anywhere, blondie."

"Put me down! If the lot of us had the brains the Creator

gave a gastropod, we'd just go find another land to rule!"

"We have to go after them," said the Moonhound. "And

now. They are at their most vulnerable now. Once we break
their concentration on the spell, then Berengar is gone. That's
one foe down right there. Takeshta goes next. Take out the
weakest fast, that way we won't have to fight Rhaklan and
the Serpent as well as the other two. We've got the
advantage for once; they don't know that we have found
them."

"So, what do we do?" asked Arrowsmith, still with Misty

slung across his shoulders. "You're the military mind here,
how do we organize it?"

"It's going to be hard without Infamous," whispered Wess.
"Blue can't fight, either," said Misty, dangling. Blue

snapped his gaze to Misty, eyes burning, but Misty would not
be intimidated, at least not by Blue. "You're pregnant, you
can't fight!"

"Do not speak for me!" Blue shot back. "I have my own

voice!"

"I know, you are right, I am sorry." Mistyreached out and

gently took Blue's small hands between his own. "I just don't
want you in the path of destruction."

"I don't have to be in the path," Blue said. "I have a

crossbow. I can shoot."

Misty nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "But stay in the

background."

The Moonhound nodded, looking thoughtful. "Blue and

Arrowsmith can find a vantage point and fire down.

Arrowsmith, I want you and Blue to fire on my signal. That
gun of yours makes a lot of noise; it's bound to cause some
confusion. But make sure you wait for my signal. Wess, I
want you in dragonhawk form, and Monshikka, I want you on
his back. Swoop down from the air when Arrowsmith shoots,
do as much damage as you can. Use the powder. Blackbird, I
want you up with Blue and Arrowsmith. Misty, I want you to
shadow walk up behind Takeshta and strike, make it fast and
hard, then hide again. Strike as many times from the
shadows as you can, keep them off-balance."

"Can't I just think harsh thoughts at them from

somewhere down in the Paladin Isles?" asked Misty. He
sighed. "Okay, fine, you're right, this is our best chance.
Strike and hide maneuvers I can do."

The Moonhound nodded. "Good. Sly, you and I are going

to have to meet them head on. No one move until you hear
Arrowsmith fire his pistol. Then we move in at once."

Wess smiled at her. "You almost make me believe we can

win."

She smiled back, then shook her head. "I don't know if we

are going to win. But I do know that they are not going to
win. By the time we're done with them, they'll need another
thousand years just to find all the bits and regroup. And we
do have one advantage. If we die, the Palace sinks and takes
the Red Jewel with it."

"Unless they dig up the Palace and find it," whispered

Wess. "We have to assume they know about it."

"'The Jewel for my Master,'" said Arrowsmith.
"Well, I guess we know who the Master is now," said Wess.

Blackbird nodded, then called over Brysis. When he

approached, Blackbird gave him a travel crystal.

"Brysis, with Infamous gone, you will have to do us a

favor. And you cannot ever speak of it to anyone save us.
There is a chest in my personal chambers. You will know it
when you see it ... Except ... you can't see it."

Brysis smiled, touching the silk blindfold tied around his

eyes. "It takes more than the loss of one's eyes to blind a
follower of Marakim. Describe the chest."

"It is a wooden box, black, with designs in silver upon it.

Take it and hide it. Hide it as far and as deep as you can. If
we die, that box is our very last hope. We are all counting on
you, Brysis. Please do not fail us."

Brysis bowed. "I shall not fail you, Your Majesty."
Blackbird nodded. "Good. Hide it, and guard it with your

very life."

Brysis nodded. He seemed reluctant to leave. Finally, he

said in a soft voice, "Good luck." Then he vanished.

"We'll need it," muttered Arrowsmith as he put Misty

down.

Blackbird lay back on Misty's bed once more, looking at the

Temple ceiling, thinking. After a few minutes, he spoke.

"A recreation spell takes a long time, even with all or most

of the body. If they only have a few bits of meat and some
lumps of dog droppings, it's going to take them days to
rebuild and raise Berengar. That gives us time. I want to see
if I can decipher some of these scrolls. At the very least, I am
going to want a few things from the Tower of Magic. Let's go
back to the Palace, gather what we need, and, if any of you

have been meaning to do something, I suggest now is the
time to do it. Because, if we die, and they find the Jewel, we
will not be back to do it another day."

Arrowsmith cleared his throat. "I'll stay," he whispered.

"Just in case ... I don't know ... the Rain Mage wakes up or
something. We should take Simon home, though. Maybe to
the Temple of the Moon Goddess, so he'll be looked after if
none of us come back."

"I'll do that," said the Moonhound. She picked up the

skinny old wolf. "Do you want me to send anything back?"

Arrowsmith thought. "My saddlebags off Harley. I have a

few things in there I can use. I packed up before we came
here, just in case I had to come to Palaklais alone to ... well
... doesn't matter now. Just my saddle bags."

She nodded and looked at Sly. "Are you coming?"
Sly ignored her, not moving from his perch on his own

bed. She rolled her eyes. "Fine, Arrowsmith, you and Sly can
keep each other company. We will be back as soon as we are
able."

Arrowsmith nodded and watched as his friends vanished,

leaving him alone with Sly. He stretched out on his back on
his Elven tournament bed, which was the only kind long
enough to accommodate him. He put his hands behind his
head and sighed, closing his eyes. Then the bed shifted and
he felt a body beside his own. He opened his eyes to see Sly
snuggled beside him, chin resting on Arrowsmith's chest.
Arrowsmith smiled, and lowered one hand to touch the long,
dark hair.

"Well, nothing like a little imminent death to make you

snuggly." He used the end of one finger to stroke the tip of
Sly's nose. "Are you keeping me company, or am I keeping
you company?"

Sly said nothing, his pale grey eyes blinking softly.

Arrowsmith smiled, feeling a little better. "Well, you're not
exactly a puppy or a kitty-cat, but I guess you'll do. A
werewolf is sort of a puppy."

Sly sighed quietly and closed his eyes. Arrowsmith pulled

the covers over the both of them and went to sleep.

* * * *

"Get ready, he says," complained Monshikka. "I'm a

Librarian, not a warrior."

"I disagree," said Wess. "You did very well against that

dragon."

The pair were walking down the hall, making their way to

Monshikka's private chambers. He paused as he caught a
glimpse of himself in a mirror, sighing at the leather eye
patch.

"Yes, and look at this charming memento. All I need is

wooden leg and a parrot."

Wess smiled. "Nonsense, wooden legs are well out of

fashion, and a parrot would just make a mess down your
back." He gently took Monshikka's arm. "Come away. You are
still beautiful and you know it."

Monshikka gave himself once last glance and went with

Wess. They made their way to his chambers, and Monshikka
walked to the great standing wardrobe in his bedchamber. He

opened it and began pulling out the garb he wore for
mounted flight. He held up the jacket and sighed.

"This is nonsense, this will not protect me. I will have to

get armor for under it. Which will make me heavier and
harder for you to lift and bugger it all anyway, what if we just
lit out for the Outer Haebrid or the Paladin Isles or maybe
even just the Black Wastes past Green Belt. I hear the Dead
Lake and Sea of Sand have very charming dust storms this
time of year."

Wess walked up behind Monshikka, resting his hands on

Monshikka's shoulders, and said quietly, "It will be fine,
Monshikka. Win or lose, our part will have been played.
Making ourselves ill about it will not help us."

"Oh, fine, easy for you to say, you and your god of

philosophy. I am sure you and he will have a grand time
drinking tea and discussing where we went wrong."
Monshikka dropped the jacket to the bed, and said quietly, "I
am ill. I am ill with fear and weary with all the centuries of
playing cat and mouse with evils that shall forever be more
powerful than we. I would like a chance at being the cat."

Wess gently turned him around, looking into an eye like

pink crystal. "They do not know that we know where they are
and what they are doing. For once, we have the advantage."

Monshikka nodded and said quietly, "You are right. We

have a chance. It is small, but ... we all knew it would come
to this one day. Still, now that I am looking at what may well
be the final end of my life, I wish I had done a few things.
Blackbird's words haunt me. 'If any of you have been

meaning to do something, I suggest now is the time to do it.'
I would do it, but now there is no time."

"Like what?" asked Wess.
Monshikka shrugged. "It does not matter. As I said, there

is no time."

"Perhaps there is. If you tell me."
Monshikka shook his head. "No. There is no time," he said

quietly.

Wess smiled and raised one eyebrow. "How much time

would you need?"

Monshikka glared. "There. Is. No. Time."
Wess nodded. "Very well, as you say." He gently squeezed

his shoulders. "But let us at least enjoy the evening. Why
don't you have a bath, and I shall have supper set up in the
rooftop garden, all right?"

Monshikka nodded. "Very well. That sounds like the best

suggestion I have heard in a long time. I shall meet you there
in about an hour."

Wess kissed his brow. "In an hour, then."
Monshikka watched him depart, a thoughtful expression on

his face. Then he slowly shook his head and walked toward
his bathing chamber, head bowed.

* * * *

Monshikka luxuriated in his bath, taking his time, knowing

Wess would not mind if he was a little late. He finally
emerged, wet and dripping, his long, white hair slicked back
with scented water. He dried himself and started to brush his
hair, but realized he really did not have the strength or heart

for getting dressed up. He left his hair loose and towel-dried,
giving it a shake to put it in some semblance of order. Then
he dressed in an old pair of breeches, a white shirt, and
boots. He went to check his appearance in the mirror and saw
himself looking old, defeated, and very, very tired. His time
was drawing to an end, he felt, and it showed in every
drooping line of his large frame.

"No time left," he whispered. "I denied myself so much in

the name of faith, and now ... there is no time."

He turned and departed the room, walking away from his

reflection. He made his way down the silent hall to the tower
that would lead him up to the rooftop garden, noticing the
Palace seemed strangely empty. The scent and feel of life
were gone. Brysis must have thought of something to tell the
staff and other inhabitants to convince them to leave. It was
just as well—if it sank with them in it, they would be trapped
and left to a slow doom. The enchanted cats would be
trapped as well, but they were a part of the magic of the
Palace, and they, like it, would sleep until it rose again.

Assuming it rose again.
Monshikka walked up the stairs, reaching the door that led

to the garden. He pushed it open, stepping out into the night-
scented air, and stopped.

The great, silver pear tree in the center of the garden had

been decorated with white and silver ribbons, and they blew
softly in the gentle breeze. The night-blooming jasmine and
other flowers were in full glory, filling the air with a fragrance
that spoke of evening itself, and he could hear the soft whirr
and flutter of tiny bats chasing the little fireflies that

illuminated the blossoming plants. Beneath the tree was
spread out a white rug, embroidered lavishly with battlefield
roses and twining, green vines. Laid out on it was a tea set of
white stone, polished thin and almost translucent, as well as a
dagger, wrought of silver, the blade far too thin and delicate
for battle. Beside it was a bowl of herbs and two candles, and
he could smell their fragrance—roses.

Standing in together in a row, looking back at him, clad in

their finest garb, were his friends. Even Arrowsmith was
there, wearing his actual Seer's garb, as opposed to dirty
jeans and motorcycle boots. In the center was Wess, wearing
his black warrior's garb, edged in silver, his hands gloved in
black leather, his long coat fluttering softly in the night wind.

Monshikka's jaw dropped, but no sound came out as he

looked at the tableau laid before him. He shoved back his
damp, unruly hair, confused and speechless. He almost
wanted to ask if they were planning on sacrificing him to
Shallougha, for surely the battlefield roses were his symbol.
Then Wess spoke softly.

"There is always time."
Monshikka swallowed. "But ... I..."
It was just too formal, too proper. What in the name of

Creation were they up to? He glanced around, then looked
back at his friends. Was this an illusion? A faint scent of
engine grease satisfied him that Arrowsmith was real at least,
then Sly turned his head to briefly bite the edge of his
uniform collar. So it was his friends, not an illusion.
Monshikka stepped forward, uncertain.

"Time for what?" he asked.

"You did want to get married, did you not?"
Monshikka blinked. "Yes, but..." The penny suddenly

dropped, and he said indignantly, "I prefer to be asked first!
Look at me!"

Wess just smiled. "You would be beautiful in a sack."
"Just as well, I may as well be in one!"
Wess stepped forward and offered him a silver cup filled

with a fragrant, hot liquid, tiny, blue flowers floating in it. "As
for the asking, I can mend that. Will you marry me?"

Monshikka accepted the cup and smiled, feeling his

remaining eye burn with impending tears. He was shaking,
and his heart was slamming in his chest so hard he thought
he would die.

"Yes," he said quietly.

* * * *

The ceremony was short and simple, steeped in ancient

history and rituals as old as the Palaklais Mountains,
performed in near silence, overseen by the tiny bats. Then,
once the formal ceremony was over, the wine began to flow,
and Misty, Blue, and Arrowsmith went for their instruments
and began regaling their friends with songs and music, some
of which were even clean.

Monshikka walked over to Arrowsmith during a break and

reached out to take his hand. The large man had been very
quiet and distracted throughout the simple ceremony, and
even now he seemed to have a hard time looking at his
friend. He kept his eyes fixed on his glass of wine, smiling
slightly as Monshikka spoke.

