White Flame
                         Prologue
            9999, Age of Arcadia, Late Winter
    He had ridden hard throughout the day, asking his 
mount for more even when the hail began to fall like a 
series of silver whips about midmorning. He had grimaced 
about that, but there had been really nothing he could 
have done. The weather was always unpredictable this high 
in the mountains, and most especially in the Unknown 
Mountains, where not enough people ventured to make 
weather maps profitable.
    Now, though, he could pull his steed, that stallion of 
great heart and greater spirit, up with a feeling of 
satisfaction. Now he could gaze down from the ledge on 
which they perched and see his long-sought goal: the 
curalli city of Deepdark.
    Corlin Durillo tore the dark hood from his head and 
set about removing the rest of the shapeless black leather 
wrappings that were common dress to his mother's people. 
Here, in the home of his father's, he needed unobtrusive 
dark tunic, leggings, and cloak.
    His stallion watched him, then shook his mane and 
snorted in disapproval.
    Corlin laughed and paused to stroke the dark neck and  
white mane of his deathtrotter. Even lathered with sweat, 
the pale hair was cold and moved slowly and constantly, 
tossed by the winds of an invisible tempest. One had to 
have death Elwen blood, so the rumor ran, to touch a 
trotter and not suffer pain from that chill, the chill of 
death embodied in a mortal form.
    "I know you want to go with me, Whirl," he murmured, 
gazing into the red eyes. "But you couldn't get down this 
cliff, and you would stick out a bit, you know."
    Whirl tossed his head again and spoke in that odd 
voice of his kind that was neither physical nor mental, 
but more a way of rearranging the past so that their words 
were heard. -You don't have to pound the point home every 
chance you get-
    Corlin's grin faded, and he touched the stallion's 
neck again, this time gently. "I know. But it is very 
important that you allow me to go alone. I have to observe 
the one they sent me to find for at least a dance before I 
make contact. Then I will know exactly how hard he will be 
to handle."
    -Not hard for you- Whirl said loyally, reaching out to 
touch his rider's shoulder with his nose.
    Corlin lifted a brow and slowly shook his head. "Given 
that stars-be-damned prophecy, we can never be sure."
    They stood there for a moment, gazing at each other. 
But there was really nothing more to be said, and they 
knew it.
    Whirl turned and cantered away along a high mountain 
path. Corlin turned to regard the city somberly.
    Then he pulled up his hood and began the descent.




                        Chapter 1
                      Blood Mirrors
           10,000, Age of Arcadia, Early Winter
    "It is said that no one knows his merit until faced by 
danger. Somewhat discredits a life of peace, does it not?
    "On the other hand, if we people of peace didn't 
exist, who would the meritorious ones have to feel 
superior to?"
    -Selena Dranda, High Priestess of Sarastaa.

    Selkendal Shadowgift heard the soft chuckle behind him 
and spun, knowing at once that it was a trap.
    Behind him, the other, advancing gang members paused 
as they saw the eyes of the Ice Dancers' leader. After 
all, he had survived on the streets for over seventeen 
hundred years. He carried two slender swords at his waist, 
was rumored to be a swordmaster, and had a temper to rival 
white flame.
    They looked at each other, shrugged, and came on 
anyway. Selkendal's death would give their leader, 
Grigera, control of his gang's territory and food- 
gathering activities. If they lost one or two Ebony 
Singers, so? No streetrunner, however good, could face 
seven others alone.
    Selkendal cleared his mind of everything except his 
anger and stood there, hands folded over the hilts 
projecting above his waist, waiting.
    He drew his swords, Starslayer in the right hand and 
Soulfeeder in the left, so close to the first of his 
charging opponents that the man skewered himself. The gang 
leader jumped high in the next instant, slamming his feet 
into the dying man's face. The thing that was now only a 
corpse and not a living curalli bowled two other Singers 
backwards. Once they realized what had hit them, they 
dropped their weapons and began tearing at the corpse, 
frantic to get a mouthful or two of warm flesh before the 
body spontaneously combusted.
    Selkendal smiled quietly and looked at the two females 
and two males who remained, asking with a raised eyebrow 
if they wanted to continue this.
    "Move!" one of the females snarled, to send them 
scurrying, and glided forward. She carried no weapon but a 
long, ugly obsidian dagger with a barbed blade, and by 
that he knew her.
    "Grigera," he acknowledged, tipping his head. "Is it 
to be single combat, then?"
    "I suppose it must be," said Grigera, tossing her 
long, dark hair back over a shoulder. For a shadowed Elwen 
woman, she was beautiful, with eyes as deeply blue as the 
heavens on a summer night, but Selkendal never let himself 
be distracted by that. "It seems none of my Singers will 
stand with me." She lashed them a scornful glare that left 
them cowering and looking abashed, then glanced back at 
Selkendal with a smirk. "And none of your Dancers with 
you, Whitehair."
