                      Desert Silver
           1,000,002, Age of Life, Early Summer
    The dracmel raced through the dunes like a dolphin 
cavorting among the waves- of course, thought Drilla, I am 
no judge. She tugged on the reins slightly, slowing her 
mount. The creature obeyed, but showed its protest by 
drumming its feet on the ground and swinging its long, 
scaly neck around to fix her with a disapproving eye. 
Drilla Desertbloom took no notice; she had already settled 
back on the dracmel's hairy hump and fixed her eyes on the 
sky. Uunul glared back at her from where it stood in its 
shadowless midday position, blazing so fiercely that 
someone untutored in the ways of the Barren Desert might 
have thought it autumn rather than summer. The firmament 
was slowly turning gold.
    "Well," the desert Elwen mused at last, her voice the 
soft, dry sound of sand blowing over a rock, "it looks 
like it's going to be another fine day." She glanced once 
more at the sun, then looked down again and tossed back 
her cowl. Long gold hair, with glints of red among its 
shining strands, promptly pulled free of the cloth 
restraint, tumbling to her hips. She ran her fingers 
through it, taking a simple and childish delight in the 
way her skin, exactly the same color, blended in with the 
locks.
    It was something to smile about, at least. 
    After a moment she tapped her heels lightly against 
the dracmel's sides. The dragon-camel crossbreed began to 
run again, its stubby wings flapping to aid its momentum, 
its two legs carrying it over the sand far more swiftly 
than any camel's four ever could. Drilla gave it a smile 
and a pat for its valiant efforts. It was not sentient, 
but intelligent enough to feel love and devotion toward 
her- more intelligent than some people were.
    A long umber dune lay across their path; with scarcely 
a break in stride, the dracmel spread its wings and jumped 
like a kangaroo, drifting a few feet farther with its 
frantic flapping. It landed about halfway up the heap of 
sand and promptly jumped again, this time clearing the 
obstacle.
    A well-beaten track stretched away before them, lined 
on both sides by the ubiquitous scratchweed and the giant 
saguaro cacti, sometimes called monarchs. Drilla took the 
path without hesitation, giving the monstrous spines of 
the cacti a wide, respectful berth. She had more than a 
few scratches on her lips, though her skin was too tough 
to pierce, from trying to get at the fruit and blooms of 
the plants.
    They passed a water hole, a temporary thing and always 
fleeting in the desert. Drilla had drunk earlier this 
month, but she watched in interest as the dracmel went by, 
even slowing it a bit. At the moment, several siku deer 
had drawn off, watching in resignation as a skunk drank. 
Drilla chuckled softly. In the desert, size was no 
indication of danger; it paid to be as wary of the smaller 
creatures as the larger.
    An impatient shift under her reminded her that the 
larger creatures also deserved consideration. Though she 
was in no great hurry to return home, she gave the dracmel 
its head. It deserved it.
    The long scaly neck bent in a serpentine arch, and it 
sped away, fringed feet kicking up glittering specks of 
sand. Drilla crouched, bending the flaps that sealed ears, 
nostrils, and lips, but lowering her clear, impenetrable 
eyelids only halfway. She wanted to see more clearly than 
she could through the warped glass of the covers.
    The dracmel raced easily over the sand; though she 
could have gone faster on her own, Drilla preferred riding 
because of that very grace of movement. Desert Elwens 
could move on the desert by splaying their toes, but this 
technique demanded they walk barefoot- a requirement that 
left their feet open to all sorts of nasty little 
surprises. And the dracmels could run even faster than 
their tiny lizard cousins. It was not much of a price to 
pay.
    By the time the dracmel reached the circle of boulders 
that was the only outward sign of Dormida, Drilla's blood 
pounded and sang in her veins with the excitement of the 
ride. Strangely, though she had assumed an outwardly calm 
expression, she felt ready to handle anything. Salmek was 
going to get more than he had bargained for.
    She moved her quickly breathing mount to the nearest 
stone, leaned down, and slapped a tough, leathery fist 
against it. There was a moment of silence; then Drilla's 
fennec fox-quick ears picked up the sound of voices 
arguing. She frowned and stared down in disapproval. If 
she were able to hear them, enemies certainly could.
    "Ought we to let her in? You know what Salmek said. 
He-"
    "You forget your prerogatives," hissed another voice, 
one that brought a faint smile to Drilla's lips. "Even if 
my friend can no longer command respect around here, I 
will give it to her. Stand aside, Elwen."
    There came the sound of a wooden beam, loosely 
propped, collapsing, and then the stone Drilla had slapped 
fell away, rolling down a dark chute and leaving quite a 
large hole. The dracmel dipped its neck and slithered in 
like a snake, wings folded tight to its belly and feet 
kicking. Drilla held close as the surface was left behind. 
They went about five feet down the tunnel, then the 
dracmel turned its head, swiftly butting a weak place in 
the wall.
    Sand fell out, and they squirmed through. Drilla 
slipped off the moment her mount regained its feet, 
handing the reins to a scowling desert Elwen who stood 
nearby. "Make sure it gets a cool place in the stables and 
plenty of scratchweed," she advised.
    The desera scowled for the space of one second, then 
met the glare of Drilla's friend, who stood beyond both of 
them. He gulped, swiftly bowed, and hurried away down a 
side passage, tugging the draceml's reins as he did so. 
When she was sure he was gone, Drilla planted her hands on 
her hips and turned to her friend. "All right, Hollygrace, 
what did you do to him?"
    Hot blue eyes peered up at her in mock indignation; it 
looked as if the summer sky missing from the world above 
had come to roost in her gaze. Delicately rounded 
shoulders lifted in a shrug. "We can't all be as brave as 
you are, now can we?" asked the sandcat, yawning widely.
    Hollygrace deserved her name, Drilla thought 
privately, even as she nodded to acknowledge her friend's 
compliment. She walked like the bend and sway of a holly 
leaf Drilla had seen once in a journey beyond the Desert, 
smooth corded muscles playing under her beige-tan coat. 
She was unmarked save for a small white diamond above her 
whiskers- unusual in a people who had evolved some areas 
of white in order to hide among the clay fields and white 
sands of the northern Barren. But such things were 
trivial, soon forgotten, when one met the gaze of her 
eyes. They sparkled with the joy of life so unusual in a 
sandcat, the spirit that had driven her forth at last from 
her fatalistic and often morbid people. Drilla herself had 
a share of a normal sandcat's personality, but Hollygrace, 
she had always felt, worked to balance that, even as the 
desera's gloom tempered her exuberance with caution. 
Whatever the reason, the former desert Elwen leader felt 
at ease in her friend's presence- something that could not 
be said of others.
    Hollygrace began to move ahead along the tunnel, her 
paws handling its steep incline easily. Drilla followed, 
just as balanced. "Speaking of bravery," the sandcat said 
over her tail, "Salmek wasn't courageous enough to come 
looking for you." Mirth bubbled in her voice. 
    Drilla tensed slightly, feeling the fire she was named 
for flash in her black eyes, but managed a smile. "He 
wouldn't," she agreed, slipping up beside her friend as 
the tunnel became wide enough for two to walk abreast. "He 
told me yesterday that he was-" She paused, searching her 
memory for the words, though the experience was painful; 
after all, she rode to forget. "Fed up with my rude, 
unfaithful, and nonsensical attitude." The desert Elwen 
made a sound deep in her throat.
    "We've got company," said Hollygrace abruptly. The 
flattening of her ears and rapid swish of her tail told 
Drilla who it was, and the desera folded her arms, turning 
to study the packed sand ceiling.
    Salmek came around the corner, and Drilla snuck a look 
at him out of the corner of her eye. He certainly was not 
unhandsome; that wasn't his problem.
    Though he wore plain, quiet, desera-like clothes that 
blended with the tunnel walls around him in yellows, 
oranges, and reds, nothing could completely hide the cool, 
blue, gem-like depths of a sapphire Elwen's skin. Salmek 
Violentbloom's hair was as darkly azure as the jewel he 
was named after; his green eyes gleamed the slightly 
softer color of beryls, not emeralds. It was the softness 
of his eyes that had snared Drilla at first. Strange, she 
mused darkly in the privacy of her own mind, that it was 
also what had lately caused her to reject him.
    "Drilla." Salmek's voice, as always, made her start. 
It was unexpectedly cool and smooth, a contrast not to his 
gemstone-like skin but to the flaming temper she knew 
dwelt inside him. He spoke like a bag of sapphires 
clicking together. "I wanted to talk to you." He cast a 
glance at Hollygrace, who was sitting on her haunches and 
watching with interest. "Alone," he added.
    Drilla's friend yawned again, revealing the large 
fangs that had most likely terrified the other desert 
Elwen; the yawn became a grin. Nobody was going to move a 
six-hundred-pound sandcat that was intent on sitting 
still.
    After another threatening stare, Salmek seemed to 
dismiss the blue-eyed feline, focusing his attention 
entirely on Drilla. "You know," he said in a voice that 
suggested the sapphires were acquiring sharper corners, 
"that a betrothal is as good as a marriage."
    Drilla inclined her red-gold head, giving him an 
enigmatic smile. "Do go on," she murmured encouragingly.
    Salmek paused for the briefest of moments, then 
continued, never taking his eyes from her face. "You think 
that you can simply break such a binding contract off?"
    The desert Elwen shrugged, which seemed to infuriate 
her former betrothed. Many things did, Drilla noted acidly 
as she nevertheless stepped backward, putting distance 
between herself and the volatile somak. Nothing was as 
dangerous as an enraged sapphire Elwen.
    Salmek made a visible effort to calm himself, to bank 
the flames that blazed in his green eyes, and to smile. 
"Drilla, darling," he murmured, his voice revealing his 
hopeless love. "If you would tell me why-"
    Against her better judgment, the desera found herself 
trying to explain again. Though she no longer loved 
Salmek, and was rapidly losing hope of keeping him as a 
friend, she needed to tell him for her own peace of mind- 
if he would listen. "Salmek, you know how dangerous the 
thing we guard is." She waited for the compulsory 
expression of disgust to twist his face before she 
continued. "We cannot afford to relax our vigilance. It 
was only two years ago that Areil fell. That should serve 
as a reminder to all of us. We cannot make a truce with 
the silver unicorns, or simply leave the Wellspring to 
them. We cannot move away."