"I'm glad you came," he said softly.
"Yeah, well, I had to. When Wess popped up and told me

what he was up to, I knew it would be wrong to just stay
behind and sulk. I knew I would regret it. Besides, I was
dying to see the look on your face when you came out and
saw us."

"This must have been hard for you."
Arrowsmith shrugged and drew a steadying breath. "I'll be

all right. I mean, that's the whole point of the Court, isn't it?
We stand up for each other."

Monshikka smiled. "We do."
Arrowsmith cleared his throat quietly. "I guess it will be

strange for you to wake up and have someone else in your
bed. I mean, as your husband." He cracked a faint smile.
"Hardest part of getting used to Dargoth for me was the way
everyone all piles into the same bed."

Monshikka grinned. "Well, we have to, you see. Blackbird

banned central heating."

Arrowsmith almost spat his wine across the garden and let

out a short laugh. "Ah, I see, so that's your excuse." He
reached out and took Monshikka's arm, looking at the fine
design driven into it with ceremonial ink made from the
burned herbs and the tip of the thin dagger. It was a white
dragon, chasing its own tail, encircling a white rose.

"So what does this mean?"
"It's a glyph, actually," said Monshikka. "A glyph of

promise. If ever one of us betrays the other, we'll know it.
Unnecessary, I think, but considering that Wess and I have
gone from him announcing his intentions to married in so

short a time, he must feel that he needs to assure me of his
sincerity."

"So, what's it do if he betrays you?"
"Burns a nice big smoldering hole in his arm."
"Nice. Hey, Wess! I give that glyph of yours twenty

minutes to blow up!"

Wess made a rude gesture. Arrowsmith chuckled, then

leaned down to give Monshikka a kiss on the cheek. "I'm
happy for you, Blackie. I really am."

"Thank you. Don't call me Blackie."
"How about Pinkie? Snowy? Fluffy? Grumpy?"
"How about Naked?" said Blue. "There's not a damned

thing in his wardrobe that's not ice white. I may be assuming
a great deal here, but that color is no longer going to be
available to him after tonight."

"Ooh! Bets on what color Monshikka is wearing when he

comes downstairs in the morning!" enthused Misty.

"Red," said Monshikka. "After I slay the lot of you."

* * * *

The party ended a little after midnight. They cleaned up

the garden, talking, joking, laughing. No one brought up the
fact that there was no one in the Palace to do it for them.
Arrowsmith departed to spend the night with Silver and his
parents. He would talk to Sjaan about his brother in the
morning, if Brysis had not already. Slowly the little group
disbanded, and Wess and Monshikka made their way in
silence to Monshikka's room. Monshikka seemed lost in his
own thoughts.

"What are you thinking?" Wess asked softly.
"I'm trying to decide how I feel about this whole color

issue. It's nonsense, isn't it?"

"No, I don't think so. You have always been a true follower

of the faith you were raised in. The colors are part of that."

"I'm thinking of changing faith."
"To what?"
"I have no idea; all I know is that I find the idea of having

my garb announce to the entire city what I was doing the
night before distasteful and archaic."

"Well, I'm sure you have gone through it before, in another

lifetime."

Monshikka walked, saying nothing. Wess raised an

eyebrow.

"You ... have ... haven't you? I mean, you're almost a

thousand years old, you can't have been..."

"Yes, I certainly can."
Wess stopped. "You're joking. Honestly."
Monshikka stopped as well and faced him. "I most

certainly am not. I know the basic mechanics of lovemaking
through books and art, but that is it."

"Well ... what about ... you know ... self-pleasuring?"
Monshikka was outraged. "I would do no such thing, don't

be ghastly!"

Wess just stared in disbelief. "So you really are absolutely

virginal."

"That's why I get to wear the white robes," Monshikka said

in a lilting tone.

They continued down the hall. Wess cleared his throat. "I

don't know what to say."

"Well, look at it this way," said Monshikka. "You can be the

worst lover in all Dargoth and I won't know the difference."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Ten

Arrowsmith leaned on the balcony, looking down at the

expanse of gardens below, sipping coffee. It was painfully
early in the morning; the sun had only just risen, and the air
was still cool and damp with the morning dew. He was
wearing only his jeans, and he shivered against the chill of
the morning air, his eyes dark-rimmed and bloodshot from
lack of sleep. He had spent the better part of the night with
his parents and Silver, playing old Grateful Dead songs and
drinking beer, hoping at some point he would fall asleep, but
he couldn't. He kept expecting to see Infamous walk through
the door at any time.

He caught the scent of pipe tobacco and leaned forward to

look across the white expanse of Palace wall to another
balcony. He saw Wess standing there, natty as always,
wearing a velvet dressing gown, brown hair somewhat askew,
smoking a pipe. He spied Arrowsmith and waved, then turned
and walked into the Palace. A few minutes later, Arrowsmith
heard him tap at the door, and he went to let Wess in.
Arrowsmith opened the door and grinned.

"So, how was your night?" he asked, waggling his

eyebrows suggestively.

"Arrowsmith, you know I adore you, but there are times

when you really are a cretin."

Wess lightly hit him over the head with something

wrapped in paper, then passed it to him. Arrowsmith opened
it, finding an egg sandwich. He unwrapped it and took a bite,

stepping aside to let Wess in, who walked over to a chair and
dropped into it. Arrowsmith made his way to another chair
and sat down, taking another bite of his sandwich. It seemed
tasteless, but everything did right then.

"Actually, I came to ask how your night was," said Wess.
Arrowsmith shrugged. "Got drunk. Still drunk, in fact."
"Did you sleep?"
"Tried to."
"Arrowsmith, you have to rest. We need you."
Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah, well, I'm glad someone does."

He ate his sandwich. "So, how was your night?"

Wess smiled slightly and then rose to his feet. "I'll order

you some tea and a sedative so you can get some rest."

"You are no fun."
"I never pretended I was."
"Who got on top?"
"Do you prefer chamomile or blackberry?"
"Aw, come on, Wess! Share!"
"Not even with my mother."
Arrowsmith pouted as Wess left the room to get the tea.

"Hmph. After all I've been through lately, you'd think I
deserved a little vicarious smut," he muttered to himself.

Wess returned shortly, carrying a tray, and followed by a

rather disheveled-looking Keeper of the Forbidden Library ...
wearing white, Arrowsmith noted. Perhaps that was why Wess
wasn't sharing any gossip—there was no gossip to share. Pity
Infamous wasn't there, he would have had a field day with
this little tidbit.

"Morning," said Arrowsmith, smiling. "How's married life?"

Monshikka sat down on a fur-draped chair, hesitating

before he spoke, plainly thinking about the tact required for
discussing his newly formed union with a dear friend whose
own relationship was down the loo.

"Lovely," he finally said.
"Who got on top?"
"Arrowsmith!"
"Well, Infamous isn't here, so someone has to fill the role

of mortifying you."

"I can assure you that you will never be privy to that sort

of information."

"Nice white robe."
Monshikka glared at him. "Thank you. It's Wess'."
"Wearing his undies, too?"
"No! Honestly, Arrowsmith, the things you consider

breakfast conversation!"

"Besides," said Wess, passing Arrowsmith a cup of tea,

"the sharing of undies does not happen until the third year of
marriage."

Arrowsmith took his cup of tea. "Well, I think it's a shame

you won't have children."

Monshikka smiled. "Thank you, Arrowsmith, that's very

sweet."

"Yeah, I think you'd look hilarious with your belly out three

feet, tossing your lunch into the bushes."

Wess snorted, turning his head and covering his mouth

with his hand to avoid spitting tea. Monshikka stared daggers
of ice. "You're vile. You realize this."

Arrowsmith grinned. "Yeah. But someone has to be."

Arrowsmith sipped the tea and flinched. "Holy crap, Wess, do
you think you put enough extract of battlefield rose in it?"

"Well, I was concerned you may have an immunity."
"This would fell an elephant! I see Shallougha doesn't

teach you anything about subtlety."

"You need rest."
Arrowsmith shrugged and drank the tea in a gulp. Within

moments, he was so groggy he needed assistance from Wess
and Monshikka to rise from the chair and head for his bed.
They managed to get him onto the large bed and pulled off
his boots before covering him over. They stayed with him for
a little while until they were sure he was asleep, then they
quietly departed, leaving Arrowsmith curled up under the
covers.

* * * *

Monshikka silently shut the door and turned to Wess,

smiling at him, a long tendril of white hair hanging across his
aristocratic face. Wess gently brushed it aside and kissed him,
then put an arm around him as they began walking back to
Wess' chambers. As they walked, they passed by a window,
the morning sunlight touching Monshikka's pale robe,
revealing a soft green hue.

* * * *

The day passed slowly; the Palace was oddly silent with

the servants and other inhabitants gone. Misty and Blue spent
their time arranging their quarters to accommodate Blue and

his impending foal. Blackbird, meanwhile, worked on the
notes and papers taken from the Rain Mage's chamber, while
the Moonhound went to the Temple of the Moon Goddess in
the city to mentally prepare herself and to have her ancient,
solid silver sword blessed by Lady Seraph. Sly spent the
better part of his time napping in the rooftop garden.

Wess and Monshikka did not appear until after sunset,

when they knew dinner would be laid on the great table in the
dining hall. Arrowsmith had at last awakened and come down
from his bedchamber as well, reeking, depressed and
unshaven, but present. Due to the utter lack of servants,
dinner had neither been made nor served, so they found
themselves gathered in a massive, silent hall, their every
movement echoing, staring at the empty table without so
much as a fork upon it.

"I think I see a flaw in Brysis' reasoning," said Misty.
"We've made dinner before," said the Moonhound, "I am

sure we are capable of doing it again."

Blue said, "We're going out."
Seven pairs of eyes shifted to the little man clad in

sapphire.

"What?" said Wess.
"I said, we're going out. If we are going to be slaughtered

in a horrific manner, I would prefer one last night of
merrymaking, as opposed to sitting here staring at an empty
table and complaining about who gets to cook."

Arrowsmith raised his hand. "I agree with the little blue

unicorn."

"Dinner first," said Blackbird. "Or I won't last five

minutes."

"Well, let's do something novel and let Monshikka choose

the place," said the Moonhound. "He did just get married."

"And is still wearing white," said Misty and Blue in unison.
Monshikka stood up. "We'll go to the Red Rooster, just

because I know you cretins will howl if I pick an
establishment I really do wish to go to."

"No, no," said Arrowsmith. "We're your friends, we love

you, and we will bravely endure any horrid nancing fern-
riddled piano bar you want to go to."

Monshikka paused and glanced around, raising an

eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really," said Misty.
"The Crystal Rose?"
An inaudible groan of agony ran silently through all

gathered at the table. "Sure," the Moonhound forced herself
to say.

Monshikka brightened noticeably. "Wonderful! I'll dress!"
He hurried off, singing. Once gone, his friends moaned and

muttered. The Moonhound allowed her forehead to hit the
polished surface of the table.

"Great, this life we get to die twice," she said.
"I have to bathe now, don't I?" said Arrowsmith.
"We would all appreciate the gesture," said Misty.
"Come, come," said Wess, "we can do this, we are brave."
"I protest," said Blackbird, "what have we ever done to

him?"

"Toss his father and brother in the dungeon?" suggested

Blue. "What happened to those two, anyway?"

"I had them transferred to the main jail in the city center,"

said the Moonhound. "They are in the north tower, which is
where they shall stay. That tower is fortified with
enchantments. They will not be escaping, and no one will be
breaking them out."

"And what about Lykara?" asked Misty. "Monshikka has

great faith in her ability to lead wisely and fairly, but she is
still a woman, and Kiriannans tend to think females incapable
of dressing themselves, let alone ruling a realm."

"Already dealt with," said the Moonhound. "Technically,

Monshikka is now king of Kirianna. He is a rightful heir, and
male, so as far as the Kiriannan people know there is still a
man in charge, though Lykara is the one truly running the
kingdom. I fear there is not time enough to change the
attitudes of a realm, and she herself is more comfortable
hiding behind her brother. So, as far as the people know,
Lykara is simply parroting orders that come from her brother.
It's not quite the arrangement I had wished for, but it is still
better than what was there before." She sighed. "If we
survive, I mean to go up to Kirianna for a while and help her
find her strength."

"You mean if we survive Takeshta and Rhaklan?" asked

Arrowsmith. "Or taking Monshikka to the Crystal Rose?"

"Both," said the Moonhound.
Wess stood up. "Come, valiant friends, he did just get

married, this is the least we can do. And we will enjoy
ourselves no matter how bloody painful it is. But since the

Moonhound said Monshikka should pick the place, I vote she
pays for the evening. All in favor?"

"Aye!" agreed seven voices.
"Hey!" she protested.
"Come, my lovely wife, a queen must never argue with the

will of the people," said Blackbird. "And queen or not, if you
wish to get into the Crystal Rose, you are going to have to
put on a dress."

"I don't own a dress."
"Of course you do, that lovely, purple thing."
The Moonhound had to think before she recalled the dress

in question. "It's a coronation gown! I'm not wearing a
coronation gown out for a night on the town!!"

"Well, then, you'll just have to go buy one," said Misty.
The Moonhound stomped out of the dining room,

grumbling. The others made their way to their own rooms to
change.

* * * *

Arrowsmith sat at a table in the far corner of the room,

drinking beer. Beside him was Blackbird, picking at some
assorted dainties on a tray. His Majesty was seated on a large
pillow set on an enormous chair, and both he and Arrowsmith
were watching the rest of the court enjoying themselves.