    The swordmaster struggled to keep a control on his 
temper. He hated it when people called him that, and 
Grigera knew that well. Indeed, she was watching his 
contorted face with a pleased smile, no doubt thinking he 
held himself in check because he did not want to fight 
with rage dimming his mind.
    None of them ever understood. He did not like killing 
if it could be avoided, and when in a rage he was deadly.
    His voice was cool, though heat lurked just beneath 
the surface. "As you required, Grigera, I came alone. You 
said you had discovered a new bounty that you were willing 
to share with me, and only me."
    "The more fool you, Whitehair," Grigera replied. She 
lifted the dagger and waved it around teasingly, her voice 
dropping to a luxuriant purr. "Come taste Bloodhunter's 
kiss, as you have so often longed to taste mine."
    "You know that is a lie, Grigera," Selkendal replied 
with true regret. "I have never desired you. Are you 
coming, or not?"
    "Brave words for someone with an alley wall at his 
back, Dermekim!" Grigera cried, giving him his name of the 
streets, Pale Fire. She came forward in a rush, 
Bloodhunter slashing and sliding before her in a stunning 
display of skill.
    Selkendal only needed to make three movements. One was 
to set his feet properly. Another was to tap Starslayer 
gently against the knife, parrying her strike while 
allowing her to slide by and crash into the alley wall.
    The third was to strike Soulfeeder deep into her back 
as she gasped for breath. She shuddered, then jerked 
weirdly and slid to the ground.
    Selkendal knew enough of death to know when she 
stopped breathing. He turned to face the rest of the 
Singers, only to find them fled.
    His sigh was more of philosophic regret than true 
regret. With their charismatic leader gone, the gang would 
likely disband, its members becoming loners or joining 
other gangs. The first was the more likely course, but 
also deadly. Gangs were really the only way to survive.
    He wiped the swords on Grigera's tunic and stalked out 
of the alley, holding them ready. He was in no mood to 
fight any more today, and perhaps his bleak face and his 
readiness would show that.
    He almost speared Jurashi, who was standing just 
outside the alley. The younger curalli danced back with a 
yelp of startlement, surely feigned. He had to have 
smelled the scents of blood and steel advancing toward 
him.
    Selkendal drew back his swords and frowned at the 
other Ice Dancer. "I told you to stay far away from here!" 
he growled. "This was a business transaction. What right 
had you to interfere?"
    "Spare me, great leader!" the other howled, putting 
his arms over his head and cowering. His indigo hair 
tumbled over his face, and one silver eye peered out from 
under it. "Is it safe to come out yet?" he asked in a 
piercing whisper.
    Selkendal was not amused. "Do you never tire of 
pranks?" he asked, sheathing Starslayer and Soulfeeder 
nonetheless. The Dancers was a large gang, and for every 
member in sight there were usually ten out of sight. He 
would be enclosed in a protective circle of steel. "And 
keep the noise down!"
    "Yes, oh revered leader." Jurashi stood, grinning, his 
smile seeming out of place on the face of one who had 
slain more curalli with knives than any other streetrunner 
in the whole city of Deepdark, so far as Selkendal knew. 
"And as to why we followed you, I think you know!"
    Selkendal glared at him, then shook his head and 
started down the street. His white hair shone like a pale 
beacon in the magical darkness that enveloped the city. 
Absently, he pulled his hood over it, noting with 
irritation that it was time to cut it again. "At least you 
had the sense to stay out of the battle."
    "We could tell you could handle it, Dermekim."
    "And if I could not have, you would have been there?"
    Jurashi simply gave him a long, level look, leaving 
the answer to obvious interpretation. 
    Selkendal checked his step and turned to grip the 
younger man's shoulders. He should have put a stop to this 
long since, but he had not thought it had grown so 
serious. Now, a part of him wondered if it might be too 
late, even as he spoke the necessary words. "Promise me 
something, Jurashi. If I die, choose a new leader from 
among you in the traditional way. My death need not mean 
the end of the Dancers-"
    "Grigera's death meant-"
    "Exactly!" Selkendal gave Jurashi a little shake, 
silencing him. It helped that there was such a difference 
in their heights; Jurashi stood a little over five feet, 
about normal for curalli, while Selkendal, at three inches 
under six feet, was unusually tall. "I'll not see all I 
built die just because I'm not around anymore. Got it?"
    "My lord, without you, what is there?"