    Salmek raised a hand and laid it against her cheek in 
what had once been a tender gesture. Drilla forced herself 
to stifle her shudder and endure the touch of gemstone 
against her cheek, even listening to his words. "Drilla, 
dear, we must, for the sake of your sanity if nothing 
else. Your obsession with guarding this pool has made you 
lose leadership and-" his voice hardened "-love. Will you 
give up your mind as well?"
    Drilla's slap caught him on the face and spun him 
halfway around. Sucking her knuckles, the desert Elwen 
eyed the stunned somak dangerously. "Don't you dare touch 
me!" she growled.
    Salmek's own temper flared to life again. "You 
worthless w-" he began.
    Drilla let out a primal scream of pure rage, stopping 
him. He stared at her as she pushed past, and the desera 
knew he was looking for tears in her eyes, some evidence 
that she was sorry for what had just happened.
    Drilla was not sorry; she was never sorry. She moved 
on smoothly, leaving Salmek behind as she entered the one 
tunnel everyone else refused to go down. Casting a look 
over her shoulder, she saw that even Hollygrace had curled 
herself up at the entrance to the corridor, glimmering 
blue eyes pleading with her friend to come back. Drilla 
turned hotly away and marched on, her cheeks flaming- with 
passion, not embarrassment.
    The tunnel narrowed, then widened again, and the 
desert Elwen smelled the old, familiar scent beyond an 
archway. Soft silver light fell on her face as she ran 
through the door and into a monstrous cavern. Her eyes 
fell at once on the large argent puddle crouched before 
her like a lake of molten metal. She clenched her fists 
and kicked a small pebble into the "water" as she spun to 
a stop. Looking at the monster did nothing to calm her 
temper.
    "I hate you," she said softly.
    The waves of the Wellspring bubbled and burped, as if 
they heard her; perhaps they did. Drilla was not willing 
to place limits on the intelligence of the only thing she 
feared. Even as she watched, the small stone tumbled out 
of the pool as if propelled. It had changed in color from 
sandy yellow to black, and Drilla knew if she touched it 
she would no longer find it to be crumbly, the sand barely 
holding together, but hard and strong, a piece of 
congealed lava.
    Of course, she had no intention of touching it. The 
water that could make anything immortal was not for her. 
She worked herself carefully along the curve of the small 
beach until she reached the rock ledge that leaned over 
it. This she lay down on, first sniffing it to make sure 
it was completely dry.
    She was adverse to the pool and its main use, of 
course, but not to other uses. Desert Elwens were 
eminently practical; it came as a consequence of their 
environments. If something was there, they would find a 
use for it.
    Now she craned her neck, staring into the swirling 
water, parting it with sheer force of will to form a view.




                        Chapter 1
                        Occasion
    The wailing of pipes and flutes seemed only to accent 
the night, to provide an extra sparkle to the dancer's 
silver coat as she turned teasingly before the spectators. 
The silverini lowered her eyes demurely, then flung her 
head up and neighed fiercely as the music went into a wild 
skirl. Flirting her high, banner-like tail over her back, 
she rose on her hind hooves and pawed the air. Approving 
applause and snorts broke from the audience as the 
unicorn's silver coat became shining fire under the blue 
moon of the Rekindling.
    Destria smiled and shook his head, amused. Such 
entertainments were not unusual, but this degree of 
enjoyment put into them was. He tilted his own horn back 
to look at the azure shape of Takon bobbing, wreathed by 
mist, overhead. The moon's usual blue-green color was 
gone, overwhelmed by the hue that lent its name to this 
most holy of silverini festivities. 
    The unicorn returned his gaze to earth again and idly 
stamped a hoof. Almost at once a forest Elwen, jade eyes 
gleaming past the soft blue mask all non-unicorns had to 
wear, hurried up and proffered a crystal goblet. Destria 
lightly lipped at the golden liquid inside it, half- 
closing his eyes in pleasure. Distilled dew and juice of 
honeyberries. His favorite.
    "My lord." The soft voice caused the unicorn to turn 
and nod slowly, regally, to his consort. He successfully 
concealed his start of surprise. It was startling that 
Kumota could move so quietly, big as she was. 
    The mare, her belly swollen with their unborn foal, 
returned the nod, but not with quite the same grace. She 
appeared nervous and excited about something; her silver 
fur was pale, a reaction that indicated some high feeling, 
usually embarrassment or anger, in a silver unicorn. She 
placed her muzzle to Destria's equine ear and spoke in a 
whisper. "My lord, if it would please you to come at once. 
It's one of the land Elwen slaves we took from Areil. He's 
mumbling in his sleep- dream-talk we thought it, but 
dream-talk that you should hear. It has become most 
disturbing."
    Though he disliked leaving the festivities, especially 
for the sake of a mere two-legger, Destria knew his 
violet-eyed marelady never disturbed him without cause. He 
downed the honeyberry juice, then scooped the crystal 
goblet from the Elwen's hands with his teeth and dashed it 
on the ground. The eluvor stooped at once to pick up the 
pieces, and Destria nodded approvingly. Before bringing 
the cup, the woodland Elwen had been standing idle. It 
behooved society if all slaves had something to do.
    Kumota was forced to take a winding path through the 
Rekindling rejoicers; even the ruling pair of Crownia 
Minald did not command instant obedience and respect on a 
night such as this. The spectacles ranged from more 
dancers to flaming-torch jugglers (always Elwens) to 
illusionists. Destria turned his eyes away from the last 
as he followed his mate. His brother Windhoof, dead for 
over two years, had been a magic-worker, an illusionist so 
skilled he had faked his own death and transformed himself 
into an Elwen, joining the Areilien enemy.
    It still hurt Destria's heart to think about him, but 
not because of their kinship. It was misunderstanding of 
Windhoof's motives. How could any unicorn be so base, so 
callous, as to betray his own kind?
    At last, the surging, laughing crowd thinned, and they 
entered the area of slave stables. The wooden buildings 
stood on the least arable ground in the minald, some of 
which still smoked or bore the smell of blood from the 
vermil attack two years earlier. Predictably, it was also 
the place farthest from the fields most of the slaves 
tended. The unicorns saw such torture as justified; it was 
penance for the resistance to peace and brotherhood most 
of the races had displayed.
    Destria's slight feeling of unease faded, replaced by 
smugness. Only one more province and a part of another to 
go, and the continent would be totally under silverini 
rule. Resistance in Minamar had ended with Areil's fall, 
the other land Elwens surrendering in abject despair. With 
the troublesome alfari gone, the major threats were the 
desert and fire Elwens...
    A tickling pain in his back warned him to direct his 
thoughts elsewhere. Absently, he lifted his silver tail, 
brushing its cool silver strands over the twining scar on 
his back.
    "Here he is," said Kumota, stopping before one of the 
larger slave stables. At her brusque nod, two land Elwens 
hastened forward and swung the doors open. The two 
silverini entered, waiting patiently until the elf who had 
run almost unobserved at Kumota's side squeezed past them 
and lighted a torch.
    The flickering light caused Destria to start back 
before he regained control of himself and minutely 
examined the stalls in the stable. Almost every one was 
filled with an Elwen, and of those the majority bore the 
pale skin and delicate features of land Elwens. Their 
bodies, curled in commanded sleep, quivered and jerked as 
strange impulses ran through them. Destria smiled 
victoriously. This was proof that, after all, the 
silverini still held sway over the lesser races. They were 
the only ones who could endure the blue light of the 
Rekindling without ill effect.
    Kumota stepped forth unhesitatingly, wending her way 
through the shivering and moaning Elwens. She halted 
before the third stall down and motioned him to her.
    Destria stepped to his mate's side, wrinkling his nose 
fastidiously as he sniffed the smells of soggy straw and 
blood. Either the stall hadn't been cleaned in a long 
time, or the Elwen had recently urinated.
    He decided, upon seeing the slave, that it had been 
the latter. The land Elwen lay in a hunched ball, curled 
even more tightly than his brethren, one arm flung over 
his face, the other lying limp but ending in a clenched 
fist. He shivered violently, occasionally muttering to 
himself in the foul tongue of the land Elwens. Destria 
shot an inquiring look at his mate- after all, she could 
not understand Aril- but Kumota motioned his impatience 
into silence again, her violet eyes glinting.
    Abruptly, the slave began to speak in precise, clear 
Primal- and the content of his message took Destria's 
breath away.
    "Where did they come from? They are creatures of 
legend only, not real beings. Why are they taking over our 
val-" The message cut off suddenly, fading into a scream, 
but Destria could guess the last word, valley. He drew out 
his breath and locked eyes with Kumota. For long moments 
they stood gazing at each other, the silence broken only 
by rapid breathing and muffled groans.
    The creatures the Areilien was referring to couldn't 
be the silverini, Destria knew; more than two thousand 
years of warfare had led the land Elwens to respect their 
enemies as real enough. But what else could have come into 
Areil? Not dragons, not Elwens of any type Destria could 
think of. It was a fact that the valley had yet to host a 
silverini settlement, though the buildings of the silver 
city itself had been gutted, all wealth stripped from 
them. There had been talk of using dragon slaves to melt 
it, but that had so far gone undone, since more important 
things engaged Destria's attention- his own rapid 
ascension to greater power, for example. He now commanded 
not only Crownia but its nearest neighbor, Fabla 
Slavehold, and there had been talk of electing him to the 
newly created office of emperor. 
    But now, despite his duties and the seductive lure of 
the warm thoughts of power, Destria's curiosity was 
piqued. It was seldom that anything did so anymore. He was 
not yet completely ready to assault either the Barren 
Desert or Fhevu, and the mundane duties of government were 
tedious compared to the excitement of a campaign. He found 
himself, sometimes, wishing that Areil still stood and 
that his great rival, Aklflam Durillo, still lived in the 
area. But this...
    "I think it is more than the usual nightmares brought 
on by the Rekindling," he murmured absently when Kumota 
looked at him expectantly, as if awaiting his opinion. "I 
would like to go to investigate, but you are big with our 
foal, and near your time. I do not want to miss the birth 
of our son or daughter."
    Only the soft glow in Kumota's violet eyes showed how 
much his words had touched her; her response was otherwise 
as bold and cheerful as always. "Besides which, we cannot 
afford to lose you, my lord. You are the tie that binds 
all the diverse unicorns of Crownia Minald together. If 
you must investigate, send lesser unicorns to do it for 
you."
    Destria, basking in the simple fact of being needed, 
nodded. "It is probably only a group of slaves sent to 
tend the area by another minald," he said, flicking his 
tail dismissively, "but it will be interesting to see why 
they thought they could take residence in our valley."