"This isn't as painful as I thought it would be," said

Arrowsmith.

Blackbird smiled. He had drunk three glasses of wine and

danced twice, and that was about all his little body could
stand. He was exhausted and more than content to just sit

and watch everyone else. He glanced at Arrowsmith, who was
wearing his formal indigo and gold Seer's robes, and looking
regal, refined, and more handsome than was customary, even
for him. Blackbird smiled.

"It's very sweet of you to sit and keep me company."
Arrowsmith smiled and shrugged. "Well, I'm not really in

the mood for a party, and this is not my crowd. I wouldn't
know what to talk about. Besides, I thought it would be a
good chance to pick your brain about a few details before we
all die horribly."

Blackbird laughed. "Well, you can pick my brain, but

please, I would rather not assume we are all going to die." He
motioned to a server to bring him a drink, something cold
with a lot of fruit in it. Arrowsmith actually giggled.

"You are so cute."
"Thank you."
"No, I mean it, you are adorable, sitting there on your

pillow in your great big chair, drinking your little drinks with
the fruit. I know guys at home who would want to beat you
up just for being little, never once guessing that you could fry
them like a bug."

Blackbird smiled. "Or I could just permit my dainty lady to

eat them."

Arrowsmith smiled, then glanced toward the Moonhound.

She had donned her formal uniform, as opposed to any sort
of gown, and was currently dancing with Blue. He sipped his
beer, then looked at Blackbird.

"Berengar could have killed me at any time back on my

world. Why didn't he?"

Blackbird shrugged. "Perhaps he knew you would just

come back. Perhaps ... he was trying to do something else,
manipulate you into a situation where you would kill
yourself."

Arrowsmith thought about the old needle tracks on his

arms. It had been Berengar, aka good old Uncle Smash, who
had first urged him to try heroin.

"Why kill myself? I mean, why would that make any

difference? I'd still just be back."

Blackbird shook his head. "But he did not know that. You

see, magicks, especially powerful magicks, all have a flaw in
them. They must, because truly flawless magic cannot exist.
Nature abhors absolutes, and magic is a natural element.
Berengar knew if he killed you, you would be back. But,
perhaps if you killed yourself, even accidentally, you would be
gone for good. Berengar was looking for the flaw. If suicide
did not break the spell, he would try something else."

Arrowsmith looked at Blackbird, eyes wide in surprise.

"You mean, how we die can affect whether or not we return?"

Blackbird nodded, looking down at his drink, saying

nothing. Arrowsmith just stared at him.

"You know what the flaw is, don't you?"
"Yes. I created an intentional flaw, so I could control it,

rather than have one chosen by Nature take us by surprise."

"So, what is it?"
"I can't tell you."
"Tell me, or I will paint you green."
Blackbird raised an eyebrow. Arrowsmith backed off. "Fine.

I'm probably happier not knowing, anyway. So, tell me

another thing; I must have found out at some point in time
that Wess is a dragonhawk..."

"Wess is not a dragonhawk. Dragonhawks are intelligent

and they can learn to speak, but they have no ability to
shapeshift. Wess is the Well Guardian. I have given him the
ability to transform into a dragonhawk so to better perform
his duties, but he is human."

"Oh. Okay. So Wess is the Well Guardian, and Misty is the

Royal Assassin, and I must have known that in some other
life besides this one, soooo..."

"Why don't you remember that when you Recall?"
"Yeah."
Blackbird shrugged. "Because you can't betray what you

don't know. It is the same with all of us. At the time I created
all the magicks that surround us, I was just trying to protect
this mad little family as best I could. I thought that by not
remembering what each other's purpose was in the Court, we
would be better hidden from any who wished to cause us
harm. You can't tell anyone Misty is the assassin if you don't
know, just as Wess can't tell anyone you are the Seer if he
doesn't know. The only two who Recall everything are myself
and Monshikka."

"Monshikka? Not the Moonhound?"
Blackbird shook his head. "She didn't feel she needed it.

Besides, I tell her everything anyway. And Monshikka needs
to know because he is the Keeper of the Library. It's his duty
to keep track of all the stored information regarding
everything we have been through. He wouldn't be very

effective if he spent half of each lifetime relearning old
information."

"I suppose. But..."
"Seems a trifle odd, right?"
"Yes."
Blackbird shrugged. "If I had the knowledge then that I

have now, I would have changed few things, but all in all, I
would say things have worked out. We're still here."

"But you're still not going to tell me the flaw."
"No."
"I'll whine."
"I don't care."
"I'll kiss you."
"I still don't care."
"I'll tell your wife you slept with me."
"You do, and I'll turn you into a boot! Besides, I am not

about to divulge that sort of information in a public place.
We've had trouble enough with spies, let alone announcing
how to kill us all for good."

"Point taken. So, the big question. When do we go after

Takeshta?"

"Tomorrow evening," said Blackbird.
"That soon? What about the stuff we found in the Rain

Mage's room?"

"I have unraveled what secrets I could on the scrolls. It

was very useful stuff, regarding the wand and how to use it,
so that is one more weapon to use along with the figurines
and dust. And I have a staff I shall bring, as well as a few
other things. If we strike tomorrow evening, Berengar will still

be little more than dead flesh, and the cold of the evening
shall make the Night Serpent slow. He is a lord of reptiles, he
does not fare well when the air is cool. If I have time to
conjure a rain, I shall. It will make the air cooler, and him
slower."

"Can't be slow enough for me," muttered Arrowsmith.
He ordered another beer and watched Wess and

Monshikka whirling gracefully across the polished stone dance
floor, Monshikka clad in a glorious outfit of scarlet and black,
his long, white hair flowing loose down his back, his beauty
unmarred by the black eye patch he now wore.

"I should have taken better care of him," said Arrowsmith

quietly. "I neglected him. I was always dragging him to places
he hated, and never once did we do what he wanted, because
I was an asshole and I'd bitch about it. Now he's gone, and
there's no time to say I'm sorry or make it up to him."

Blackbird reached out his small, elegant hand and gently

placed it on Arrowsmith's, squeezing it.

"You can kiss me, if you like."
Arrowsmith chuckled quietly, then looked at the tiny

wizard, his large, golden-brown eyes shining wetly.

"Best offer I've had all evening," he said, and softly kissed

him. Then, as he drew back, he asked very softly, "What are
our chances, really? Can we kill them? We have lived in fear
of Rhaklan and Takeshta for so long, and we know they are
stronger than us."

Blackbird let out a long, slow exhalation of breath. Finally,

he said, "I do not know. Undead are never an easy foe, and
these two in particular are of immense power. But even if we

do not destroy them, we can render them harmless for a
time. And if we fall, at least Brysis has the Red Jewel. We can
but hope he will not be found with it."

Arrowsmith sipped his beer. "I don't like asking this, but

considering we have now had two supposed friends, Archem
and Smash, betray us, can we really trust Brysis? What if he
is also a sworn enemy? What if he is made an offer he can't
refuse, such as his sight in exchange for the Jewel?"

Blackbird shook his head emphatically. "No. No, he would

not do such a thing. He does have the grace of Marakim upon
him, and one does not earn that by being easily tempted. To
be blind and to have Marakim bestow the Sacred Sight is a
gift, a blessing. He sees, Arrowsmith. Not as you and I do,
but believe me, he does see. If Marakim thought for a
moment Brysis would betray anyone, let alone us, he would
never have given him the Sight."

Arrowsmith nodded. "Good. That, at least, is something. It

means we will likely be back if we do not survive." He finished
his beer and rose to his feet. "Well, I'm going to go spend
some time with Silver and my parents. I have to let them
know what's going on. Then I'm going to go sit with Sjaan a
bit. He's pretty distraught over Infamous' disappearance; I
want to make sure he's okay. I know he has Dherrin to look
after him, but I ... feel responsible."

Blackbird nodded. "I understand," he said quietly. "Be back

in the Palace tomorrow evening at sunset. That is when we
leave for Palaklais."

Arrowsmith nodded. He gave Blackbird's tiny hand a

squeeze, then left.

* * * *

It was early evening, and Arrowsmith was getting ready.
He dressed in his jeans, a black T-shirt, and his leather

jacket with his biker colors on the back. He had a pair of
fingerless gloves, once black leather, now worn to a sort of
bluish grey, the knuckles lined with inch-long barbed spikes.
Then he pulled on his heavy motorcycle boots, with razors
inserted beneath the uppers to deliver a vicious slash along
with a kick. Finally, he put on his mirrored sunglasses and
tied his long hair back with a strip of black cloth. He looked
over at his red and gold motorcycle, sitting patiently in a
corner of the room as it had since Arrowsmith had arrived in
White Palace. No cold garage for Harley; he stayed in the
same room as his owner.

"You'll be okay here, Harley," said Arrowsmith. "If I don't

come back, the Palace will sink and you'll be safe." He smiled.
"And if I do come back, you and me and Silver and his bike
Nemesis will go for a road trip like we used to. You like
Nemesis, don't you? Those fine, clean lines, that long, lean
frame..."

Harley could not speak. But with the aid of magical

enchantments, he could make his feelings known. The
massive engine made a rumble of derision.

"Ah, you're just pissed because he's faster than you. But I

built both of you, so be nice. You both got parts from that
shovelhead I took apart years ago, so I think that means
you're related."

Harley made another annoyed sound. Arrowsmith walked

over to the massive red and gold bike and touched the horse
skull that sat just above the headlight.

"You take care, Harley. I'll be back ... sooner or later."
He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a huge piece

of oilcloth with the words "Harley's Tarp" stenciled across the
side in Old English style letters. He draped it over the bike
and then looked around the room to see if there was anything
he was forgetting. Simon was still at the main Temple of the
Moon Goddess with Lady Seraph, and Ducky was with his
parents.

And Infamous was just plain gone.
Arrowsmith walked over to the massive vanity that held

the chest in which Infamous stored his favorite bits of
jewelry. He opened it, a faint smile crossing his lips at the
sight of the glittering hoard. He pulled out one piece—a piece
of onyx carved to look like a fold of cloth pierced by an angle-
bladed dagger made of white gold, the pommel crafted of a
diamond. Dagger and cloth were backed by an eight-pointed
star made of blue-white diamond—the symbol of the
Snoweaver clan and the descendants of Marakim.

Arrowsmith pinned the brooch to the inside of his leather

jacket, where it would be next to his heart, and walked out of
the room, leaving it in silent darkness. He walked down the
long hallway to Wess and Monshikka's room and knocked on
the door. Monshikka answered, clad in a grey and black riding
outfit. Arrowsmith was so accustomed to seeing him in white
that he honestly didn't recognize him at first.

"Grey doesn't suit you," he said.

"So I hear," said Monshikka, "but I think bright pink and

orange is inappropriate for battle."

"If you wear pink and orange in public, then I'm not talking

to you. Are you two ready?"

Monshikka looked over his shoulder and smiled as Wess

approached, wearing boots, breeches, a plain white shirt, and
leather vest.

"Well, that's a suitably ugly outfit," said Arrowsmith.
"I'm not dressing up just so I can turn into a dragonhawk."
"Good point. Come on, the funeral procession is

assembling in the reception hall."

Monshikka sighed. "You know, Arrowsmith, I realize this

may not have occurred to you, but there is a possibility we
could win."

Arrowsmith shrugged. "Yeah. I suppose. Then I can come

back here and stare at Infamous' belongings all over the
rooms I used to share with him."

"Arrowsmith," said Wess quietly, "I realize you have

suffered a horrendous loss; in fact, we all have. He was our
friend, too, and we all feel his absence. But I don't really want
to die because you have lost the will to live."

Monshikka suddenly decided that 'now' was a good time to

head to the reception hall. Arrowsmith stared in utter shock
at Wess.

"What are you saying? You think I'm not in this?"
"I am saying," said Wess, "I don't think battling for your

life is high on your list of priorities right now."

Arrowsmith was surprised to find he had enough inner

strength to become irate.

"You're right. I'm having a very hard time giving a damn

about my life. In fact, I'm having a very hard time refraining
from belting you in the nose and then going back to my room
to sulk. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to do everything
I can to protect the people I love, and frankly, if all I do is sit
here and feel sorry for myself while you all go out and fight
Takeshta and her decomposing cronies, then I am never, ever
going to be able to look any of you in the eye ever again."

Wess nodded. "I understand. And I'm sorry. I just don't

want to see anything happen to any of us, including you."

Arrowsmith raised an eyebrow. "And perhaps your brand

new husband?"

"I admit the thought crossed my mind."
Arrowsmith put an arm around Wess' shoulders, and the

two began making their way to the reception hall. "Don't
worry, Wess, I won't let anything happen to your widdle
schnoogums."

"Thank you. And we will do the same for you."
Arrowsmith smiled. "Thanks.
The two descended the stairs to the lower level of the

Palace. The place was dark and silent and had an eerie feel to
it. Arrowsmith could not recall ever having seen the Palace
deserted before. He found himself wishing he would suddenly
wake up and find all was well with the world, he was back at
the Mountain Cabin, and Infamous was asleep beside him.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sight of a

short, stocky figure walking into their line of sight and
pausing. Arrowsmith was startled to realize it was none other
than Hemas Ironfist. The Dwarf was then joined by two more

figures, tall, willowy, and moving with the slow grace of ages.
One was clad in a glittering green coat over a silken shirt of
gold, and the second in a sparking coat of electric blue over a
shirt of blood red. It was Fairenya and Dherrin, and following
Dherrin was a small figure with long dreadlocks, beaded with
onyx and silver. Arrowsmith felt his heart leap briefly, but
then he realized it was Sjaan, not Infamous. He walked up to
the small group and grinned at Hemas.