    Selkendal's open-handed slap knocked the younger 
curalli to the ground. As Jurashi stumbled back to his 
feet, dazed and panting, Selkendal's handprint standing 
out white on his silver-skinned face, Selkendal drew his 
swords and jumped back. 
    "Prepare to defend yourself!" he snarled.
    Jurashi gaped at him, then gulped and drew his 
daggers. The other Dancers appeared around them as if at 
the removal of invisibility spells, staring alertly into 
the darkness or turning their eyes to the two most 
powerful shadowed Elwens in the gang. This was one fight 
none of them would interfere in, save to send curious 
onlookers away.
    Jurashi tried one more time, spreading his daggers 
wide and looking helplessly at Selkendal. "My lord, I-"
    White flames roared into life, filling Selkendal's 
mind, and he charged, Starslayer flying like a winged 
serpent for the hole in Jurashi's defenses.
    Luckily, the prankster got his blades up in time, and 
Selkendal gave him a silent nod of approval as he whirled 
by, diving into a roll. If Jurashi had not, everyone would 
have seen the silver flicker of the sword blade, retracted 
at the last instant.
    Selkendal came to his feet again behind Jurashi, but 
his friend had lived too long on the streets not to know 
that trick. He whirled, daggers creating a shimmering wall 
of steel before him. Answering fires gleamed in his eyes 
now, though not as fiercely as in Selkendal's jade-green 
ones.
    Good, Selkendal thought. The boy fights well. He will 
likely be my replacement when and if I die.
    Be realistic, Selkendal, he scolded himself then as he 
circled the boy, swords picking off the daggers constantly 
and diving for the holes that Jurashi just managed to 
close in time again and again. A gang leader has never 
died of old age. Whether out of ambition, or jealousy, or 
accident, someone will kill you.
    He shrugged the thought off. For someone who had first 
faced death at seven years old, it had little or no 
meaning.
    Jurashi finally wearied of his leader's play and came 
at him, taking the offensive. Selkendal danced backward, 
never planting his feet in one place, always keeping them 
in flowing, quicksilver motion beneath him. He knew, 
though Jur did not seem to, that greater reach was a 
greater advantage, in the long run, than holding ground.
    That advantage finally proved itself. Jurashi sent a 
low, arcing cut his way, a test more than anything else. 
If Selkendal proved tired or the least bit slow, the other 
dagger would follow. Selkendal knew it. He himself had 
taught Jur this move. He tensed in anticipation, but gave 
no sign that he knew what was coming. Indeed, he let his 
sword droop.
    Jurashi gave a howl of victory and struck...
    Only to stop rather abruptly. The dropping sword was 
perfectly poised to enter his midsection, if Selkendal let 
it, and Soulfeeder hung at his neck. He rolled his eyes 
upward and gulped audibly.
    Selkendal smiled sweetly and leaned close to whisper 
to Jurashi, Soulfeeder drawing a small bit of white blood 
as a lesson. "I could kill you now, and no one would 
question your death. All they know is that you challenged 
me. They do not care why."
    Jurashi closed his eyes. "What you say is true, lord. 
And yet-"
    "Do you need another lesson?" Selkendal growled, 
Soulfeeder poking again.
    Jurashi stared at him. "You mean... You do not like 
being called lord?"
    "Good guess." Selkendal pulled away, wiping Soulfeeder 
and sheathing it with a silvery flourish. Then he 
addressed the silent Ice Dancers.
    "You may call me Selkendal, or Dermekim- or Whitehair, 
though not if you value your life." There were nervous 
chuckles at that. "But I will not have you addressing me 
by any title. I shall fight anyone who does, like Jurashi 
here, as if he or she were challenging me for gang 
leadership. We are all equals in spirit here. Do we 
understand that?"
    They nodded, and Selkendal smiled. "Good. Let us go 
home. We all have a bit of sleeping to do, I think."
    Once again the Dancers nodded, and faded into the 
shadows, leaving him alone with an abashed Jurashi. They 
had not walked far, though, when the prankster whispered, 
"Um, Selkendal?"
    "Yes?"
    "Is 'revered leader' all right?"
----------------------------------------------------------
    Selkendal lay down later that night- or day; under the 
darkness, no time mattered- in one of the niches in the 
walls of an alley. The entire city of Deepdark was built 
of sivleth, the black silver that curalli alone can mine 
or forge. Most of its properties are of metal, but it 
crumbles and pebbles like stone with age, and this last 
feature provides plenty of comfortable, defensible 
horizontal hollows.
    The rest of the Ice Dancers were asleep in a large 
mansion house he had bought some time ago, reasoning that 
his people had grown too large to really find safety on 
the streets. He did not think even Jurashi knew he slept 
out here. It served his purpose that they did not know. 