    "I'm sure I don't know, my lord," Kumota answered 
promptly, with just the right touch of shock. Then she 
appeared to perk up. "My lord, have you seen the latest 
breeding success?"
    Destria snuck a sidelong glance at her sly smile. "You 
don't mean to tell me..." he began.
    Kumota nodded, and Destria burst into triumphant 
laughter. "I told Cajuni we could do it!" he neighed, 
between snorts of mirth. "Uniels are as adaptable as their 
Elwen ancestors; they don't need any special climate. We 
can breed them." In the ecstasy of his triumph, he reared 
like the dancer he had been watching earlier and executed 
a pirouette on his hind hooves. Kumota was too large now 
for such a maneuver, as the presence of the coming foal 
swelled her usually slender silverini body, but she joined 
in his victorious neighs.
    The neighing they were making covered the screams at 
first, but Destria's keen ears soon caught them. He 
hastily placed all four hooves on the ground again and 
stared around in agitation.
    The scream came again, the cry of a creature in 
ultimate agony, then cut off, far too abruptly to be 
natural. Then more cries broke out, mostly concerning, 
"Wild slave!"
    "Sun and ice!" Destria swore, and tore from the 
stable, leaving his heavier mate to follow as best she 
could.
    He reached the center of the celebration in a moment. 
What had once been a simple, mild, milling crowd was now 
chaos. His people scattered in all directions, most with 
their tails between their legs, giving them the look of 
whipped dogs. Soon the space of grass where the dancer had 
lately been plying her art was clear- with one exception. 
The dancer herself, identifiable by the forlorn silver 
veils adorning her horn and hindquarters, lay still on the 
splintered wooden remains of her platform. One veil still 
blew in the wind, but the others lay wet, heavily soaked 
with crimson blood. Destria also sensed something odd 
about her body. He walked in a circle about her to see 
what it was, and recoiled. Instead of a bloodied corpse, 
there were only white bones with patches of hide clinging 
to them. Indeed, many of what he had mistaken as veils 
before now showed themselves to be tattered pieces of fur.
    Destria recognized the signs, and was backing up 
before the wild slave, crouched in the shadows like the 
feral beast it was, sprang. His prudence saved his life, 
but the slave recovered its balance easily, almost 
disdainfully, and eyed him with a slow smile.
    His balance, Destria mentally corrected himself. This 
slave had the silver eyes typical of his race, long indigo 
hair whose style nonetheless revealed him as male, and an 
easy, confident air that proclaimed him as a master 
fighter. Though he wore no weapon, Destria's terror grew 
no less. The slave had another distinguishing feature; his 
skin was midnight black.
    The soul-eating darkness Elwen moved a few crouching, 
stalking steps forward, then bobbed his head as if in 
greeting to a challenger. His argent eyes, however, told 
Destria too clearly that the zorkro thought the unicorn 
beneath him. "Hello, foul meal," growled the slave, and 
came forward again, forcing Destria to retreat another 
step.
    The silverini's indignation rose at being considered 
beneath anyone, even one of the deadliest creatures on the 
continent, and he lowered his horn and stamped his hooves. 
"Prepare to meet your death," he threatened, as calmly as 
he could.
    The darkness Elwen lost his smile, bowing his own head 
as a snarl wrinkled his lips. The grimace revealed his 
fangs, the left one still dripping gleaming yellow liquid, 
all that remained of the dancer's soul. For a long moment 
they stood poised, the zorkro hunched like a wolf against 
the darkness, appearing part of it, while Destria blazed 
like a beacon of light and righteousness.
    A moment only. Then they charged.
    Their techniques could not have been more different. 
The zorkro came forward slowly, testing with every step 
for a trap, his eyes as much on the shadows as on his 
opponent, perhaps in a desperate search for an ally. 
Destria rushed, never taking his eyes off the ground, 
where they were forced by his lowered horn, never doubting 
the right of his cause, his absolute inability to fail.
    They fought under the stars that were beloved of the 
Elwens, true, but they also fought under the blue light of 
the Rekindling, and that outshone even the argent 
glimmering of the lords and ladies above.
    Thus the zorkro was helpless to do anything as the 
unicorn took him in the chest, slamming him backwards, 
horn piercing his heart. He was dead before Destria slowed 
and stopped- at least, no more of that strangely wise dark 
radiance glimmered in his silver eyes. But that was not 
good enough for the minald commander. This worthless slave 
had dared to kill a silver unicorn, a creature so far 
above him that the distance could not be measured even by 
sunlight. The unicorn bowed his horn, used his hooves to 
scrape the body onto the ground, and then crushed it 
beneath him until it was nothing but a faceless corpse.
    Only then did the realization of what had really 
happened hit Destria like a gale. He began to shake as if 
he were a leaf caught in that gale. It was a zorkro he had 
attacked, an actual darkness Elwen. If not for the blue 
moon of the Rekindling...
    He swiftly rebuked his thoughts. Long ago he had sworn 
a vow never to think such things again, and for two years 
had kept that stern promise. He would have won even had it 
been a moonless night, the stars shining forth unclouded. 
He would have won because it was his natural right to win, 
because he was superior to the Elwen opponent in each and 
every way. Still...
    He had managed to stifle the trembling of his legs and 
lift his horn regally by the time the revelers crept 
slowly back. Indeed, by that time he'd summoned a slave to 
wipe a little blood off his hooves and face- though not 
his horn- and taken a heroic position in the center of it 
all, one foot poised above the zorkro's crushed face, his 
head thrown back, his horn gleaming azure. For long 
moments, his people only stared- struck by his beauty, 
Destria knew.
    Then they burst into cheers, and Destria accepted the 
accolades he had once accepted after defending a silverini 
filly from a viaquia. True, this time they weren't quite 
as new, but the stallion felt in his element again- the 
center of attention. He fixed a smile to his face and 
waited in that center until the festivities had been more 
or less reestablished, and the dancer's corpse dragged 
away. Destria directed that to be buried with honor, 
though there was no possible way she could be healed to 
look like her old self, as unicorn rites demanded. He was 
about to order the zorkro thrown into a secure pit when 
the defaced body burst into silver flame.
    Destria sprang back, always leery of heat in any form, 
even when it was such a congenial color. He realized now 
this was a perfect chance to solidify his position of 
leadership. Kumota was anxious that he should not return 
to Areil, but if his people saw it as a place of danger, 
it would become a thing of could rather than should. He 
must appear to be humbly asking their permission, while 
really commanding them to let him go. "My people!" he 
cried, striking another magnificent pose. Destria had 
worked hard and long on his poses.
    He received a cheer, of course; in fact, it was quite 
a long while before the cries of adoration calmed enough 
to let him continue. "This meddling with the slaves is the 
work of powerful magic!" he shouted. When they agreed at 
the top of their lungs, he smiled confidently and 
continued. "I know none of us are childish enough to 
believe in alfar tales-"
    That got a laugh, and Destria warmed to his audience 
now. "The alfari never were more than old legends," he 
said dismissively, and continued with other words he could 
never remember later. His attention was on the cold sweat 
trickling under his fur, and on his gladness that his race 
could not detect lies as the Elwens could. He didn't 
believe was he was, himself, preaching. He knew, with more 
reason than any other to believe, that alfari were real.
    In the night, sometimes, he still saw their cat- 
pupiled eyes gleaming, as he had seen them dancing at a 
moonfire ceremony, as he had seen them when they took his 
first slave from him, replacing her with a magical 
creation. It gave him the shivers, and not just because he 
had believed them banished for several months. It had been 
because, even vanished, they had left behind a legacy of 
enormous power and a fear and awe that tainted what had 
once been innocent children's stories.
    When his speech was finished, Destria had his people 
agreeing that of course this wasn't the work of alfari, 
there were no more alfari anywhere, it was silly to 
believe so, but just in case someone had found their 
legacy and was meddling in the affairs of the Empire, as 
they had...
    "It is best," said Destria humbly, "to return to 
Areil. There may still be magic there..." He let his voice 
trail off, knowing each and every unicorn remembered the 
wards that encircled the valley. Abruptly, inspiration 
struck. "And we need that magic, as we need the land. 
After all, how are we to survive the Barren Desert and 
come to the Wellspring if we do not have it?"
    Their blank looks reminded him that they had no idea 
of what the Wellspring was, and that even the Desert was 
distant, just a faint hot presence on the borders of their 
legends. "A Wellspring is a pool of gods' blood," Destria 
explained with an indulgent smile. "The deserae guard this 
one, wrongfully deny its magic to those who would make the 
best use of it!" His voice stirred their murmuring, 
catching them up in his righteous wrath. "We need that 
magic- it is our birthright! With it, we gain the only 
power the Blue Moon has seen fit to deny us."
    All eyes lifted heavenward, taking in the azure color 
of the usually aqua moon, under which, long ago, the first 
silverini had been born, and under which they had first 
acquired their gazepower. Several fervent prayers were 
murmured- Destria knew that and did not mind. He did not 
desire to be a god, to be worshiped. Soon he would have 
more than that.
    "We will gain immortality," he concluded.
    Chaos rang out, every unicorn, even the young foals 
born since the fall of Areil, shouting to be heard. It 
seemed every one of Destria's people had an opinion on the 
subject of living forever- slightly different for each 
one, but all pointing to one consensus. The gift of 
divinity and the stars would be nice, and all agreed that 
Destria should go to find magic that would permit them to 
cross the Burning Sands.
    The unicorn had expected no less, and was swiftly able 
to work out travel plans. A straight trek through the 
forests of Ceowydi was direct, but also tiring. Besides, 
if a rival minald had taken over the valley, they wouldn't 
be pleased to see him. It would be better to travel in a 
cart pulled by slaves or on a flying slave's back. After 
some consideration, Destria selected a mirror dragon 
hatchling, one of the few of that dangerous breed ever 
tamed. With luck, the few captives would breed, and 
Crownia would have its own population of deadly icepower.
    The silverini did not have to leave instantly, of 
course, and in fact few of his people wished him to do so. 
They wanted him to stay and preside over the Rekindling 
festivities, even if Destria didn't have the time to see 
it all through. The moon would shine at its most beautiful 
blue for four more nights, and he had reluctantly declared 
that he must be on his way before it rose two days hence. 
Still, he stayed to watch the dancers, drink the best 
honeyberry wine, and bless those few late-born children 
who had not received his touch. It was as if the zorkro 
attack, buried under dreams of future glory and eternal 
life, had never been.