"Long time no see!" he said.
Hemas grinned back. "Aye, that it has! And I'm not empty-

handed!" He reached under his cloak and pulled forth a small
pouch made of black velvet. He handed the pouch to
Arrowsmith, who accepted it.

"What is it?"
"What is it!? What do you mean, 'what is it'? It's the

necklace you requested!"

Arrowsmith felt his stomach turn over. His mouth went

dry, and his eyes burned as his shaking hands opened the
small pouch. He dumped out the necklace and stared at the
glittering item. It had seemed so very long ago since he made
his bet with Hemas, but as he stared at the necklace, he
could recall the whole evening so well.

The necklace was really more of a collar, crafted of white

gold and studded with large, star-cut diamonds, and, for a
front piece, there was a large ruby, glittering like a perfect
drop of blood on the untainted white. Infamous would have
adored it. Arrowsmith just stared at it and felt his heart
struggle to keep beating in his breast.

Hemas looked worried at Arrowsmith's reaction. "What's

the matter? Is there something wrong with it?"

Arrowsmith slowly shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"It's perfect."

"Then...?"
Fairenya put a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, and Hemas

fell silent. As Arrowsmith stared transfixed at the collar, the
tall Elf changed the subject.

"We are coming with you."
Wess looked surprised. "Coming with us? To where?"
"Don't play stupid, love; that, I believe, is my job," said

Dherrin. "Little darling Sjaan here spilled the beans about
your forthcoming adventure. We are not letting you go ahead
without us."

"You can't come," said Wess.
"We are not asking if we may come," said Hemas. "We are

telling you that we are coming, whether you like it or not."

"Stone Realm and Infinity Mountain both have been forced

to endure the shadow of Takeshta's evil for many long years,"
said Dherrin. "We have just as much to lose as you do. More
so, if you fail. I do not understand why you do not march on
them with an entire army."

"You cannot march an army into Palaklais," said Wess.

"There is not enough passage and there is not enough time,
and if we try, they will notice and either go into hiding or
strike first. No, this is the best way."

"Then we're coming," said Fairenya. "Dherrin, Hemas, and

I."

"And me," said Sjaan softly.

All present abruptly looked at him. Dherrin shook his head.
"No. Sjaan, you..."
"I know," said Sjaan. "I can't do anything, I'm not good at

anything, and I have the brains of a songbird. But my brother
is lost somewhere in those mountains. He is the only person
who ever cared about what I wanted and looked out for me. I
won't get into the battle, I'm not that stupid, but maybe if I
am there I can find him. Or he will find me. But I am going,
and I don't care what you say, you can't make me stay. I will
walk if I must, and die lost somewhere miles off course. It
would be just like me. But I am going."

"Only," said Arrowsmith, "if you swear to stay in the

Temple of Marakim."

Sjaan nodded. "I swear."
Arrowsmith smiled, though Dherrin did not look pleased.

Arrowsmith took the diamond collar and fastened it around
Sjaan's neck.

"And if you find him, give him that."
Sjaan smiled. "I'll make him fight me for it, like when we

were children." He reached out and took Arrowsmith's hand
between his own and looked up into his eyes. "If Infamous is
half Black Elf, then I must be as well. Perhaps I can reach
them in a way you did not."

Arrowsmith smiled and said quietly, "Sjaan, don't let

anyone ever tell you that you are useless ever again."

* * * *

They materialized on the balcony, and Arrowsmith felt

nervous at the softness of the wood beneath his feet. It would

not hold their weight for long; his only hope was that it would
hold just long enough. He glanced over at Blue and Blackbird.
Blue was in his usual minstrel garb, complete with cavalier
hat. Blackbird was in breeches and a tunic, with an outer coat
that went down to his ankles. In his left hand was a tall staff,
and in his right a wand. Blue was holding a massive, black
crossbow that looked too big for him, but he handled it with a
skill that indicated familiarity with the thing.

Arrowsmith quietly drew his Luger, and the three stood,

unmoving, doing nothing to attract attention to themselves.
They watched the ghastly assembly beneath them, while the
sky above them rumbled and threatened to storm. Rain was
falling, and without Blackbird's aid. The weather, at least, was
on their side. SkullDigger sat in the rain, the water running
off his greasy fur, his heads occasionally shaking. Takeshta
and Rhaklan were still seated on the rotting thrones, their
attention focused on the bleeding meat that had once been
Berengar. They had accomplished a great deal; the corpse
was now recognizable as having once been human. Overhead,
Arrowsmith heard a faint sound like the ringing of crystal, the
sound of a dragonhawk's wings. That meant Wess and
Monshikka were out there as well, circling.

Something stirred in the darkness, a massive, black

silhouette, serpent-shaped, sluggish from the cold rain.
SkullDigger looked over at the thing, then the three heads
began whispering amongst themselves, muttering the
deranged ramblings of any back-alley wino.

"Do you think he knows?"
"No, I don't think so. Shh. Don't tell him."

"No, we won't tell."
"We can't tell anyway. They'll hear."
Arrowsmith felt sick with nerves. Tell what? Who will hear?

He wondered if SkullDigger had seen them appear on the
balcony. He was insane, but he was also dangerous, and
Arrowsmith still had the scars from his teeth to prove it.

He raised the Luger and pointed it at Takeshta's head.

Inside, the pistol were bullets crafted of purest silver, blessed
by Lady Seraph to ensure they did as much damage to the
Lich-Queen as possible. The sacred metal would not only
cause massive holes and the smashing of dried bone and
desiccated flesh, but would ignite it as well. With the patience
of a sniper, he awaited his signal. Beside him, Blue quietly
loaded the massive crossbow with a heavy iron bolt, the
arrowhead dipped in molten silver and mercury. All three
elements were said to do great harm to undead creatures,
and Arrowsmith winced as he saw Blue pluck one of his own
hairs from his head and wrap it around the arrowhead.
Quicksilver and unicorn hair—if Rhaklan survived the bolt, she
was going to be one very angry anti-paladin.

The floor began slowly sagging under Arrowsmith's right

boot, and he had to carefully adjust his weight. He glanced at
Blackbird, who nodded. Once the battle began, they would
have to find a safer perch. There was the soft scrape of
dragonhawk claws on the roof. Arrowsmith's hand began to
shake very slightly. He hoped the Moonhound gave her signal
soon.

The signal came; a small, white stone landing on the

balcony between his feet, and Arrowsmith squeezed the

trigger. The explosion was so loud in the ancient chamber
that the pistol may as well have been a cannon. Takeshta's
head exploded like dust and old pottery, and the complex
spell she and Rhaklan were weaving to raise Berengar was
broken. The body returned to what it had been, a few scraps
of meat and some dog droppings. Rhaklan stood up and
shrieked, uttering a horrific, high-pitched noise of rage, but
did not have time enough to cast a spell before Blue's
crossbow bolt drove into her breast where her heart had
been, centuries ago. She dropped to the ground, and
Arrowsmith hoped she was dead ... or deader. Takeshta was
missing most of her head, but was still up on her feet and
preparing a spell.

The Moonhound and Sly rushed SkullDigger, both in wolf

form, and he went from watching in silent confusion to
enraged. One head sank its teeth into Sly's shoulder, while
the other two tore into the Moonhound. In seconds, there was
naught but a writhing mass of blood-spraying fur as the three
battled viciously. Arrowsmith fired again, striking Takeshta in
the chest, smashing open the dried brown flesh and the
brittle bones, breaking her concentration.

Something dropped from the sky, wings spread, diving

straight for the most vulnerable target: Takeshta. Wess rolled
as he passed her, kicking out his back feet and reducing her
to kindling. Monshikka threw the bag of dust to the ground,
and seconds later, Takeshta was covered in a living carpet of
carnivorous insects. They fed upon her undead flesh as she
screamed, and Arrowsmith looked for another target. He did
not get a chance to find one.

Rhaklan came up with a scream of pure rage, and

suddenly the balcony ripped from the wall with a stench of
wet, rotten wood. Arrowsmith hit the floor hard, lying
stunned, unsure of what had just happened. He could hear
Dherrin shrieking in agony, and Hemas shouting and swearing
as his axe hacked again and again into flesh with a wet,
ghastly noise. Arrowsmith slowly sat up, stunned, and looked
for Blackbird and Blue, seeing neither of them for the
moment. He crawled off to a corner to catch his breath and
gasped in horror as he saw Dherrin flung across the room. He
heard Dherrin hit the stone wall, his body making a series of
popping, snapping sounds, then he fell to the floor like a wet,
discarded doll and lay still, bleeding. Arrowsmith scrambled to
his side, reaching out to touch him gingerly. The Elf was
making horrid, wet sounds as he struggled to breathe, then
Blackbird was suddenly by his side.

"Arrowsmith, are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I just had the wind knocked out of me."
Blackbird nodded. "I'm taking Dherrin out of here; I'll be

right back."

The small wizard took hold of Dherrin's wrist with his right

hand, then used his left to grab the travel crystal about his
neck. They vanished just as SkullDigger managed to get his
teeth into Sly's foreleg, and there came a loud crunch as the
bones crushed. Sly thrashed in silent agony, then latched hold
of an ear and ripped it off. The Moonhound had another two
sets of jaws to deal with, and her face was already torn and
bleeding, but she managed to get her formidable jaws around
the throat of the middle head and puncture something with

the sickly, wet sound of cartilage breaking. Arrowsmith
dragged himself to his feet and got off a couple shots, both
bullets hitting the middle head, smashing through the skull
and splattering bones and brains. SkullDigger screamed and
dropped both Sly and the Moonhound, then backed up,
shaking his heads. Arrowsmith froze in horror at the sight of
the middle head, shattered and running with matter, yet still
clearly functioning. Then the great monster paused, as if a
thought had occurred to it. Slowly, all three heads looked
toward Arrowsmith, and the seven eyes narrowed as he
stared at the large man.

"You..." he growled.
"Shit," said Arrowsmith.
SkullDigger leapt straight for him. Arrowsmith fired his

pistol and managed to shoot away a portion of the creature's
left head, but it failed to slow him down. Someone shouted,
"Arrowsmith, run!" Arrowsmith did not need to be told twice.
He fled out the door and into the huge ballroom, hearing the
sound of massive claws scrabbling across the marble floor. He
had nowhere to go, and he knew it; his only hope was to
avoid the creature until he found a place where he could turn
and fight.

There was the sound of crystal ringing, and a great

whoosh of some huge winged creature diving. Wess flicked
out a razor-edged wing, opening up a massive gash in
SkullDigger's side. The wound oozed bloody pus, and the
flesh hung down in a flap, the ribs exposed. SkullDigger leapt
at Wess, but the dragonhawk was faster than the god's
earthly form. The flick of a bladed tail severed the spine of

the right head, and the light went out of the red eyes.
SkullDigger staggered and gasped and looked astonished. As
the massive beast stood, rooted to the floor in shock,
Arrowsmith fired, aiming for and hitting the jaw of the left
head, smashing it, leaving only the middle head with a
working jaw.

SkullDigger backed up, looking stunned and confused. He

cringed, tail going between his legs, and he blinked, looking
suddenly frightened and vulnerable, like any dog who does
not know why it is being beaten. He backed away a little
further, and for a moment Arrowsmith thought he was going
to run. He actually felt a pang of sympathy for the distraught
monster...

The attack came so fast that Arrowsmith had no time to

react. The creature lunged and grabbed him so swiftly that he
did not even realize it had moved. Not until he felt that
terrifying and oh-so-horribly familiar sensation of
SkullDigger's teeth stabbing into his flesh. SkullDigger reared
and savagely shook him back and forth before throwing him
across the room. Arrowsmith slammed into a wall, bouncing
off of it and falling to the ground. He lay bleeding, feeling
detached from his body and the world around him. The fight
was over, at least for him. His only thought now was to not
die here, lying in the dirt, possibly waiting to be devoured by
SkullDigger; or worse, being dragged to Skulldigger's plane to
suffer eternal torment there.

His left arm still worked, and he had just enough presence

of mind to reach for the travel crystal around his neck. He
closed his eyes and thought of his room back at the Mountain

Cabin. He envisioned his loft bed in the hay, the scent of
alfalfa and clover perfuming the air as the winter sun peeked
in through the small window. Then he was there, locked away
and safe, home in his own bed. Arrowsmith reached out to
turn on his CD player, not wishing to die in lonely silence. He
vaguely wondered how it got here from White Palace, then
slowly exhaled, closing his eyes, and peacefully awaited
death.

* * * *

Wess saw SkullDigger grab Arrowsmith, but was not swift

enough to stop him from throwing his friend like a discarded
fish. He heard the large man hit the wall with the sound of
bones popping, and landed on SkullDigger in a rage, using all
his formidable weapons: claws, wings, and tail blade. Finally,
he drew back his long, spear-shaped head with its lethal crest
and drove it straight down into SkullDigger's body, punching
through flesh and bone like thick mud and sticks. He yanked
it out and drove down again, and again, and did not stop until
SkullDigger was an unrecognizable heap of meat and bone.
Then he looked to where he knew Arrowsmith had fallen, but
did not see him.