    Destria was walking the one street of the minald not 
colonized by platforms when a sweet, chirruping voice 
spoke behind him, stopping him. "Lord Destria, wouldn't it 
be tedious to live forever?" Both the pitch of the voice 
and faintness of scent indicated it was a very young foal.
    Destria swiveled his head to look over his shoulder, 
meeting the grave, calm gaze of two tiny blue eyes. The 
filly blinked and dipped her horn at so great an honor as 
the minald ruler meeting her gaze directly, but she 
repeated her question. "Wouldn't we get tired of life 
soon?"
    Destria chuckled uneasily. He couldn't remember 
blessing this filly, though he held a memory of every 
child in the minald who had felt the touch of his hoof. 
"You can never get your fill of living, little one. There 
will always be another sunrise to see, another year to 
watch turning under your hooves."
    The filly nodded slowly, looking thoughtful but not 
convinced. "Yes, that is true, Lord Destria," she 
murmured, keeping her gaze politely on the ground. "But 
what if, one day, you got tired of watching the sun rise? 
What if the years become not a blanket, but a burden?"
    Destria stared, even trotting back to the filly. 
"Where did you learn such sentiments, little one?" Already 
he was readying magic to blast her from the life she 
derided, if necessary. She could be an Elwen in disguise. 
Or an alfar, his mind teased. "What is your name?"
    She faced him calmly, showing no fear of the icy chill 
he radiated or the pale color of his horn. "My name, my 
lord, is Herilly." She named the Primal Tongue word for 
lily calmly, though Destria had never known any of his 
people to take a name in the vulgar common tongue.
    "Is it indeed?" he muttered darkly, and decided to 
test if she truly was what her form showed her to be. 
"Well, Herilly, your coat is as white as the flower you 
call yourself after, but is your conscience? Can you face 
me and your lord-" he threw his horn and gaze upward 
toward the Blue Moon "-by saying a prayer?"
    Herilly regarded him for so long that Destria felt a 
peculiar, creeping unease. The expression in her eyes was 
not fear or scorn, or even yet the eldritch, forever- 
strange light that burned in the gazes of the alfari. It 
was a strangely wise sadness, and the sorrow was not 
something that should exist in a child. He thought she was 
going to refuse until she slowly nodded. "Anything to 
prove to my lord who I am," she murmured smoothly.
    Destria had the feeling that her "lord" was not the 
Blue Moon but him. At this point in time, he was undecided 
on whether he wanted such a powerful subject. He watched 
with a definite cold trickle down his spine as she tilted 
her head back and shuffled her hooves, correctly aligning 
her horn with the moon. At least, even if she did possess 
heretical attitudes, she had been tutored well in the mere 
mechanics of silverini religion.
    But mere mechanics had never been enough to turn aside 
an accusation of heresy.
    Herilly began to hum, and that hum, like alfarian 
singing, made Destria wish he were somewhere else. At last 
she burst into full song, and while he might doubt the 
sincere belief behind the prayer, he could not doubt the 
beauty of her voice or the correctness of her words.

    "O Lord, O Blue Moon, take what is mine,
     For by your light only does my power shine.
     All I have, all I am, is thine,
     I will surrender it; only give me a sign.

    "O Lord, O Blue Moon, blazing on high,
     Azure radiance lighting all the sky.
     Breezes that through thee fly
     Come to Arcadia and brush unseeing eyes.

    "O Lord, O Blue Moon, shining above,
     One thou hast at least, to give thee love.
     Accept my adoration, accept my love,
     For thee, O divine dove!"

    The song ended. Destria let out his breath and glared 
at the filly. It was right, that prayer, every "thee" and 
"thou." "I believe you are faithful," he said grudgingly. 
"Now try to explain to me what it is you mean about living 
forever." Herilly began to speak in a whisper immediately, 
forcing him to bend down to hear her.
    "My lord, what will happen when everything you wish to 
do is done? You may see the planet under the hooves of our 
race, perhaps even the moons and stars. But then 
everything will belong to our race, and thus to you- and 
still you will live. Where is the excitement after that?"
    Destria relaxed, in fact was able to laugh, truly 
amused. "Oh, little one, immortal beings can afford to 
wait a few centuries or so. Even now, with our paltry 
lifespan of only seven thousand years, we pursue long-term 
goals rather than short-term ones. Think of how we can 
relax when we know death will not come for us!"
    Herilly looked thoughtful, then murmured a question 
that flickered on the edge of hearing, like alfar music. 
"And what will happen when unicorns walk on our Lord, the 
Blue Moon?"
    Destria was shocked; the words had literally hit him 
with the force of a blow. He gasped a moment, then lifted 
his horn and said piously, "Little one, that will never 
happen. Our kind will be prevented from doing that."
    "What will happen when you d-" began Herilly, then 
paused. "Of course," she said dully. "You will live 
forever." Destria nodded smugly, and only half-listened to 
her next words. "I have one last question. What will 
happen when the unicorns become so great in numbers that 
the planet will not hold them all?"
    "Then we travel to others," said Destria 
unhesitatingly. He lifted his head to gaze worshipfully at 
the moon. "Our Lord tells us the universe is infinite, and 
we reproduce but slowly. Surely time will end before we 
fill even a tiny corner of the universe."
    Herilly's dark blue eyes glimmered, strangely filling 
all his vision. Her voice abruptly seemed to be the world, 
pounding about his head with almost unimaginable force.
    "But before this, you die."
    A dark cloud passed across the moon- uncannily, 
Destria knew, it was never cloudy on a Blue Moon night- 
and when it cleared again, Herilly was gone. Destria felt 
fear as he had never known it before, not even in front of 
an alfar's face. Tremendous terror crushed him to the 
ground, forcing him to kneel, though he had never knelt to 
any altar but that of the Blue Moon. Bowing his head, he 
whimpered, desperately praying for moonlight in his mind, 
since his lips could not be forced to work.
    The darkness passed- not a physical cloudiness, but 
the murkiness spread over his soul. Destria scrambled to 
his hooves, silently thanked the Lord of All, and made his 
way toward his private sleeping minaret, already mentally 
calling slaves to attend him. He had had no private slave 
of his own since Opalia and Huntergrace had been slain two 
years earlier, but it was right and proper that the lord 
of a minald be served by all the slaves of that minald. No 
one begrudged him the right; unicorns even fought to give 
their slaves to him, though he graciously refused to take 
any individual one for more than a night, so as to give 
others their turn.
    The eluvor who had served him earlier came to his 
side, joined by a curalli whose brand marked him as the 
personal possession of some silverini. The stallion stood 
in the center of a forest clearing while the eluvor found 
the sweetest grasses and leaves for him, while the curalli 
stroked his mane and groomed his coat free of what little 
dirt and burrs it had collected. None were so deft with 
their fingers, and thus none paid so well for the heresy 
of hands, as the shadowed Elwens.
    When he had been fed, given water, and curried to 
shining perfection, Destria sent the eluvor away. The 
curalli he ordered to bring him a blanket, so that he 
would not muss his coat should he choose to sleep on the 
ground, and then to stand guard. The curalli obeyed; 
indeed, he was incapable of protesting, and what seemed to 
be a permanent mental command from his master forbade him 
to frown. He was still smiling when he stepped through a 
curtain of vines- silverini-made, but looking better than 
anything in nature's treasury- and took up a stiff 
position just outside the clearing. As soon as he was sure 
no one was nearby- he and Kumota had agreed to sleep apart 
while she carried their child- he dropped his head, losing 
his own smile.
    The incident with Herilly bothered him, though it had 
been so small and so quickly over. Its strangeness, not 
its swiftness, was what stuck in his mind. He thought of 
discreetly asking around, but knew in his heart that 
everyone would deny knowledge of the blue-eyed filly. 
Besides, why should it matter? She was gone, and he would 
likely never see her again.
    It was not because of her that he had posted a guard. 
It was because of the... dreams.
    It sounded so childish, Destria fretted, even when the 
only one he mentioned it to was himself. How could he- how 
could anyone- be scared of images that were only the 
nightplay of minds, conglomerations of scenes from one's 
own life?
    But he was. These weren't dreams, they were 
nightmares- pardon the pun, he thought automatically- and 
he wanted some kind of protection from them.
    He lay down on the blanket, folded his legs beneath 
him, and closed his eyes, willing calmness, willing 
strength. It was not long before simple weariness reached 
over both meditations and fear and pulled him down into 
the swirling maelstrom that had become all too familiar of 
late.
----------------------------------------------------------
    The dream- at least this dream, there was more than 
one- always started off pleasantly enough. He stood in a 
field of shining snow and ice, congenial to a unicorn, 
under both the sun and the Blue Moon, somehow blazing in 
the sky together. That was the first indication of 
wrongness; the second was the fact that he stood totally 
alone. He, who led a people which had six different words 
for six different stages of "communal."
    It was more than unnatural, it was evil. Destria 
shivered, though silverini never felt the cold, any more 
than their equine kin the frostplungers did. He set out 
walking through all that beautiful ice and snow which he 
would have so enjoyed in waking life, searching for 
something that would make him feel less alone.
    He rebuked himself as he walked. "You're a fool," he 
said aloud to the air, and the words echoed strangely, as 
if from the walls of a canyon. Instead of being heavy, 
however, their sound was thin and sharp as glass.
    ...fool....fool...fool...
    He shivered again and looked up to the Blue Moon, 
ready to ask his Lord for help, though he was proud. That 
one glance nearly made him swallow his tongue.
    The Moon was gone. Not merely not there, but Gone. 
Destria felt his Lord's touch withdraw from his soul, 
which he had always assumed stood in high grace. After 
all, hadn't he obeyed the commands of Moon-Lore, working 
for the cause of peace and the superiority of silverini at 
every turn?
    How could he be moon-bereft?
    His lonely cry rose into the air, echoing off the ice, 
which laughed at him, scornfully but too clearly.
----------------------------------------------------------
    Destria woke drenched in sweat. At the moment, the 
most upsetting thing was not finding that the presence of 
the curalli guard hadn't kept the dream away, but the 
simple fact that his coat was ruined.
    He sent a mental summons to the curalli, who came 
running at once. Destria knelt and shivered as the 
shadowed Elwen patiently stroked him back to the natural 
beauty of a silver unicorn again. "Do you think I'm a 
fool?" he demanded of the curalli.
    Of course, the shadowed Elwen was ready with a stock 
reply. There were always foals with low self-esteem or 
unicorns who doubted the Moon-Lore. Some reassurance was 
imprinted- and, lately, bred- into all Elwens. "My lord, 
you are a unicorn," the curalli said in an unbelievably 
humble voice. "How can you ask me? You are so far above me 
that you should be walking with your Lord the Blue Moon, 
treading on the stars."
    Destria let his head bob in time to the soothing 
words, then abruptly stopped. He snapped his eyes open and 
spoke with carefully restrained panic. "What did you say, 
Elwen?"
    "You should be walking with your Lord the Blue Moon, 
treading on the stars."
    Destria's blood ran cold. The simple, direct, familiar 
formula, one he had helped to insert into several thousand 
slaves when he had been younger- except for that last 
phrase. "Treading on the sun" was what the Elwen should 
have said. It was feared that "treading on the stars" 
would awaken old rebellious instincts.
    Destria swung his head around, snapping, "Look at me." 
The curalli obeyed with a reassuring jerkiness. A recovery 
of original Elwen grace would have been worrying. Destria 
stared deeply into the night-blue eyes.
    There was nothing there but humility, the desire to 
serve. After a moment, the stallion was able to relax. No 
Elwen still indulging in the blasphemy called freedom 
could fake that servility of spirit that was so necessary 
and telltale in a silverini slave. Destria decided he was 
being silly. After all, he hadn't helped put such a 
formula into slaves for over a thousand years. They could 
have changed the words. And even if it was a slight sign 
of rebellion, only one chain had slipped. There were still 
innumerable others binding him to lord and duty.
    "Carry on," Destria snorted, after one more moment of 
indecisive staring. He turned his head away as the fingers 
rasped over his coat; what would the Lord of All think if 
he saw a silverini gazing at a slave?
----------------------------------------------------------
    The next morning, Destria strode briskly toward the 
minacada, the silverini equivalent of an Elwen inn, but 
far more beautiful and graceful. It spiraled into the air, 
like most silverini buildings, a delicate spire linked to 
the ground by a staircase of spiderweb and silver. Destria 
took the steps two at a time, leaping easily upward, lost 
in memories.
    This was- almost- the place where he had met Kumota. 
He had certainly made her acquaintance on this site but 
above the ground, even though it had been in the old 
minacada. The communal kitchen, like so much else, had had 
to be rebuilt after the vermil attack.
    The stallion trotted through the door, crossed the 
small anteroom in which slaves were generally left, and 
entered the main room, the wood-paneled common place in 
which silverini ate and danced. There were few customers- 
most of the small population awake at this time stayed 
outside until after the rising of the sun, which they 
revered hardly less than the Blue Moon- but those that 
stood and ate from the petal-shaped eating stands greeted 
him familiarly. Destria returned the nods casually; he 
encouraged his people to treat him so outside of formal 
situations.
    His old friend the innkeeper, a marelady who had aged 
with surprising grace, neighed with pleasure when she saw 
him. "The usual, Lord Destria?" she asked, the words 
strangely calm and deferential after her initial exuberant 
cry. 
    "Please, Renaldee," Destria said in turn, and took his 
place in front of an empty cup. It was only a few minutes 
until Renaldee's son trotted up, carrying a mouth-watering 
mix of grass and red oak leaves in his jaws. He placed it 
carefully in the cup and stepped back. Destria dug in with 
a hearty appetite at first, but soon, the edge of his 
hunger blunted, he took to studying the play of sunlight 
on the walls while he contentedly chewed.
    The flicker and leap of the yellow beams almost made 
him see firelight again, dancing off the silver-and-wood 
walls as the unicorns had danced that night. That had been 
before he married Kumota, before Areil fell and he ruled 
Crownia- but it had also been when his friends Lunanin the 
bindingmaster and Snarreln the field commander were alive, 
when the old minald still stood. Who was to say which time 
was better?
    Destria's thoughts wandered to his upcoming journey. 
He would fly over the old dried remains of Silvergate, 
which had once been the Twilit Lake, blasphemous home of 
alfari and magic. It was no longer dangerous, of course. 
There were no more alfari anymore. He thought of the 
messages his father, who had strayed too near Silvergate 
and been killed by the magical people, had brought by way 
of the traitor Windhoof. One had revealed the first hint 
of the Wellspring's existence, the other had been a 
warning to beware of Aklflam Durillo and the darkness 
Elwen silversinger, Zorsran Darkleader.
    Destria snorted loudly. The warning had been 
unnecessary. Zorsran's silversong had been terrible, yes, 
but they had conquered the threat, hadn't they?
    Feeling viciously satisfied with his own logic, he 
finished his meal and stepped from the minacada into the 
warmth of early sunlight. Renaldee made no attempt to stop 
him. The lord of Crownia, who had saved their people two 
years ago and again last night, was not expected to pay 
for his meals.
    Tail swishing, Destria made his way down the silver- 
and-silk staircase, enjoying the unobtrusive stares that 
followed him and the soft, childish whisper of one colt. 
"Mommy, is that Lord Destria?" The child couldn't have 
sounded more awed if the Blue Moon himself had come down 
to walk among the silverini. 
    The voice of the child's mother was more subdued, and 
she spoke in a scolding tone. "Hush, now! I won't have you 
disturbing the Lord with your muttering. He's got more 
important things to think about, I'm sure."
    Destria knew better than to tell a marelady how to 
raise her children, but all the same, he turned his head 
and gave the young unicorn a slow and deliberate wink. The 
youngling's blue eyes went as wide as the Lord of All 
himself. He was wise enough, with the wisdom of all 
children, not to let his parents on to a good thing, but 
he nodded his horn in return. "I'm going to be just like 
you when I grow up," he mouthed.
    Destria watched with indulgent pride as the colt and 
his oblivious mother carried on climbing toward the 
minacada. The child couldn't have a better role model.
    The stallion knew he should do something practical, 
such as choosing slaves for the journey or flying on the 
mirror dragon's back to get himself accustomed to his mode 
of travel, but he stubbornly decided to take a walk 
instead. He had spent the last three days in frantic 
preparation for the festivities of the Rekindling. He 
needed- and deserved- a little rest and relaxation, he 
thought as he trotted into a small patch of tended forest, 
ducking his horn to avoid scraping it on the branches.
    He stared around in pleased surprise. He had found an 
unexpectedly beautiful little retreat. A brook, babbling 
as it flowed east, no doubt to join up with the mighty 
North's River, cast a delightful smell of water, clear and 
pure, on the luxurious green grass and purple hide-a- 
blooms of early summer. Destria dug in, grazing on the 
tiny, tasty flowers whose buds did not open until touched 
by something sentient, despite the fact that he had only 
just eaten. Like their less intelligent, unhorned kin, the 
silverini were constantly hungry. It didn't matter if they 
ate on the sly; these little grazings did not deplete even 
the grass in the minald proper, and millions of slaves 
labored all over the continent for their silver masters.
    Destria was soon content, and he plunged his muzzle 
into the cool water, drinking deeply. Glancing up with 
moisture twisting the slight beard that hung from his 
chin, he stared around the clearing with a sense of deep 
satisfaction. Some unicorns claimed patches of land as 
their own private grazing territories, but that was 
frowned upon, and the opportunity had became scarce since 
the fire Elwens had burned the minald. Destria made a 
mental note to inform Kumota of this place. He could not 
be rebuked if he shared it with his mate.
    His hooves ringing daintily despite the muffling 
cushion of grass, a lily rising from every hoofprint, he 
made his way down the winding silver street toward the 
southwest outskirts of the minald. He wanted to check on 
the latest effects of a program he had implemented after 
encountering his hated vermil enemy, Verkus Lorlenna, two 
years earlier.
    Soon he was standing in the sandy courtyard of a 
larger-than-ordinary slave stable, staring in interest as 
various lesser creatures raced about, trained by unicorn 
stealthmasters in stalking, tracking, hunting, and 
fighting, as well as many forms of street-battle. He 
needed his discreet approval, making sure none of the 
stealthmasters were watching him. The program appeared to 
be going well.
    Destria knew of Verkus Lorlenna, and he vaguely 
suspected there must be a leader of sorts among the desert 
Elwens. After Areil, he certainly was not oblivious to the 
damage Elwens could do when coordinated under a strong 
leader. He wanted to be ready in case such a catastrophe 
ever happened again. His trained assassins should do the 
job.
    "Watching the trainees?" murmured an amused voice in 
his ear. Destria did not speak, but turned his head, 
licked his mate's nose, and nodded.
    As he wheeled back again, a young magmacat caught his 
eye. The red beast, kin to both cougars and the 
troublesome mooncats and nightcats, crouched behind the 
corner of a stable. He was flattened so perfectly that 
even the brightly shining sun did not throw his shadow.
    A unicorn stealthmaster, walking toward the stable 
corner, stopped and sniffed the air for a moment, then 
shrugged and continued on. Kumota started to open her 
mouth, obviously to warn the unicorn, but Destria, 
enchanted by the magmacat's steadily swishing tail and 
perfect pose, lifted a hoof to stop her. He knew the 
assassins had mental barriers that prohibited them from 
actually harming the stealthmasters, and he was interested 
to see the antics of a slave who could trick one so 
experienced.
    The magmacat moved like a shadow as his prey came 
nearer; there was no other way to describe it, though the 
analogy was not a welcome one to Destria. He rose in the 
air fleetly, soundlessly, his red coat gleaming in the sun 
but still not giving him away, and the leap preventing his 
magma-raising paws from touching the ground and revealing 
him for sure.
    He hit the unicorn with a dull thud, and the pair went 
rolling over and over, the stealthmaster actually neighing 
like a frightened colt. Then he appeared to recognize one 
of his own students and folded up submissively. The 
magmacat latched his claws on the master's shoulders and 
kicked as cats and Cats did when disemboweling prey. 
Destria's heart skipped a beat until he realized that the 
Cat's claws were hitting only air. He was very careful not 
to position even one deadly foot near his master's belly. 
When the tumble ended, he leaped gracefully from the 
pretended "corpse" without even a break in kicking, 
wheeled to deliver a mock final strike to the prey's 
throat, and glided calmly away with no blood staining his 
jaws.
    Destria, his smile widening, called the defeated 
stealthmaster, who wore an expression of shaken pride, 
over to him. The unicorn's eyes went wide, and he dipped 
into a bow, slipping to one foreleg. "Your honor," he 
murmured with gaze fixed to the ground. "What may I do for 
your Lordship this morning?"