"He's gone," said Wess.
"Then we must assume he went back to White Palace for

help," said Monshikka.

Wess nodded. Then the attention of both was drawn to the

throne room by what sounded like a series of explosions. The
doors blew off the hinges in a shower of wood splinters and a

reek of old death. It was Rhaklan, and she was mounted on a
massive, black dragon, as undead as its ghastly master.

"Oh, goody," said Monshikka, "Look, she still has the same

dragon she had when she leveled Palaklais!"

Wess groaned. "I was hoping she had forgotten where she

put him."

"Apparently not."
The desiccated monster swung its massive head and

opened its jaws. Wess shot straight up and narrowly missed a
blast of sizzling acid. A pool of ghastly, reeking fluid spilled
across the floor, eating into the marble and filling the air with
toxic gases. Wess flew above the cloud of poison, then
glanced over his shoulder at Monshikka.

"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine; it didn't touch me."
"I'm going to put you on that wall over there. You can fire

down at Rhaklan and her pet while staying out of harm's way,
and I can face them head on. Acid won't harm me, not in this
form."

* * * *

Monshikka nodded and let Wess carry him to the top of the

massive wall. He dismounted, perching on the old stone, and
watched as Wess turned and plummeted down toward the
dragon. He flinched as he saw Wess catch the full force of an
acid spray. The tack melted off his body like cheap ink in the
rain, but he himself was unmarked. Monshikka pointed his
crossbow at Rhaklan, but held back from firing as he saw
Misty suddenly materialize. Misty had temporarily forsaken

his crystal and gold dagger for one of Hemas' axes. He hewed
away one of the dragon's rotted forelegs and vanished as the
beast collapsed. The dragon, enraged, vomited up a massive
spray of acid, saturating the entire area in burning fluid and
noxious fumes. Gagging, Monshikka was forced to abandon
his perch. He climbed down the outside of the wall slowly and
carefully, hanging onto the brickwork and friezes until he
reached the ground. He was startled by Misty's sudden
appearance beside him. He sagged and clutched at his heart.

"Misty, you frightened the life out of me. Are you all right?"
Misty was tearing off his gloves. "Help me get undressed. I

caught some of the spray."

Monshikka pulled a dagger and sliced off Misty's shirt,

while Misty tore off his belt and sword sheath, dropping them.
He checked himself over, then breathed a sigh of relief. He
looked at Monshikka.

"We are in a great deal of trouble, my friend. Have you

seen Blue?"

"No, I have not. Arrowsmith is gone."
Misty's eyes went large. "Gone? Dead?"
"I do not know about dead, but not far from it. He had

sense enough to use his travel crystal to take himself
somewhere safe, but I cannot swear as to whether he is alive
or dead. SkullDigger threw him into the wall. How is Dherrin?"

"Blackbird took him to Lady Seraph. I don't think he is

going to make it."

"Did Blackbird return?"

There was a sudden, violent surge of flame, shooting out

of the roof of the ballroom and rising hundreds of feet into the
air.

"That would appear to be a yes," said Misty. "Lend me

your crossbow."

Monshikka passed him his weapon. "What do you want me

to do?"

"Do you remember where the old armory is?"
"Yes."
"Go there and grab any iron bolts you can find; wooden

shafts with iron arrowheads will do."

Monshikka nodded and made his way down the hill in

search of the old armory. Misty evaporated into the night and
moved toward an opening in the wall.

* * * *

Blackbird returned from taking Dherrin to Lady Seraph,

materializing in the ballroom, only to find that the air was
poison. He coughed, but managed to cast a Cold Fire spell
just as he felt himself grabbed by Wess. Both were forced to
retreat, choking on the fumes. The acid could not harm Wess'
dragonhawk body, but the toxic fumes burned his throat and
eyes and seeped into his lungs. Wess flew out of the
ballroom, gagging and coughing, and dropped gracelessly to
the ground. Blackbird sat down beside him, choking also,
wiping at his burning eyes.

"We can't get near her, not in that cloud. We will have to

use ranged weapons and magic."

Wess coughed blood and forced himself to get to his feet.

"Get on my back. I'll take you up."

"Wess, are you sure?"
He coughed again, then nodded, flecks of SkullDigger's

blood and flesh still on his head. "Yes. I can do it."

Blackbird nodded and climbed onto his back, holding onto

the silken skin. Wess beat his wings, and they rose high into
the air, until finally they were looking down into the ballroom.
The Moonhound was once more in her human form, and she,
Blue, and Misty were firing crossbows at Rhaklan, trying to
stay out of range of the acid-belching dragon. They saw a
vibrant flash of green and gold, and they watched as Fairenya
suddenly landed on the back of the dragon, armed with a foil
and a dagger. He lunged for Rhaklan, slashing at her,
inflicting several savage injuries. Then the dragon swung its
head and caught the Elf with the full force of its acid stream.
There was no sound, no cry, no noise at all from the Elf. He
simply melted as if he was made of fragile ice. Within the
span of a second, the thousand-year-old Elf was no more.

Blackbird heard himself gasp, unable to grasp what he had

just seen. Blue fired an iron bolt from his crossbow, and the
great projectile, dipped in mercury and silver, the head bound
with unicorn hair, smashed into the skull of the dragon. Bone
shattered, and fragments flew in all directions. The dragon
screamed in agony, and Wess took the opportunity to dive
down at Rhaklan.

He did not reach her.
Something serpentine and utterly black shot up out of the

darkness with deadly accuracy, catching Wess in its jaws. He

shrieked in agony, and Blackbird was thrown from Wess'
back. The small mage landed hard, and he cried out as he felt
his hip break. He was abruptly dragged off the floor and his
long coat stripped from him, but he had managed to avoid
the pools of acid burning into the marble. He watched in
horror as Wess screamed and struggled, clawing at the face
of the enormous serpent that held him in its jaws, his one
free wing beating wildly, tail lashing. There was a loud
crunch, and he suddenly went limp. The serpent spat him out,
and he tumbled to the floor, where he lay in a broken heap.
Blackbird could hear Monshikka screaming his husband's
name as Misty grabbed him and began dragging him out of
the acid-soaked ballroom into the great chamber that was the
first hall. The Moonhound snatched up Blackbird.

"Come on, we have to get out of this acid!"
"Wess," he said quietly, stunned.
The Moonhound said nothing. Those who were still able to

fight fled to the first hall and away from the acid and toxic
fumes, while Rhaklan's dragon shuddered and convulsed,
finally growing still. Resting on the floor, it slowly dissolved in
its own acid.

The Moonhound carried Blackbird into the hall and looked

around. "Only six of us left," she observed.

"Seven!" declared a voice. Blackbird looked and saw

Hemas, grim and bloodied, but alive. He grinned.

"I thought we lost you," said the Moonhound.
"Nay, not yet you haven't," said the Dwarf.
"We have to get out of here; we're not going to win!" said

Misty.

"No!" screamed Monshikka. "If we flee now, they will just

hunt us down; we have no choice but to stand and fight!"

"He's right!" said the Moonhound. "We have to see this

through. If we run, it will just give Rhaklan time to summon
her minions!"

She put Blackbird down on the floor near a pillar, making

him as comfortable as she could. She then drew her sword
and turned to face the doors, just as they were smashed off
their hinges by the enormous serpent. Screaming, she went
straight for the monster, Sly and Hemas alongside her. Misty
vanished into a puff of grey smoke, while Blue fired his
crossbow at the thing. Unarmed, Monshikka went to
Blackbird's side. The tiny wizard passed him the two hematite
figures.

"Get behind Rhaklan and cast these to the ground near

her. Make sure you throw them hard, they must shatter."

Monshikka took the figures and nodded, then ran off to do

as instructed, while Blackbird pulled forth the wand that Wess
had found in the Rain Mage's chamber and invoked it. There
was a great flash of blue-white light, and suddenly a gigantic,
silver dragon appeared. It roared, the sound causing the very
walls to shake, then spewed forth a cloud of ice and freezing
water, hitting the Night Serpent full on. The black creature
screamed in agony as the glacial blast struck it, the sound
rising in pitch as Misty suddenly materialized beside it and
buried his gold and crystal dagger up to the hilt in its flesh.
Reacting violently, the monster struck out with its tail and hit
him, throwing him across the room and into the pillar
Blackbird was hiding behind.

"Misty!" Blackbird cried.
Misty lay panting, eyes closed, his face contorted in pain.

"I can't move..."

"Get out of here," said Blackbird. "Go to Lady Seraph."
Misty shook his head, confused and weak and unable to

reach for his travel crystal. Blackbird heard the sharp sound
of something shattering, and suddenly another dragon, this
one the color of the sun, appeared. It flung up its great
wings, and the hall filled with the light and heat of the sun.
Burned and frozen, the Night Serpent shrieked, then vented
its rage in a badly-aimed stream of poison. Blackbird heard
something else shatter, and suddenly a huge wolf appeared.
It leapt at Rhaklan, but before it could reach her, she
suddenly unleashed a spell of her own. The floor around her,
as well as a nearby column, a portion of wall, and the
hematite wolf, exploded into dust. Monshikka returned to
Blackbird.

"She got the wolf."
"I saw," said Blackbird. He passed Monshikka the wand.

"Take charge of the white dragon. Unlike the hematite
dragon, he does nothing without being commanded. And I
require both hands for what I am about to do."

Monshikka took the wand and stepped aside to let

Blackbird cast his spell, making certain the white dragon kept
up its attack on the Night Serpent. Blackbird drew a deep
breath and cast a second Cold Fire spell. Flames rose
hundreds of feet into the air, and there was a wild shrieking
from Rhaklan and the Night Serpent. The flames died down,
and Rhaklan was a ball of smoldering rot. That was when the

Moonhound drew blade and went after her. Rhaklan, now
reduced to a flaming demonic skeleton, brought up her own
sword in time to block the Moonhound's blade, and the pair
went after one another with a vengeance, while the Night
Serpent fought with the two dragons. With both foes fully
occupied, Blue ran to his lover and crouched beside him.

"Misty, are you all right?"
Misty was dazed and bewildered, and he did not answer his

distraught lover. Blue stroked his long, gold hair, then looked
toward the Night Serpent. Blackbird saw a familiar gleam in
the diamond eyes.

"Blue..."
Blue's voice was choked with tears, but his eyes were filled

with rage. "He crippled my husband!"

"We don't know he's..." Blackbird's voice trailed off, he and

felt a coldness in his belly as he realized that unicorns would
know things others would not. He said nothing more.

Blue screamed and drew his short sword and headed after

the Night Serpent. Blackbird winced, wanting to tell him to be
careful, but not wanting to call attention to Blue as he lunged
after the monstrous snake. Blackbird felt tears come to his
eyes. He was frightened, and he had no idea if they would
win. He broken hip burned with agony as he slowly turned to
look at Misty, who was lying on his side, his body twisted.
Blackbird reached out and touched his hair.

"Oh, Misty," he said, his voice quiet, the tone gentle. "I'm

sorry."

"It's okay," said Misty softly. "Please, don't worry about

me. We can sort all this later."

Blackbird stroked his hair and looked around. He watched

as Sly lunged for Rhaklan in his wolf form and was thrown
aside like so much trash. Blackbird drew a deep breath and
closed his eyes, gathering strength for another spell.

"Hercandoloff," he breathed, "great ancestor, god of

magic, please help me." He drew a deep breath and then
opened his eyes and fired another spell at Rhaklan.

Sly scrambled to his feet and leapt at Rhaklan once more,

his jaws crunching down onto her head, and she shrieked in
pain and fury. The Moonhound raised her sword and hacked
her in half, then staggered back, exhausted. Rhaklan
screamed and thrashed, her body in pieces, and Sly dropped
the part he held, backing away from the thrashing,
smoldering corpse. It was not a wise move. In a rage,
Rhaklan cast a spell that threw Sly aside as if he were a leaf
in a hurricane. He struck the wall with a loud thud and lay
writhing in pain, just as the Night Serpent managed to get its
jaws into the hematite dragon, and it shattered. Once more
the battle was turning against the Court.

"We're not going to win," whispered Blackbird.
"Yes," said a soft voice. "We are. Or, at the very least, we

shall not die in vain."

Blackbird snapped his attention to the owner of the voice,

but saw nothing; the speaker had already melted into the
darkness. At first, he thought he was going mad, then
Blackbird gasped as he saw something flash silver in the
darkness. It was an angle-bladed dagger, the weapon of
Marakim, glinting as it spun in the night air, shooting over
Rhaklan's head, then reversing course to stab deep into what

was left of her skull. Seconds later, a rain of arrows fell: black
arrows, the heads crafted of silver, dipped in mercury.

Blackbird looked around, but he could not see the archers.

The Moonhound scrambled out of the way of the arrow fall,
dragging Sly with her. Blue, his quiver empty, skirted around
the edge of the hall, making his way back to his husband,
Hemas following close behind him. They gathered together by
the pillar and watched the arrows rain down. The Night
Serpent, his flesh rent and pierced, blasted by ice, fire, and
sun, chose to conjure a great gate crafted of living poisonous
reptiles. Once the door swung open, he darted through it,
heading back to his silent caverns deep in the earth to mend
his wounds and start his plans anew.