    "Tell me the name of that magmacat who just defeated 
you," replied Destria, his enchanted eyes following the 
graceful creature around the compound. Even forced to walk 
on the ground, the magmacat touched lightly so that few 
bubbling red cracks appeared, and positioned his body so 
that it cast not the smallest shadow. It was obvious that 
his training occupied every part of his mind- Destria had 
seen that happen only a few times before.
    The stealthmaster's face lit with happy relief. "Oh 
him, sir? That's Tracker, sir." At Destria's surprised 
glance, he explained, a trifle defensively, "We call him 
that because his smelling skills are even more impressive 
than his capturing and killing technique."
    "Ah," murmured Destria softly, remembering the legends 
of the time before his birth. The terrible Good And Evil 
War had raged then, lasting nearly a million years. 
Magmacats, with their Evilunds Elwen companions, had been 
the largest part of the force that had defended the dark 
province until the last. Both kinds of creatures could 
follow trails decades, or even centuries, old. "Of course. 
It would be."
    The stealthmaster tilted his horn, staring up 
quizzically. "Master?"
    "I was simply wondering why I had not been told of 
such a promising recruit among the slaves," said Destria, 
casually, but with enough of a menacing tone in his voice 
to make the unicorn flatten his ears in mingled fear and 
anger.
    "We assumed-" he said and then started to stutter. He 
swiftly recovered and went on as Destria gazed at him 
mildly. "We assumed, my lord, that you would think him 
inferior because of, well, him not having any hands to 
hold poisons, and-"
    "That doesn't matter," said Destria firmly. "After 
all, we get along perfectly well with four legs, don't 
we?" He motioned his horn to his own means of locomotion, 
malicious humor sparkling in his eyes. The stealthmaster, 
however, knew he was past danger and relaxed.
    "Yes, indeed, sir," he said and dared a small chuckle. 
"It must be spending so much time around these Elwens." He 
gestured with a hoof to the trainees; indeed, most of them 
were young Elwens. "I'll try to do better in the future, 
sir."
    Destria nodded, satisfied, and looked back to Tracker 
once before departing. To his surprise, the young magmacat 
had halted and was gazing at him with respect in his 
golden eyes- intelligent, free-willed respect. Destria 
blinked, and the look was the servile one of a slave 
again. He waved a hoof irritably and turned away.
    He searched for an excuse to get away from Kumota, but 
nature saved the day. The mare abruptly staggered and 
groaned, hoof pressed to her horn. "I need to go lie down 
a little while, Destria," she said, her white fur paling 
with weariness.
    "You do that," he replied, immensely relieved, and 
watched in tender protectiveness as she cantered away 
toward the clearings where expectant mothers were catered 
to three hundred sixty days a year. Once she was out of 
sight, the stallion reassumed his anxious expression and 
cantered northwest. No one tried to stop him; the will of 
the master of Crownia went unquestioned in this place he 
ruled. When he reached the small boulder covered with 
twining vines, he glanced around cautiously, then murmured 
a word- his essencename.
    The boulder vibrated, then groaned. The illusion on it 
fell away, revealing a small, dark slave stable that 
seemed to huddle into the earth. The door swung open, 
causing those inside it to scream with pain.
    Destria smiled evilly and stepped inside, wanting to 
see what new debasements awaited him this time. Nothing 
like an obsessive hatred to wake you up in the morning.




                        Chapter 2
                          Galar
    Drilla sighed and stood slowly up, rolling the cramped 
muscles in her shoulders and back. Well, that had proved 
instructive and interesting, if painful and tiring. 
Running her fingers through her red-gold hair, she stepped 
back onto the rocky "beach" and carefully inched around 
the Wellspring, pausing to glare at it once more before 
she exited the room. It roiled, causing her to dart back 
another suspicious glance, but it lay placid as the pond 
it resembled under her eyes after a moment. She nodded 
slowly and reentered the tunnel. Only there did she lean 
against the sandy wall and give herself time to think.
    She had heard of this Destria before, of course; with 
no respect for tradition and no compunctions about using 
the Wellspring to scry beyond the boundaries of the 
Desert, she had known about the fall of Areil before those 
few refugees of her people who had been silverini slaves 
had come north bearing the news. Their tales were full of 
awe and thus exaggeration, but they combined with the 
truthful visions in Drilla's mind to form a noble picture 
of Areil indeed. She had been frustrated beyond words that 
she could only see, not touch or help, her image-people; 
she had wept when that darkness Elwen, Zorsran, had died, 
and when Aklflam Durillo had been taken captive. They had 
come to be more than distant, faceless rumors to her. 
    One other thing her scrying had taught her; the Bane 
of Silver that that star-cursed prophecy spoke of was not 
a traitorous silver unicorn. Drilla was willing to accept 
the existence of destiny in some cases, but the rogue 
Windhoof had acted entirely on his own. She wasn't sure if 
she admired or despised him for it. It was a wonderful act 
considering who the betrayed were, but it wasn't something 
she could imagine doing.
    Not even when her people were being as frustrating as 
the Wellspring itself.
    She sighed to herself and walked gloomily up the 
passage to where Hollygrace waited. The sandcat, her jaws 
dripping red from the dune-hare she had somehow managed to 
catch, stood at once at her approach. Yards of tail 
undulated like a headless snake, and hot blue eyes peered 
up happily. "Hello!" chirruped the feline, scraping a paw 
in the floor of the corridor. "Learn anything? You've been 
gone for nearly twelve hours."
    Drilla paused, sandstruck, in midstretch. While 
remembering the twelve-hour time difference between her 
home and Minamar, she had forgotten that a corresponding 
amount of hours had passed here while she viewed Destria 
and company. That meant that, above ground at least, it 
was nearly midnight.
    Midnight- not her favorite time to hunt, given the 
coolness of the desert night, but perhaps exactly what she 
needed in her wearied condition. She flashed Hollygrace a 
grateful smile before replying- tersely, as was her wont. 
"Many things, my friend. Some of interest, and some not. 
It would take too long to talk them all out now, and I 
must find something to eat first." The end of her sentence 
a silent promise to reveal more later, the desert Elwen 
brushed past her friend and continued along the corridor. 
Hollygrace did not follow, trusting the desera and, Drilla 
thought enviously, having a meal to finish.
    A small, flashing shape, normally dull colors 
glimmering in the light of its aura, caught her attention. 
Licking her lips, she pounced and began to eat serenely, 
paying no attention to the crispness of her morsel or the 
frantic tail-jabs at her tough face and leathery hands. 
When she was finished, the edge of her hunger had been 
blunted. That was one scorpion that would never seek 
shelter in a desera home again.
    In the desert, you took what you could get.
    When Drilla reached the juncture that contained four 
tunnels- those to the stable, the surface, the Wellspring, 
and the main part of the desera living area- she 
momentarily hesitated, tempted to go and see if her 
dracmel had been tended properly. But then she shook her 
head and forced such thoughts from her mind. Such self- 
reliance had caused her to lose her people, and displaying 
any more would destroy the little trust they still placed 
in her. She ducked forward into the surface tunnel and 
flattened herself, pushing upward in the same fashion as a 
snake, a technique that had served her well over many 
years. To her slight annoyance, she saw that the boulder 
had been replaced over the entrance. Grumbling, she pushed 
it to one side and emerged into the sometimes-killing 
coolness of the desert night.
    Her sudden appearance startled a real snake starting 
to feed on the cooling carcass of a siku deer near the 
stone. The reptile folded itself up defensively, prepared 
to strike if necessary. Lidless eyes stared at her, and a 
forked tongue flickered in her direction. After a moment, 
however, the snake seemed to recognize her as a desert 
Elwen and no threat, and turned back to swallowing its 
meal.
    Drilla could have taken the meat from the snake- her 
inches-thick skin protected her from fangs as well- but 
she had no interest in doing so. The scorpion, small as it 
was, had satisfied her flesh needs for the night. Instead, 
she sniffed the faint echo of moisture still residing in 
the sand and went south at a dead run, first removing her 
soft leather boots.
    Were it not for the cursed coolness as the ground 
released its precious heat, the night would be beautiful, 
Drilla thought resentfully. She raised her body 
temperature until it felt as if she stood in the magma 
that was the source of her name and glanced around with 
soft eyes. Despite her travels in other countries, her 
appreciation for her homeland had increased, rather than 
declined, over the years.
    The oddly-hued blue-green moon, Takon, threw cool 
azure shadows over the sand, highlighting the curve of 
every boulder, every saguaro cactus. Each grain of sand 
took on a silvery hue, as they did no matter what the 
color of the moon. With the heat that killed so much at 
last gone, animal life was emerging from hidden crannies. 
Drilla's silent run and familiarity with the desert 
enabled her to identify three snakes, an owl, and a bat 
within half a mile. She heard even the near-silent thump 
of the hunting bird's wings and lifted her hand, welcoming 
it with a wry smile as close kin.
    And the stars! Drilla had never understood why they 
drew back so in other places. Here they blazed as they 
were meant to be, close and cool, with a terrible, 
unforgiving beauty. They were not merely heavenly lights, 
but the flowers of the night. Drilla sang as she ran, and 
the various night creatures pricked up their ears in 
startlement but not in alarm. The sound of a desera taking 
joy in the night- or day- was a familiar one.
----------------------------------------------------------
    It must have been at least three hours after sunrise 
that thumping on her stone door awakened Drilla. She 
yawned and stirred restlessly in her bed of soft, shifting 
sand. It seemed like she had slept only a few hours; 
indeed, the taste of the cactus blossoms she had eaten was 
still fresh in her mouth. "Come in," she called absently, 
standing and tossing her hair back to get the sand out of 
it. Glittering grains still clung to the red-gold strands, 
and in truth, the former leader of the deserae did not 
mind their presence.
    Salmek opened the door and stepped inside, cool blue 
face composed. He bowed without meeting her eyes. "My 
lady, we require your presence."
    Drilla stared at the lowered head, with its crop of 
curls so barely distinguishable from the gem-like skin. 
Salmek, she thought with a rare flash of regret, I would 
change things if I could. I know we loved each other once, 
but-
    The desert Elwen cut off her thoughts as the somak she 
had once loved grew impatient with waiting and glanced up. 
Still avoiding that knowing green gaze, she dropped her 
own eyes and nodded. "Did Pulima say what about?"
    Salmek hesitated just a minute too long, and the 
desert Elwen closed her eyes in pain. It meant the news 
would be unpleasant, and now the seed of anger at his 
protectiveness was planted. It would only be pushed in 
more deeply whatever he said, whether he lied or did 
something else- which he would, in order to spare her 
pain.
    Sure enough, his voice was a pathetic, sad thing, 
appealing to her emotions. "Drilla, beloved, Pulima-"
    "Get on with it," snapped the desert Elwen. She 
snapped her eyes open and glared at her former betrothed. 
Her eyes sharpened almost immediately, and she reached out 
her hand and beckoned slowly. "Give it to me, Salmek."
    The sapphire Elwen stepped backwards, one hand going 
defensively to his throat. His hand completely obscured 
the slim band of metal. He seemed about to snap, then 
spoke quietly instead. "Drilla, this is mine- given to me 
by you, as I recall. I-"
    The desert Elwen reacted quickly, springing to her 
feet. One fist slammed Salmek's wrist, forcing him to 
wince and drop the blocking fingers in pain. The other 
hand sought the clasp at the front of the golden betrothal 
collar, the clasp shaped like a scorpion. The creature's 
tail split in two halves, and the collar fell into 
Drilla's hands. She held it up silently, accusingly, 
before his green eyes.
    Salmek shook his head and reached out for it, only to 
be stopped by her raised arm. His eyes became cold as 
beryl-green ice. "Drilla," he breathed warningly, "all 
they would ever find would be a sapphire statue."
    "Do it," said Drilla softly, still holding his eyes. 
She did not bother to complete the sentence. They both 
knew what would happen. The somak who claimed to love her 
might kill her, but not before she took him with her.
    The sapphire Elwen relaxed from his threatening pose, 
but continued to reach for the betrothal collar. At her 
confused look- he knew better than to cross her- he burst 
into an equally confused explanation. "The collar's not a- 
memento of our days together, Drilla." Despite himself, 
his voice stumbled; his eyes begged her for the pity she 
never gave anyone.
    Drilla's heat had boiled all pity from her long ago. 
She raised an eyebrow and held the collar out of his 
reach. "And?" she prompted.
    Salmek struggled against saying something, but Drilla 
knew he would answer anyway. He had never been able to 
resist the lure of her eyes. Sure enough, his words came 
bursting out. "Pulima asked me to marry her last night."
    Drilla burst out laughing. Staggering backward, she 
collapsed against the wall, stuffing one hand in her mouth 
to stifle her giggles. The grasp of her fingers grew weak, 
but she still had strength enough to pull the collar from 
his grasp as he tentatively reached for it. She eyed him 
in amusement, then held the jeweled thing out and wagged 
it over his head. "Touch�, touch�, Salmek. Did you really 
think that I would be hurt?"
    One thing was certain; pain gleamed in the soft gem- 
like eyes as the sapphire Elwen regarded her. "Drilla, I-" 
Again his voice faltered, and though he lowered his eyes 
to the ground, he kept his ears lifted, as if hoping to 
hear a hint of hysteria in her laughter.
    There was none; Drilla only laughed the harder. 
"Pulima would," she said after a moment, when she had 
begun to laugh so hard that she hiccupped. "A marriage of 
the two most powerful Elwens in Dormida. A surefire way to 
consolidate our people behind you." There was no mockery 
in her voice, and she abruptly hugged the somak, her eyes 
sparkling. "I think it's a wonderful idea," she said 
sincerely.
    Salmek's arms tightened around her for just a minute; 
he released her the moment she squirmed in protest. He 
stared at her as if she would suddenly turn and hit him, 
or as if he had already been hit. "It wasn't my idea," he 
said hurriedly. "I love you, Drilla, and always will."
    "The nonsense you were spouting before was better than 
this," snorted Drilla wryly. She flipped the collar 
thoughtfully in her fingers, then tossed it, gleaming, to 
him. He caught it and gave her a befuddled stare. "Don't 
mind me, once-dear. I'm just acting and reacting true to 
my nature." The former leader pivoted on her heel and 
skipped away, singing.
    The desert Elwen was not lying; she was now truly 
hopeful. She knew how useful, how uniting, alliance 
marriages could be. If Pulima, the one who had usurped her 
position, used this in the right way, they might soon be 
in one piece again, ready to move against the silverini.
    Or perhaps not, thought Drilla soberly. She knew 
Pulima well, and had not possessed a high opinion of the 
girl even before the attempted coup that had ended with 
Drilla surrendering. While the desert Elwen was high on 
beauty, a kind of innate cunning, and a love of typical 
Elwen attitudes- including the modest hatred of power- 
seeking that had reassured her followers she did not want 
leadership for personal motives- she was low on-
    Drilla searched for a word in her mind, finally naming 
the quality she wanted intelligence. Probably, she thought 
with the usual desera humor that was as dry as the sand 
they lived in, Pulima couldn't understand any other word.
    Drilla passed a side tunnel, heard the muttering of 
guards, and realized she had come upon the private back 
entrance to Pulima's "throne" room. The desera throne had 
never been much in the first place, only a little cracked 
stone seat, but Pulima had ordered it polished, mended, 
and moved into one of the biggest rooms in Dormida. Only 
the chamber housing the Wellspring was larger.
    The smile that had been haunting Drilla's face faded 
altogether at the thought of that cursed pool, and her 
fleeting temptation to go and play a practical joke in the 
usurper, such as hiding behind the throne and jumping out, 
went the same direction as the smile. She had been like 
that, once, perhaps in the first ten years of her life. 
She had never tried to suppress her playful nature. The 
child inside her had simply not been able to survive the 
rigors of adult life.
    Her thoughts wandered, and she stopped and leaned 
against the wall, remembering. Was it the first or second 
major argument with her father that had spurred her into 
being a fatalist? Impossible to tell, she conceded after a 
moment. It could have been either one, or it could have 
been started by the first and accelerated by the second. 
All Drilla knew was that one day when she was eleven, she 
had left home quietly, taking with her a conviction of 
destiny and a disrespect for cursed tradition. She wished 
she had been able to take her father's pain as well, but 
it remained, sleeping quietly beside him in the place of-
    No tears, no pity. It had been her creed ever since 
then, and she had followed it well. Drilla did not even 
have to blink before her face resumed its usual calm. She 
turned and made her way toward the front entrance of 
Pulima's cavern.
    The guards at the door were talking idly to each 
other, but straightened up and regarded her solemnly as 
she neared. The former leader smiled at them, spreading 
her hands in the traditional gesture of peace, though it 
grated on her. Best to start off this meeting on a good 
note. "Hello, brothers," she said softly, dipping her head 
slightly. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that 
the dent she had made last time in the stone had almost 
faded.
    "Hello, Lady Drilla," one replied easily, and received 
a poke in the ribs from the other. Giving his comrade a 
sullen look, the desera corrected his form of address. 
"Good sun-morrow, Drilla," he said, still formally but 
without the courtly title, his eyes stony and distant.
    Drilla felt a faint ache in her heart- not because she 
liked being called a lady, but because the casualness she 
had always loved had gone. "Good sun-morrow," she 
responded in a subdued voice, and started to open the 
door.
    The guard who had protested showing the woman courtesy 
lifted his sandspear menacingly. The weapon, far more 
barbed and sharply tipped than a normal spear was, in 
order to pierce through the tough skin of desert 
creatures, pointed at her stomach. Drilla stared down its 
length as the guard commanded, his voice remarkably 
steady, "Our Lady Pulima does not want you going into the 
throne room. You are to wait here until she comes out."
    "What perfect nonsense," sniffed Drilla, and pushed 
open the door anyway. The guard snarled and started to 
ready the sandspear to plunge into the impulsive desera's 
body, when a powerful hand closed around his throat from 
behind.
    "I wouldn't be doing that, were I you," said Salmek 
quietly, easily holding the struggling desert Elwen off 
the floor. A warning shimmer along his blue skin calmed 
the guard immediately. Though the sapphire Elwen had never 
used the ability to hurt any of his adopted people, it was 
well known that the somak could call safire.
    With a grateful nod and smile to Salmek- she might not 
love him, but that didn't prevent her from expressing 
thanks- Drilla stepped past the other hastily backing 
guard and into Pulima's private chamber. Conversation 
halted and eyes turned on her, but Drilla only raised an 
eyebrow and insolently returned the stares. A shrill 
voice, full of strange moisture and therefore quite odd 
for a desert Elwen, brought the lady's eyes to Pulima.
    "How dare you come in here without my permission!" The 
green-haired desert Elwen leaned threateningly forward on 
her stone seat, her ruby-red eyes blazing. Drilla shook 
her head slowly. Pulima was incredibly beautiful, but, as 
the deposed leader had thought before, she could stand a 
few lessons in cunning and strategy- and tact. Hadn't the 
advisors seated around her taught her anything?
    "She comes in here with my permission," said Salmek 
softly, stepping through and shutting the door behind him. 
He locked eyes with his wife-to-be, raising one brow.
    Pulima's swift glance and sickly smile then revealed 
much to the intent Drilla. Her rival- of course, the 
usurper was too weak to be considered a real rival- was 
afraid of an Elwen Drilla had respected but not feared. 
The desert Elwen nodded slowly. Interesting.
    "Of course, Salmek," murmured Pulima with a 
submissiveness that Drilla found disgusting. She snorted 
quietly to herself. There was no wonder her people did not 
wish to stand against the silverini, if they were all as 
weak as this! 
    Shaking away her contempt, Drilla forced herself to 
listen as Pulima turned those dangerous, fire-red eyes on 
her. "I am grateful for your prompt answering of my 
summons," remarked the other desera female, as always 
watching the vanquished desert Elwen with a mix of caution 
and perfect ease. It had been established long ago that 
Drilla would not retaliate for the taking away of her 
throne. "I am sure you know of the news that spread 
throughout Dormida last night."
    Drilla glanced up sharply. "I had been at the 
Wellspring," she said softly, ignoring the murmurs. "I was 
scrying; you know how hungry that leaves one." She 
resisted the urge to smirk as Pulima stared deliberately 
elsewhere. No other Elwen in Dormida dared to scry even 
with ordinary magic, let alone bend the waters of the 
Wellspring to his or her will. "I hunted last night. What 
is this news?"
    Pulima's red eyes fell, and one red-umber hand picked 
nervously at the tan gown she wore. Skin color varied 
greatly among desert Elwens; the bright scarlet-gold of 
Drilla's skin actually blazed like a beacon, a rare hue 
indeed. The new "queen" seemed acutely conscious of the 
differences between them as she answered. "Our people now 
longer think the Wellspring worth living in a constant 
state of tension. We have made the decision to withdraw."