Mutilated and disfigured, arrows stuck deep in her flaming

undead flesh, Rhaklan picked up and threw the lower half of
her body through the gate, then dragged her badly maimed
upper torso through after it. The door slammed shut behind
her, and the reptiles melted away with the silence of smoke.
A profound stillness fell within the great hall.

"Did we win?" asked Misty softly.
Blackbird shook his head. "No. They are crippled and

maimed, and without Takeshta and Berengar. But Rhaklan
and the Serpent will heal, as will SkullDigger in time, though
it is no easy thing for even a god to recreate an earthly
manifestation. Call it a draw. We bought ourselves another
thousand years."

"We would not have won without our silent archers," said

the Moonhound.

She peered into the darkness, but saw nothing. Then she

turned and drew a startled gasp as she suddenly found
herself face to face with a figure in black. He had a length of
black silk bound over his eyes, and his long dreadlocks were
beaded with onyx and silver. At first she thought it was
Sjaan, but then he smiled at her, and she threw her arms
around him.

"Infamous! Infamous Keeper, you bastard! We thought

you had left us for good!"

"Almost did," he said quietly, holding her tightly. "But

that's a long story. I'm here. And I brought the best archers
my people have with me. Blackbird saved them once; I
thought it time they returned the favor. They will be around
more often from now on. Where's my husband?"

"We don't know," said Monshikka. "He took a very bad hit

and vanished. I think he..." He stopped talking and seemed to
rock visibly as he remembered what he had seen. He sank
down, his legs refusing to hold him. Blue caught him, sat
down on the floor with him, and held him as he began to cry.

"We have to get home and get help," said Infamous.
The Moonhound nodded. "Right. Do we have everyone?

Where's Sjaan?"

Sjaan materialized beside his brother. "Here."
"Hemas?"
The Dwarf was battered and bloody, but very much alive.

"Here."

"Right, let's get out of here."

* * * *

Monshikka looked toward the ballroom. In the vague light

of the small fires, he could see a broken form lying on the
floor in a pool of acid. His eyes welled, but he said nothing.
Blue squeezed him gently.

"It's all right," he said softly. "We will come back for him."
Monshikka nodded, still unable to speak. Blackbird pulled

out a travel crystal and said, "Everyone, join hands. I'm
taking us to the Palace. Hands or paws." He smiled and
looked at Sly, but the smile vanished as the massive werewolf
abruptly collapsed, his pale grey eyes rolling back in his head.
He said nothing more. He invoked the crystal and took them
all to the Temple of the Moon Goddess in White Palace. The
first sound they heard when they materialized was Lady
Seraph's voice.

"What have you people been doing?!"
Monshikka picked up Misty and placed him on one of the

infirmary beds, while Blue helped Blackbird onto another. The
Moonhound knelt beside Sly and began looking him over.

"Playing with snakes," said Infamous. "Where's

Arrowsmith?"

"The Lord Seer is not here, I have not seen him."
"Check the Palace," said Blackbird. "Here." He tossed

Infamous his travel crystal, and the Master Thief caught it
easily.

"I'll be back," he said, and vanished.

* * * *

Misty survived, but his bones were badly broken. It would

be a long time ere they knew if he would be able to walk on

his own. Once his bones were set and the worst of his injuries
mended by healing magicks, he and Blackbird were taken to
the peace and security of the Mountain Cabin to recover.
Once again, he was stashed in a bed with Blackbird, whose
small body was a map of hairline fractures and angry, dark
bruises, including an impressive one across his small face.

"How did you manage two black eyes?" demanded Misty.

"You were not even struck in the face!"

"I was thinking too hard."
"Bollocks. You did it yourself so we would feel sorry for

you."

Misty glanced toward Blue, who was laughing quietly at the

interaction. The little unicorn would be staying in the room
with them, so the natural healing magicks of his kind could
help the two recover. Misty reached out his one working hand
to take hold of Blue's, while the Moonhound made sure both
were as well as could be expected. It was then that they
heard faint sounds coming from the loft above them. The
Moonhound looked up and cocked her head.

"What am I hearing?" she asked. The four listened.
"I believe," said Misty, "it's 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' by

Bob Dylan."

Blue gasped. "Arrowsmith!"
"Arrowsmith?!" exclaimed the Moonhound. "He's been here

all this time? Oh, holy mother of the moon, don't let him be
dead!"

She darted out of the room, Blue close on her heels, and

the two made their way up the wooden steps to the loft.

There they saw the large man, lying on his bed, eyes closed,
his body smeared with blood.

"Oh no," said Blue softly. "Oh, don't let him be gone, too."
The Moonhound walked over to Arrowsmith and knelt

beside him, then sobbed aloud with relief as the brown eyes
opened.

"I thought I was dying," he said softly.
She smiled and stroked his hair. "You're not. And I'm going

to make sure of it."

She looked over her shoulder at Blue, who smiled and left

the loft as the Moonhound began caring for Arrowsmith. The
large man was badly battered and had broken his ribs, left
shoulder, and left thigh, but he would live. Healing magicks
were not terribly useful for mending bone, but for the repair
of slow leaks in brains and spleens and arteries, and for all
the other internal injuries that usually spelled infection, pain
and death for a patient, they were unsurpassed. Arrowsmith
lay unmoving, slipping into blessed sleep as she healed the
injuries in his flesh. She was still tending to him when a figure
clad in black appeared in the loft, clutching a travel crystal.
Infamous came to sit beside Arrowsmith, reaching out to
touch his hair with one gloved hand, his breath hitching as he
fought back his tears.

"He's asleep," said the Moonhound. "He was exhausted."
Infamous touched Arrowsmith's face. "I thought I had lost

him."

"He thought the same about you."
"I know. I have much to apologize for, and I intend to

make it up to him."

"What convinced you to come home?"
"Arrowsmith did. And Sjaan. I don't know why Sjaan thinks

he is useless. If this doesn't prove his worth, nothing will. The
Black Elves came for him once they sensed him, but he
insisted they go look at the battle. I think it made them finally
realize that hiding would not save them. They gave me back
my memory, and they let me go. They had no choice, really.
Once I saw Arrowsmith in their realm, I was determined to
learn who he was and why he seemed to know me. I did not
expect them to lend aid, but I think they felt they owed
Blackbird their allegiance." He looked at the Moonhound and
smiled. "They want Blackbird to give them Palaklais and allow
them their own realm on this world."

"Well, that is a matter for all the Court to discuss, but I

don't see it being an issue. They will take excellent care of the
Well of Magic, and they are hardly a war-like race. I for one
would very much like to see the Black Elves return to
Dargoth. But I think I'd like to keep the Halls of the King. I
know Blackbird and Misty do."

Infamous smiled. "I don't think they will mind if we keep

the Halls."

She finished her work on Arrowsmith and exhaled wearily.

"And now back to White Palace to see how Dherrin is. A
healer's work is never done. You, Lord Keeper, are in charge
of Arrowsmith, and I expect you to wait on him hand and
foot. You have a lot to make up for, scaring us like that."

He nodded. "I'll do whatever he asks."

The Moonhound gave him a kiss and left the loft. Infamous

undressed and lay down beside Arrowsmith, holding his hand,
watching him.

* * * *

Arrowsmith opened his eyes and wondered why he was

still alive.

He felt warm and content, as well as very peaceful and

completely in harmony with the rest of the universe, a sure
sign the Moonhound had been by with some of her magical
pain-killing elixir. His shoulder had been set, and his broken
leg was in a cast. That meant she at least had survived the
battle. He wondered who else had made it, and if they had
won, but could not muster too much concern one way or
another. Heavy sedation was funny that way.

"I'm ... really hungry," he told the rafters.
At his side, someone stirred, then sat up. Arrowsmith felt a

gentle hand touch his face, then someone softly kissed him.
Arrowsmith was used to being kissed and touched by his
friends, but this was different; more intimate, the caress of a
lover as opposed to a friend. He pulled away, annoyed.

"Look, I don't know who you are, but it's in pretty piss-

poor taste to put the moves on a guy in a cast who just had
his husband dump him."

"You're right," said a voice quietly. "I should wait until you

are healed first."

Arrowsmith recognized the voice immediately, would know

it anywhere. "Infamous!"

"Yes, it's me." Infamous kissed him again. "I came home.

I'm here now."

Arrowsmith used his single functioning arm to grab him

and pull him close, holding Infamous tightly, kissing him hard
before breaking down and crying into the long, beaded hair.

"I thought I had lost you! I nearly died when I saw you

with those other Elves and they said you had forgotten me!"

"I had. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. But once I saw you again,

I couldn't get you out of my mind. I knew that I had to find
out who you were and why you would come looking for me
there, of all places."

"How did your friend take it? The tall, leggy fellow I saw

you kissing? The one I'm gonna belt in the face should I ever
see him again?"

Infamous kissed Arrowsmith again. "Well, he was very

upset I left him. Said he would toss himself off a cliff," he
teased gently.

"I'll toss him myself," Arrowsmith growled, tears still

running down his face.

Infamous laughed quietly. "Well, he did not wish for me to

go, but I am sure he will find someone else to his liking. I had
to come home. I had you waiting for me."

"I'm glad," said Arrowsmith. He grinned. "You're gonna be

pissed when I tell you what you missed."

"What did I miss?" asked Infamous.
"The Ice Prince got married."
Infamous sat up, jaw hanging. "No way. Monshikka got

married and I missed it?! To whom?! Who do I send my
condolences to?"

"Wess," said Arrowsmith. "We had the ritual in the rooftop

garden."

There was a long silence, then Infamous said softly, "Oh.

Oh, poor Monshikka."

"Poor Monshikka?" said Arrowsmith, puzzled.
Infamous was silent for a little while, as if trying to think of

what he wished to say. "Arrowsmith, Wess didn't survive the
battle. Misty told me a little while ago. He was killed."

Arrowsmith felt ill as comprehension slowly took hold. "I

didn't know that. Who else did we lose?"

"Sly. And we lost Fairenya. They're both dead."
Arrowsmith drew a deep breath, trying to take in what he

had just learned. "Oh no," he said quietly. "Not Fairenya. Sly
and Wess will be back, but ... you're right. Poor Monshikka.
How is he?"

"Physically, he's fine. I have no idea what his emotional

state is at the moment, however. I want to go look in on him,
but I wanted to see you first."

"See him in the morning," said Arrowsmith softly. He drew

Infamous down to his chest and held Infamous close,
breathing in the scent of his hair. "Selfish as it may be, I
don't want to let you out of my sight."

"I will stay," said Infamous.
He settled against Arrowsmith, resting his head on his

chest. Together, they lay in the dark, holding each other
close, each silently grateful it was not they who were
mourning such a loss this night.

* * * *

There was nothing left of Fairenya to bury. His wife, Grace,

arranged a small memorial for him, then welcomed Dherrin
and Sjaan into her home, where Sjaan helped her to run the
household and to look after her five children while Dherrin
recovered.

Sly did not long survive, once he was brought home.

Despite the best efforts of the Moonhound and Lady Seraph,
he was too badly damaged, and he died as he had lived:
silently. A priestess of Sheoloptra, goddess of gravediggers
and the dead, was sent for, and she sang the chants and
spells that would protect him from fell magicks that might try
to claim his body and spirit. He was laid to rest with honor in
a mausoleum on a slab of white marble and left in peace.
Beside him lay Wess, wearing his favorite outfit, his long hair
spreading over the satin pillow beneath his head, his long
hands resting over his breast, holding his pipe.

The Court of Hercandoloff had paid heavily for their

marginal victory.

The mausoleum was located in a large, enclosed garden,

surrounded by wild flowers and fountains. The path that led
to the quiet structure of white marble was made of
flagstones, and tiny flowers grew around them. The garden
was set up in such a way as to require little care, forming an
undisturbed sanctuary for small animals as well as the dead
who dwelled in the stone house it surrounded.

Two days after the battle, Infamous Keeper stepped

through the iron gate that surrounded the yard. Glancing
toward the mausoleum, he noted the door was open. He
sighed quietly, then closed the gate behind himself and

followed the path to the crypt. He walked into the structure
and felt his heart break at the sight of Monshikka seated
quietly on a chair beside Wess' slab.

"I thought I would find you here," he said quietly.
Monshikka glanced up. He smiled briefly and turned his

gaze back to the figure on the slab. Infamous walked up to
Wess, reaching out to touch his hair.

"Hi, Wess," he said softly. "How are you?"
Wess' cold form did not react to the voice, nor to the

gentle hand that stroked his long hair. Infamous gazed for a
long moment at his friend. Although Infamous had no eyes,
he could quite clearly see. But such was the Gift of Marakim—
one did not need eyes when one had his Gift. Infamous
turned from Wess to Sly. Once more he reached out to stroke
the long hair, then paused. He reached down to raise the
collar of his tunic and peer beneath it.

"So, what killed you, you poor, beautiful werewolf?"
"Broken bone fragment from his ribcage," said Monshikka

quietly. "He survived the battle, only to have the shard make
its way into his heart. The Moonhound said it would have
been almost instantaneous."

Infamous shook his head, then walked over to Monshikka,

sitting beside Monshikka and taking hold of his hand.

"And how are you?"
Monshikka smiled briefly. "Horrible. It is never easy seeing

one of us laid out awaiting the next life, but..."