    Drilla's heart flew into her mouth, but she spoke 
calmly, tersely, mentally stepping up the pace of her 
plans. Though she would have to move faster than she had 
anticipated, she was not caught unawares. "I had feared 
this," she stated bluntly. Pulima smirked, but her grin 
faded as the former leader continued. "I had feared the 
day when you lost heart."
    Pulima surged to her feet, so outraged that she 
actually left the safety of her throne and took a few 
menacing steps toward Drilla. "It is not loss of heart! It 
is love of life. Our people have grown weary of following 
old orders that no longer mean anything. Why should it 
concern us if the unicorns become immortal? They will 
never have much use for the Barren Desert; much of it is 
not arable. There will always be corners to which we can 
withdraw. Why can we not keep doing that?"
    "You forget that their goal is not farmland," said 
Drilla, her voice still calm, but the red of rising 
passion in her cheeks.
    "Then what is it, pray tell, O Wise One?" stated 
Pulima mockingly, planting her sandy hands on her hips. 
There were snickers then, toadies always anxious to curry 
favor who laughed at their queen's every joke. Drilla had 
acquired the name "Wise One" for her habit of spending 
hours alone beside the Wellspring, like an old fortune- 
teller or sage, and for her urgings that her people 
recognize the world beyond the desert, which were mocked.
    The desera did not restrain her temper; she never did 
so. "The souls of all our people!" she cried, clenching 
her fists and raising her hands above her head. Her gaze 
swept the room like the stare of a cockatrice, lacking 
only its deadly effect. "Mark my words. Millions of Elwens 
labor in the slave minalds already, but the unicorns will 
not be satisfied until every flicker of freedom has been 
trampled under their hooves!"
    Into the momentary silence came the sound of another 
snigger. One of Pulima's closest councilmen, a young 
desera whom rumors hinted was nearer the queen than the 
side of the throne, was having a fit of uncontrollable 
laughter. "My dear Drilla," he finally managed to gasp, 
his voice shrill and, like Pulima's, annoyingly wet, "what 
would you have us do? Storm the encampment of creatures of 
ice? Venture into lands where Uunul is dim and our 
creators touch mountains and water with their light? Go 
into an area where we can no longer feel sand underfoot?" 
He glanced about to make sure that he had the audience's 
full attention. "As well ask a dracmel to drink!"
    This analogy, once one of Drilla's personal favorites, 
never failed to awaken a few chuckles, and it did so now, 
albeit weak ones. Drilla, who had often been told that her 
speeches and other activities were unnecessarily 
melodramatic, flushed. Still, she understood the meaning 
of the word bluntness, if not calm.
    "I scried on a powerful unicorn leader, Destria," she 
said bluntly. The laughter went silent immediately, and 
eyes containing a conglomeration of awe, fear, and 
suspicion turned on her. 
    Drilla smiled grimly. Among the "faceless rumors" of 
the refugees, Destria's name was the only one which had 
inspired fear. Perhaps even these Elwens, who believed so 
strongly in free will and discouraged belief in destiny, 
could feel the sense of power lurking in that name.
    In brief terms that were yet descriptive, Drilla 
explained the scene she had viewed in the Wellspring. "The 
unicorns," she concluded, "have been lazy and careless in 
these past few years. They haven't moved against the 
Barren Desert. They doesn't mean they will not."
    The only thing she didn't mention was the strange, 
small stable she had seen the silver unicorn enter. That 
was information it might prove interesting to keep to 
herself. Besides, she could see from the look in Pulima's 
red eyes what the decision of the queen, and therefore her 
people, would be. 
    Although she was not sorry for the way things had 
worked out, Drilla did feel a faint trace of sadness for 
the fact that the old days, when her people listened to 
her and she had not an enemy among them, had not endured. 
She listened with hot detachment as Pulima spoke. "Drilla, 
you know full well that I cannot force our people to stay 
here, or order them against the unicorns. What would you 
have me do? After all, some Elwens believe our people 
should stay free- instead of falling to slavery, as they 
surely would if they went into battle against the 
silverini." Pulima smirked as she spoke the double slur on 
Drilla. It was well known both that Drilla believed in 
destiny and that she was arguing to venture into other 
lands when she was deposed.
    The remark was witty, Drilla had to admit, as it set 
her people- with the exception of Salmek- laughing. One of 
her counselors must have come up with it. "I notice," she 
said distantly, "that you do admit the silverini danger, 
then."
    The chuckles died into a waiting silence. Such an 
insinuation- that a commoner was swifter of mind than the 
ruler- was viewed as a challenge, exactly the sort of 
thing Drilla had infuriated her people with by refusing to 
answer. Pulima twiddled her fingers, but Drilla was not 
concerned. The girl was less of an accomplished mage than 
Drilla herself, though she used illusion to conceal the 
fact. 
    Pulima evidently reconsidered her actions in the face 
of this faintly amused challenger. She shifted and settled 
back in the throne. "By the way," she added casually, as 
Drilla assumed the audience was over and turned to leave, 
"we are holding a celebration to unite our people and 
gather our resolve to bid farewell to a home we have known 
for so long."
    Drilla stopped as if a stone wall had appeared before 
her. Turning to meet Pulima's gleeful gaze, she said 
evenly, "Now is not the time to celebrate. We should be 
attacking, not frittering our time away in feasting."
    Pulima purred with satisfaction. "Exactly as you said 
she would react, dear Salmek," she chuckled to the 
sapphire Elwen, who folded his arms and stared darkly 
elsewhere. She faced Drilla again. "Oh, yes," she said 
calmly. "The celebration will be held- precisely because 
you didn't allow any in your day." Pulima didn't seem to 
notice the uneasy shifting of her counselors. The new 
queen never won the goodwill of her people when she 
compared herself to Drilla. "But it is more than a mere 
feast." She smiled and extended a hand, beckoning. "At 
that feast, Salmek and I will exchange our wedding vows."
    The somak walked forward and laid his cool, gem-heavy 
palm in Pulima's, closing his green eyes. Drilla stared at 
him in surprise. Even through his long argument with her 
over the breaking of their betrothal, he had never 
appeared anything but strong, confident, proud. Now he 
stood like a whipped dog, permitting Pulima to hold his 
hand and examine the fingers critically, like a mother 
seeing if her child had washed under his fingernails. Oh, 
Sal, Drilla thought to herself, rare compassion fleeing 
from her boiled heart. What have they done to you?
    She forced herself to pay attention to the plans 
Pulima described, the massive tables that would be set out 
at night under the desert stars, and the feasting and 
music that would continue for four nights. She and Salmek 
would marry on the fourth, when Takon would lose its 
unnatural blue color and begin to wane, so that the stars 
would be masters of the skies again.
    Drilla nodded amiably, and knew the others were 
counting on her belief in fate to stop any action on her 
part. By the time she exited the chamber, she was smiling 
thoughtfully to herself. She pretended not to notice the 
nervous looks the guards exchanged, nor their anxious 
whispering through the door. One of them, after all, had 
been nice to her.
    Drilla entered her private chamber again, gesturing to 
the mirror on the wall. Glittering specks of sand launched 
themselves from the floor and onto the mirror, clinging 
easily to the smooth glass surface. Drilla had often 
considered simply melting the mirror- she had known since 
the day of the usurpation that Pulima used it as a window 
on her- but she felt her rival should have some fun, 
watching for the rebellion that would never come.
    The desera curled up in the sand and resumed her 
interrupted nap. Even as she sent her mind into slumber, 
however, she put into action a unique ability of the 
deserae. Two small pieces of her awareness remained, one 
to listen for danger and the other to construct plans.
    By the time she woke up, she knew exactly what to do.
----------------------------------------------------------
    The former leader glided unopposed along the main 
corridor of the living area. Once this had been her 
favorite place to walk, but that was before Pulima and her 
soldiers had ambushed her here. Since then, she had 
avoided it like ice, but knew full well that Pulima often 
walked here to remember her victory. Anyone who saw the 
desera fighter would assume that she was remembering her 
defeat. She had attracted several looks of pity already.
    In truth, the desera was looking for Hollygrace, whom 
she had not seen since leaving her to eat the dune-hare. 
True, she had been busy with hunting, sleeping, and 
Pulima's audience since then, but it was still unusual for 
the sandcat not to seek out either Drilla or Salmek, who 
had once been her friend as well.
    Soft footsteps came behind her- almost inaudible, but 
heavier than the noiseless tread of a sandcat. Drilla 
sniffed the air hopefully anyway, then sighed. The scent 
was not that of wonderfully hot, stinging sand or dry 
desert wind, but the odor of gems.
    Salmek came up to her side and walked with her, though 
he made no attempt to speak to her or otherwise make his 
presence known. Drilla tried to shake him by walking 
slightly faster, but he only shrugged- a barely seen 
movement- and did not alter his pace.
    The desert Elwen whirled to face her former betrothed, 
black eyes snapping with exasperation. "What do you want?" 
She spoke crisply, welcoming the rising heat in her cheeks 
that marked the only outer sign of her surging emotion. 
    Salmek did not respond, and continued his mindless 
plod. It was then Drilla realized that he had not been 
walking with her at all. He had stayed at the desera's 
side merely because their paces had happened to match. He 
had not, in fact, even seen her, and started to walk past. 
She hesitated, then reached out and placed her hand on his 
arm, though her plan did not call for her to be seen in 
such a compromising situation. 
    The sapphire Elwen appeared to awaken from some inner 
trance or meditation, giving her a startled glance. Drilla 
felt her breath catch at the wary pallor of his face, the 
lack of luster in his gem-like eyes. Against her will, her 
heart softened. She could not feel pity, true, but perhaps 
she could forgive. There was something so fundamentally 
wrong in breaking an Elwen's spirit, as Pulima was 
obviously doing, though the means she used were unknown to 
Drilla.
    "Dril," greeted the somak, his pet name for her 
before- the break. A hopeful smile grew on his face. 
Drilla swiftly dropped his hand and drew back, warning 
herself again not to get too close to him, since he had 
sided with the enemy. True, Pulima more amused than 
angered her, but still, he might try to stop her. He had a 
fervent belief in tradition.
    Salmek fell back, and so did his eyes. He would have 
walked away; indeed, he started to make the movements, but 
Drilla clasped his wrist. "What happened?" she demanded 
crisply when Salmek looked at her.
    An expression that could only be described as panic 
came onto the somak's face, and he tugged at her grip.