"This time is different," said Infamous.
Monshikka nodded, then turned his red-rimmed eyes to his

friend. "How do you survive it?"

"Well, in our case, I just take a deep breath and tell myself

I will see him again. I wonder how he'll look, how much he
will resemble the last incarnation ... I couldn't get through it if
I did not know I would see him again. I can't imagine how
this must feel for those who have no such comfort."

"How is Arrowsmith?"
Infamous grinned. "Miserable, uncomfortable, bored, and

irritable. He'll be fine."

"That's good." Monshikka drew a shuddering breath. "I was

only with Wess two days..."

Infamous reached out to embrace his friend, holding him

close as Monshikka wept against his chest. "I know, I am so
sorry. But at least you had the two days." Infamous grinned.
"And you finally were able to..."

Monshikka cleared his throat, then looked around. Satisfied

they were alone, he whispered, "I didn't."

Infamous thought about that. "You're kidding."
"I'm not! I mean, we took off our clothes, we went to bed,

and ... well, it's not that we didn't want to; I know Wess
certainly wanted to, but it just wasn't right. I felt rushed. We
went from barely being a couple to married and it was only a
tea ceremony and I know that's enough for followers of
Shallougha, but I wasn't comfortable!"

Infamous groaned. "Oh, Monshikka ... That's it, I'm telling

the others."

"No! Don't you dare you rat or I will strangle you!"
"Then why did you stop wearing white if you're still a

virgin?"

"Well, I'm hardly untouched anymore. Like I said, it's not

as if Wess was not willing. We just ... did not consummate the
relationship in the ... strictest ... sense of the word."

"So you..."
"We tried a few things."
"Well, that explains the smile on his face."
"Infamous Keeper, you are a troll!"
Infamous laughed and hugged his friend tightly. "Do not

worry, Monshikka, you know all your secrets are safe with
me. Now, come with me, Arrowsmith and I will look after you
for tonight." He stroked the long, white hair and said quietly,
"It's time to say good night, Monshikka. Leave Wess and Sly
to sleep."

Monshikka nodded. "You are right. There is nothing I can

do here. Are you at the Cabin or here at the Palace?"

"We're back in the Palace."
Monshikka nodded and said, "I will be up shortly."
Infamous nodded. He kissed Monshikka's brow, then rose

to his feet. He cast a last glance at his friends, then quietly
walked away. Monshikka just sat, gazing at Wess, wishing he
would see a sign of life. But Wess was as he had been since
they placed him on the slab—cold and still and white. Finally
Monshikka stood up. He walked over to Wess and stroked his
hair, then bent forward to kiss his brow.

"Good night, Wess."
He cast a last glance at Sly, then left the crypt, closing the

door behind himself, leaving them to sleep in the perfect
darkness.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eleven

The months passed. Arrowsmith mended, though his

shoulder ached now when the rain fell. Once he was well
enough, he and Infamous went on a long road trip, exploring
distant parts of Dargoth. Simon came, too, of course, sitting
on the gas tank, braced against Arrowsmith, tongue flapping
in the breeze, his eyes protected by custom-made goggles.
He got to wear his goggles again when Arrowsmith, Silver,
Mother, and Popsicle all went to Sturgis for the annual rally.
Infamous hated every minute of it, but Simon seemed to
have fun.

Dherrin had been less fortunate; his injuries had been too

severe to enable him to continue the rigorous training that
was required for him to remain a warrior of the sun god. He
was forced to retire his foil and vibrant garb and took to his
bed, virtually crippled with pain and depression. The
Moonhound, Lady Seraph, and Sjaan did what they could to
mend his body and raise his spirits, but the loss of his status
as a Sun Warrior was more than he could bear. Four months
after the battle that crippled him, he quietly passed away at
home in his bed. The cause of his passing would be debated
for many years, but Sjaan would forever claim he died of a
broken heart.

Dherrin had left his beloved Sjaan everything he had. One

would have thought a dispossessed prince would not have
much in the way of wealth, but he had a large home in White
Palace, some lands, and better yet, he had a stable of sun

horses—gold and black creatures bred for speed, stamina,
and a fiery, almost savage, disposition. Sjaan could have sold
the animals for a preposterous amount of money, but instead
he learned to master them, and the foil. Within six months of
Dherrin's passing, the blue and red of House Brayden was
once more seen on the practice fields.

Misty likewise was plagued with pain and injuries that had

all but crippled him, but despair did not touch him even
briefly. Though he now had difficulty walking, and his left arm
was almost useless, it did not stop Misty from being Misty.
Three days after the fight that had almost killed him, he
talked Blue into inviting his friends up for a party. Within a
month, he was a frequent escapee from his sick bed, and four
hours after the cast finally came off his leg, he was drunk at
the Red Rooster. Five hours after the cast came off, he had
broken the thigh again. He demanded he be permitted to
convalesce at the Rooster, but Blue was having none of it.

* * * *

It was a rainy summer morning, and the doors of the great

dining hall were open to let in the pleasantly cool, moist air.
The summer had so far been extremely hot and dry, and the
soft, grey drizzle was a most welcome reprieve. It washed the
dust from the plants and the buildings and cleaned the air.
Tempers strained by the heat were soothed, and all White
Palace seemed peaceful and happy. All until Misty limped
slowly into the dining hall and made his way over to the huge
table.

"Blue hates me," he announced.

Blackbird laughed. "Oh, I am sure he does not!" he said as

the Moonhound rose to help Misty seat himself. "And
whatever you did, I am sure he will forgive you."

"No, you don't understand," said Misty as he poured

himself some tea. "He hates me. And he hates you. And he
hates the trees outside. And he hates the rug. He also hates
my hair, the rain, his clothes, the bed, the sound of bugs
blinking, and about four hundred people he has never even
met. All he wants to do is lie in the bath."

The Moonhound looked up. The look in her eyes suggested

she had some idea as to what the problem might be. "He was
three weeks pregnant when he came home, how long has it
been since he came back?"

"Eleven months and a week," said Blackbird. He thought

about that. "Ooooooh ... creation."

"He's having a baby, that's what he's doing," said

Infamous. "Or a foal. She's foaling."

Misty turned pallid. "No. No, he can't be foaling, he hasn't

figured out how to shapeshift yet!"

The Moonhound stood up. "I daresay the baby doesn't

care. Let me go have a look."

"Not without me, you're not!"
Everyone gathered at the table rose, and the entire group

made their way to the rooms that Misty and Blue shared.
They entered quietly, finding the room with all the drapes
drawn and the lights out. The only sound was the soft slosh of
water as something moved in the bath. Motioning for the
others to stay back, the Moonhound walked into the bathing
chamber. She was not gone long.

"Yeah, I would say we've got a problem here."
"Well, what do we do?" asked Infamous. "Call a

veterinarian?"

Misty snapped his gaze toward Infamous, looking annoyed

at the suggestion, then looked back at the Moonhound. "So,
what do we do? We've hunted high and low for any
information on Guedelph mares forced into human bodies and
found nothing!"

"I could check the Library again," said Monshikka.
"No, we've been through the Library several times," said

the Moonhound. "In fact, we have checked every library we
can think of, even the ones in Kirianna. We're the only ones
who can help."

"You can help by shutting up!" Blue shouted from the

bathing chamber.

The Moonhound rolled her eyes. "Do you want help, or do

you want us to just make you a deep bed of hay and leave
you?"

Blue demonstrated his vocabulary. The Moonhound sighed.

"Oh, this is going to be fun. You all wait here; I'm going to
see how he's doing. She. I'll go see how Blue is doing."

"Careful," said Infamous, "I hear foaling mares can be

aggressive."

Blue made a low sound of outrage. The Moonhound went

back into the bathing chamber. She came back out again
moments later, peeling a wet washcloth off of her face.

"She's a grumpy girl, all right. May as well make ourselves

comfy, this could take a while. Monshikka, could you just
please bring any books you have on Guedelph?"

Monshikka nodded and left the room, Arrowsmith following

after him to help with the books. Blackbird went to have food
brought up, and the Court settled in to wait.

Blue uttered a veritable howl of agony. "Misteria

Livingstone Foxsworth, I loathe you!"

Misty looked affronted. "Hey, I'm not even the one who got

you pregnant! How come I have to take the fall for this?"

Blue cried out again, this time the sound one of fear and

distress. Misty got his crutch under himself and pushed
himself up. "I'm coming, just don't hurt me."

* * * *

It was well past midnight. The moon was full and brilliant

white, the sky clear and full of stars, and the Court were
waiting in quiet darkness, worried and silent. All were startled
by the soft click of the bathing room door opening. Misty
limped out, wet and exhausted.

"I need a blanket," he said.
"How are things going?" asked the Moonhound.
"It's over."
Arrowsmith had been dozing on the bed. He now sat up

sharply. "Blue's all right, isn't he?"

Misty nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, he's fine. They both are. I

need a blanket. Arrowsmith, can I use you for a moment?"

"Sure."
Arrowsmith stood up and grabbed the spare blanket from

the foot of the bed, then followed Misty into the bathing
chamber. Monshikka lit a candle, and they watched the
doorway. Moments later, Arrowsmith appeared, carrying Blue.

He was bedraggled and exhausted, but he was alive.
Arrowsmith tucked him into bed, then went back into the
bathing chamber while Blue's friends gathered close.

"How are you?" asked the Moonhound, touching the damp,

white hair.

"I just passed a horse, how do you think I am?"
There were assorted snorts and giggles. Trying desperately

not to laugh, and not succeeding terribly well, the Moonhound
said, "How did you manage it?"

Blue looked like he would very much like to say something

colorful, but he didn't. He sighed and said, "I shifted. I was
desperate enough and exhausted enough that ... I just did it.
I stopped trying to do it and just ... did it. It was matter of
not trying to be a Guedelph or making myself be a Guedelph
... it was a matter of relaxing and letting myself just be a
Guedelph. I could not hold the form long, but long enough,
fortunately."

Monshikka stroked his hair. "We were all very worried

about you."

Blue smiled. "Yeah, that will last until you see my baby,

then you'll forget all about me."

Misty limped out, exhausted, and made his way painfully

over to the bed. Then Arrowsmith walked out with something
in his arms. A tiny, white muzzle sniffed curiously, while
diamond eyes peered out of a diminutive, blue-black face. He
carried the little creature over to the bed and set it down to
be gushed over.

The miniscule unicorn was an intense blue-black all over,

like the color of the midnight sky when the moon is full. The

short, fuzzy mane and the little tail were both ice-white, as
was the little muzzle and the left front foreleg. Her ears were
forward, and she stared at the people gathered around her,
effectively turning the lot of them to goo.

"What's her name?" asked Blackbird. He touched the tiny,

soft muzzle and grinned as she began sucking on his fingers.
Monshikka quickly left to get her a bottle of mare's milk.

"Ashadira," said Blue. He smiled wearily. "Misty helped me

choose it. 'Ashad' means 'Blue' in the Dwarf-tongue, and 'As
hadir-ra' is Elvish for 'from the mist.'"

"Ah," said Infamous. "So we have decided to blame her on

Misty, have we?"

Blue smiled. "May as well. She's not Berengar's, that's all I

care about."

"How do you know?" asked the Moonhound. "Apart from

the fact that we have all been telling you so for the past
eleven months."

Blue looked slightly ashamed of himself. "I know it was

irrational. But I had to look into it, for my own peace of mind.
The books all say that Guedelph born of a non-unicorn father
always have brown eyes."

Arrowsmith raised up the tiny muzzle and looked into eyes

the color of blue diamonds.

"Well, I guess now we know for sure your daddy was a

unicorn. Where's your horn?" He brushed away some of the
fuzzy, white puff that passed for a forelock, revealing a tiny,
blue-white nub in the middle of her forehead. "There we go!
One day you can use that for jabbing people you don't like.
Can you say 'im-pa-led'?"

The baby Guedelph just stared at him. Blue sighed.

"Arrowsmith, stop being a bad influence on my infant and
pass her up here."

Arrowsmith gently picked up the little creature and passed

her to her mother. Monshikka returned with a warm bottle
and gave it to Blue before seating himself on the bed. For a
long time all they did was sit together and watch Blue feed his
baby.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Epilogue

The years passed quietly. The Black Elves returned to

Palaklais and rebuilt the ruined city, restoring it to a place of
astonishing beauty, repairing what buildings they could, as
well as the great temples on the mountainside, and routing
any evil thing that had dwelled among the ruins. The Rain
Mage, meanwhile, continued his enchanted sleep beneath the
well, unaware of the coming and going of the Elves who
watched over him. Infamous and Sjaan would return to
Palaklais from time to time to be among their own kind and to
learn the ways of their people. Arrowsmith hated those trips
into the great Elven city, but he bore them in silence,
knowing they were important to his husband.

In time, Simon passed away, having reached an age few

wolves dared to aspire to. By the time he died, he was little
more than bones and ratty fur, and, in typical Simon fashion,
he died as he had lived: beside his master while they were
traveling to Two-Fifty-Mile-House. Infamous took the little old
wolf to his friends in the Society for Deranged and Drunken
Artists to have them make a suitable memorial for him. Arlo
crafted a life-sized statue of grey stone, all the while watched
over by his faithful and, by now, fully-grown dragonhawk,
Chaos. Arlo was now rather regretting his decision to take in
the creature, especially with her three tiny, eeping babies
dashing about his studio.

"Look at it this way, Arlo," said Arrowsmith as the

squeaking, clumsy beasts did unspeakable things to the floor,
walls and furniture. "No one is ever going to break in now!"

Arlo mumbled something and kept sculpting. When his

work was done, he had a glorious, life-sized sculpture,
portraying Simon asleep, his head on his paws. Wolf and
statue were brought back to White Palace, and Simon was
laid to rest in the mausoleum on a slab beside Sly. The statue
was placed on Simon's favorite chair in Arrowsmith and
Infamous' room, to show that he had never left their hearts.

Five weeks to the day after Simon died, children playing

outside the walls of the city found a small and confused wolf
cub. The little beast was very frightened, and injuries found
upon it suggested some animal had likely carried it away from
the den with the intention of eating it. The children brought
the wolf to the Master Thief, who accepted their gift with
delight.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked dryly, and

turned the little animal to show Arrowsmith, who grinned.

"Simon's back."

* * * *

Blue had been working on his shape-shifting abilities, both

he and his daughter mastering skills that Blue should have
learned as a foal. Ashadira had chosen to master a human
form, so as to match her mother, and now, as she turned
twenty, she could just as easily appear as a beautiful young
woman with fair skin and blue-black hair as she could a
unicorn. Blue still had much difficulty holding a shape other

than the one he had been forced into, but there were times
now when he could appear in his true form: as a silver-blue
unicorn mare with white mane and tail.

"So, what do we call you?" the Moonhound asked Blue one

day. He was standing in the garden beneath a tree, swishing
his tail and trying to master the Zen art of remaining a
Guedelph. The rest of the Court was there as well, including
Infamous' wolf cub, dubbed 'Baby Simon.'

"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well your other body is a male, this body is a female ...

we can't call you 'it,' that's rude."

"In this form, I am female. In my other form, I am male.

It's just easier that way."

"And if you and Misty ever decide to have a child of your

own, what form should you be in for conception?"

Blue did what all good horses do to show their displeasure,

he turned abruptly and used his butt to knock her down. She
hit the ground with a thud and then grabbed his long tail.

"I've got you!"
"Not if I sit down on you, you don't!"
She released his tail and sat up, laughing. Blue tried an

indignant trot, tail arched, ears back, and tripped, landing on
his muzzle and abruptly reverting to his human form. The
Moonhound howled with laughter while Blue gathered his
dignity.

"That horse body has too many feet!"
Ashadira trotted by, silver mane and tail blowing, lifting

her dainty hooves high. Blue growled as he dusted himself
off.

"Insolent child."
Misty limped over to Blue and helped him up. "Now, now,

that's not fair," he gently chided Ashadira. "You have always
had four feet. Your mother had to start with two."

"Yeah, two feet and a penis," said Infamous.
Monshikka sighed. "Troll. You have always been a troll,

Infamous Keeper; you shall forever remain a troll."

Blackbird abruptly woke from his nap. "Who's a troll?" he

asked sleepily.

"Infamous."
"Oh." The little mage looked around, as if determining all

was right with the world, then settled back onto the large
daybed that had been carried into the garden for him. He had
become even smaller and more fragile during the twenty
years that had passed since their battle with Takeshta, but
there were no fears about his passing yet; his health was
much better than it had been in previous generations.

Arrowsmith reached out to cover over Blackbird, then slid

an arm around Infamous. Life was good. It was a glorious day
in early summer, neither too hot nor too cold. All the Court
had gathered in the garden; not as a result of any plan, but
because it was lovely to just hide from their duties for a day.
Joining them were Mother and Popsicle, as well as none other
than Arrowsmith's biological mother, Libby. It had not been
easy explaining who and what he was to her, but as the years
went on she had learned to accept it and spent more and
more time at the Palace. Then, when both her parents as well
as her grandparents had passed on, she moved in with the
son she had missed for so many years. Her largest concerns

these days involved keeping Ashadira out of the vegetable
garden.

Arrowsmith watched the Guedelph filly prance around the

garden, playing with the wolf puppy. She was still so very
young—blossoming into adulthood, yes, but still very much
everyone's little princess, with pink flowers braided into her
tail and mane. She enjoyed being a girl and all the bows, fluff
and frills that went with it. Despite that, however, she
possessed the formidable jousting skills of a unicorn.
Arrowsmith had watched her perfect them on the training
field, rearing up and using her full weight to impale practice
dummies while stomping them flat with her hooves. Following
practice, of course, came a trip to her personal beautician.
After all, hooves did not burnish themselves.

It made the Moonhound crazy, but she'd learned to endure

it.

Libby weeded her vegetables, looking as if she had been

surrounded by Elves and unicorns all her life. She sighed
loudly as Baby Simon went bouncing through her lettuce,
gleefully, pouncing on and attacking a suspicious-looking
clump of carrots. Libby sighed and picked the wolf cub up.

"You are a destructive little nuisance!" she informed the

pup.

"Is that any way to talk to your grandson?" asked

Arrowsmith.

Libby gave him a look, all the while patting the little furry

bundle as it gnawed on her glove. "Speaking of
grandchildren," she said, "when do I get some? You're no
spring chicken, you know."

"I'm only forty-six!"
"Too old to be dressing like a juvenile delinquent. Answer

my question."

"Infamous and I are doing the best we can, Mom, we were

up all night working on it."

Infamous nudged his husband. "We could adopt, you

know."

Arrowsmith groaned. "Oh, come on, lover! That's the

whole point of same-sex relationships—no fear of accidentally
reproducing ourselves!"

Infamous nuzzled close. "Please?"
Arrowsmith growled as Infamous nipped his ear. "That's

not fair..."

Infamous edged closer and breathed into his ear. "Please?"
Arrowsmith felt his resolve melting. "We'll talk about it."
He glanced up as he heard the sound of the garden gate

opening, and saw Silver. His friend was dressed in the garb of
a mason, and he was trailing clouds of dust, grinning.

"Let me guess," said Arrowsmith. "Today we are a stone

cutter?"

Silver sat down with a veritable fallout of dust and flakes

of stone. "Yeah, well, I was walking by this shop where they
make cemetery statues and I got a good look at the head
stone carver and ... um ... now I'm sort of working there."

Arrowsmith rolled his eyes. "And that will last until he finds

out you are riddled with joint inflammations and arthritis."

"He already knows, oh large and cynical companion of

mine. And I don't need good joints to sit pretty on a block of
marble and pose."

"Well, ask him to teach you to sculpt!" said Arrowsmith.

"You've always had some artistic talent, maybe you could
learn to carve."

Silver grinned. "Maybe I will. I'd need to buy a few tools

first."

Infamous shook his head. "No, I have a few things back at

the Mountain Cabin. You may have them if you like; I have a
newer set I use more often."

Arrowsmith looked at Infamous. "You mean those carving

tools in the pinewood box in the wardrobe?"

"The very same."
Arrowsmith stood up. "Come on, Silver, we'll go pick them

up."

Monshikka rose to his feet. "I will join you. I have been

working at translating an old tome; I think I would like to
take it to the Cabin to work on it in peace."

"Well, why not work on it out here in the garden?" asked

Misty.

Monshikka glanced over at the two unicorns and the wolf

puppy. Blue trotted a few paces and tripped, but managed to
keep his feet. Monshikka looked back at Misty.

"You want me to bring a seven hundred year old book out

here, in the sun, on the grass, where it can be stepped on by
an uncoordinated equine and the remaining bits can be
chewed by that tiny and oh so cute grey gnawing machine?"

"Point taken."
Monshikka smiled. Arrowsmith bent down and kissed

Infamous. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

"Take all the time you need. Your mother and I are ... um

... going to discuss bedding plants."

Arrowsmith sighed. "Then wait until I get back. I'd like to

be in the same room with you when you get pregnant."

Infamous grinned, looking pleased with himself.

Arrowsmith, Silver, and Monshikka left the garden to fetch
their travel crystals, and within a few minutes they were back
at the Mountain Cabin, standing in the kitchen. It had been a
few months since any of the Court had been there, so all were
a little taken aback to see two dressed rabbits on the table,
resting among an array of chopped vegetables. A cloak hung
from the rack by the door, and a pair of boots sat upon the
rug near the fire. A kettle of water for tea had been hung
from the iron hook over the fire to heat, so clearly the person
who had been readying the rabbits to cook was not far.

"Is Anakher here?" asked Arrowsmith.
"No, I don't see why he would be," said Monshikka. "The

animals we had up here have all been sold or given away or
passed of old age. I believe he and Lysik have taken their
children to the great Temple of Marakim in Palaklais for the
summer."

"Well, then who..?" Arrowsmith started to say, then

paused as he saw someone enter the kitchen.

It was a youth: tall, with long, brown hair and brown eyes.

He was dressed in the simple garb of record keeper's
apprentice and around his neck was a leather string. Hanging
from the string was a sword, wrapped with a thorny vine of
battlefield roses: the symbol of Shallougha. The three froze
and stared.

"I'm very sorry," said the youth. "I was under the

impression that this cabin was unoccupied. I ... I'll leave if
you wish."

"No," said Monshikka softly. "That's quite all right. You

may stay if you like. We spend little time here."

The young man blushed. "I am very sorry. I was sure it

was abandoned. Everything was deep in dust, and some of
the rooms have been sealed as if by magic..." He blushed
harder. "Not that I was trying to get into them!"

Arrowsmith grinned. "It's all right, really. This ... cabin has

long been a place for people to go when they have nowhere
else. I'm Arrowsmith, this is my friend Silver, and this is his
royal majesty, Monshikka Starlit."

The young man turned from red to white. "You ... you're of

the Court! Is this your cabin? Oh, I am so very sorry, I..."

"It's quite all right," said Monshikka. "As Arrowsmith said,

this cabin has long been a refuge for those who need a home.
Please, make yourself comfortable. What is your name?"

"My name?" The young man looked distinctly

uncomfortable. He finally said "I'm ... Wesselik Devaron
Adaran. My father attended the same temple as Wess
Silverbird. They were friends, and he decided to name me
after him. I am a student at the university in Two-Fifty-Mile-
House, but this spring I felt an urge to travel. I somehow
ended up here. You ... really don't mind if I stay?"

"No," said Monshikka quietly. "Please do." He smiled. "And

no need to be embarrassed about the name. Your father
chose well. You can ... look after the place for us for a while.
Just until you decide to move on again."

Wesselik nodded. The kettle made a loud hiss as it boiled

over, and he hastened over to it. Arrowsmith led Silver out of
the room, and Monshikka seated himself at the table to watch
the young man busy himself making stew. He felt his heart do
strange things in his chest, and he studied the youth
carefully, the long, brown hair, the way he moved ... He was
only eighteen or nineteen years old, but members of the
Court had found their way to the cabin at ages far younger
than that. Wesselik turned and looked at Monshikka seated at
the table, his expression nervous. Monshikka suddenly
realized he was staring.

"Tea, Your Majesty?" Wesselik asked.
"Yes, please," said Monshikka. He studied the planes and

angles of the young man's face. It was not easy to tell at this
age; Wess had been in his forties when he had died. But
there was...

"Honey?" asked Adaran, plainly disconcerted by the close

scrutiny.

"Thank you. And ... I apologize. You closely resemble

someone I knew."

Wesselik grinned. "I hear that a lot, especially at

university. There is a portrait of the Court in the library. I
think I look a bit like Wesselik Devaron Silverbird, but ... he
just seems more regal." He put the rabbits, herbs, and
vegetables into a large pot and put it over the coals to
simmer. "For my birthday last year, a friend of mine gave me
a pipe. It was supposed to have once been his. I have no idea
if it is or not, or where she found it, but I like it."

Monshikka smiled. "Show it to me," he said. "I will know."

Wesselik rummaged in a pouch around his waist, finding

the pipe, and handed it to Monshikka. He took the small
object, carved of deer horn and bound with silver. He turned
it over in his hands and smiled.

"Your friend has quite an eye, it was indeed his. See this

wear here? Wess would scrape at the horn with his thumbnail
when he was thinking."

Wesselik was delighted. "That's fantastic! Perhaps you will

tell me about him? I..." He blushed furiously. "No, that's
asking too much."

Monshikka smiled and passed him the pipe. "Well, I shall

never know if you do not actually ask."

"I'm fascinated by the history of the Court, perhaps ... you

would let me follow you around, ask lots of annoying
questions and take notes?"

"I would be delighted," said Monshikka. "Perhaps in

exchange you could help me translate a tome?"

Wesselik brightened. "Of course! I would love to! What

book?"

Monshikka smiled mischievously and leaned close.

"'Secrets of Flower and Stone.'"

Wesselik gasped. "No! I thought all copies of that were

destroyed!"

"Yes, well, that is why they call it the Forbidden Library,

my friend. You would not believe the little treasures I have
hidden in there."

"I thought it was forbidden because of books on past

technology, not because you had the most notorious books on
Elven erotica locked up there!"

Monshikka laughed. "It's forbidden for many reasons. But

if your mother says you are old enough, you may help me
translate it."

"Oh, very funny. I am almost twenty, I will have you

know."

Wesselik sat back and began filling his pipe. Monshikka

breathed deeply of the familiar scent and closed his eyes for a
moment, sipping his tea. Arrowsmith and Silver found the box
of stone carving tools and left. Monshikka watched Wesselik
light his pipe, and wondered how long it would be until he
remembered they knew each other.