They would only worry about him, when they should instead 
be taking secure sleep. Or as secure as sleep could be 
anywhere in Deepdark.
    As for himself, he did not want to grow soft.
    He arranged himself carefully, lying with his left 
side toward the street. Starslayer remained in its sheath, 
but he took out Soulfeeder and laid it across his chest. 
He always felt more secure when he did that, he thought 
with a slight smile. But then, the sword had not earned 
its name for nothing.
    He closed his eyes, but he did not relax. "Those who 
dream by night burn by morning," he murmured, repeating 
what was probably the most common proverb in Deepdark.
    Gradually, his breathing slowed, and he spiraled into 
the calm half-doze that was all he could allow himself. He 
could still feel his hand on Soulfeeder's hilt and hear 
the sounds of the streets; his nose remained alert for the 
telltale scent of black roses. He was a warrior. He would 
sense danger before it came upon him.
    Which made it all the stranger that he should fall 
further, into that darker region where dreams walked, the 
region he never visited anymore.
    Memory and awareness, resentment and fear, faded. He 
was in a place where fear did not exist and the stars 
shone continually, if not literally. He was a child, a boy 
already swift and strong, chasing a wooden toy-horse that 
his father pulled and laughing like a maniac. "Selkendal!" 
he chanted. "Selkendal!" He had been late in learning how 
to talk, and his name was the only non-Melli word he could 
speak with any ease.
    His father turned and smiled at him. "Come on, Selk. 
You can say Shadowgift, too. I heard you the other day!"
    Selk stuck a finger in his mouth and shook his head 
determinedly. "Can't," he muttered, looking down and 
scraping a foot through the dirt his father had piled on 
the floor when he was younger to stop his constant falls. 
It made a wonderful playground, and Elenian Shadowgift had 
not removed it, despite his wife's fussy protests.
    "You can, too." Elenian came to him, scooped him up, 
and held him in front of his face, wagging a finger at 
him. "Don't disobey me, young man. I know you can-"
    "I'm not a young man!" Selk protested, squirming. 
"Young men can carry swords, and fight, and-"
    "Hush!" Elenian put his son on the floor and looked 
around almost fearfully. "You know if your mother hears 
you showing too much enthusiasm, I'll never be able to 
teach you. She would be pleased if you didn't talk about 
fighting at all until you're older."
    "Not fair, Daddy." Selk poked him in the leg. "You 
fight all the time."
    "I'm older," came the response Selk was learning to 
expect. "Now. do you want to keep playing, or do you want 
to hear a story?"
    "A story!" Selk said instantly. He loved tales of 
shining swords and heroes and mages and the strange things 
called humans that his father said really existed. Selk 
didn't know if he really believed that, but it was nice to 
think about...
    Selkendal snarled and jerked himself upward again, 
toward the surface of sleep. Something was holding him 
here against his will; never had he had a dream he 
couldn't awake from. He strained to burst free, burning 
with white fire, silently promising to hurt whoever had 
done this...
    "Hush." The voice had a firm, commanding tone, and a 
cool, soothing hand that was entirely mental seemed to 
descend and push him down again. "No one shall hurt you 
while you slumber under my protection. I promise it."
    "I don't wanted your damned protection, whoever you 
are!"
    "But I need to see what happened," the voice 
responded, as tranquilly as if that strange statement were 
supposed to make sense. "Come, Selk... or Selkendal as I 
suppose I should call you. How am I supposed to judge you 
if I cannot see what happened?"
    "I don't need any judgment!" The fire burned, a 
familiar, comforting heat. Ablaze, he had never been 
bested. "Let me go, or I will kill you!"
    "You would kill me even if I let you go." The voice 
sounded somewhere between astonished and pleased. "I am 
beginning to believe you are exactly what we need. But I 
must not make any hasty decisions. More, if you please..."
    The hand straining to tighten its clutch on 
Soulfeeder's hilt fell limp, and Selkendal relaxed despite 
himself, breathing deeply. Perhaps it was the seductive 
lure of true sleep, the curalli thought drowsily. He 
hadn't slept, really slept, since the last time he 
recalled being safe, in the house with his parents...
    ...Firital swept into the room, halted, and then shook 
her head. "Elen, how many times have I told you not to 
tell stories to the boy like that? They soothe him to 
sleep- though only black stars know how- and then I can't 
do anything with him for the next hour. He runs around 
shouting out confused scraps about war and glory."
    Selk kept very still. Usually he did fall asleep, but 
not this time. This time, he wanted to hear and see what 
they did, even if he could not understand every word. He 
peeked out from under his lids.
    "Would I do that to the boy, Firi?" Elenian's blue 
eyes were wide and innocent.
    "You ought to know," his wife replied tartly. "You've 
done it enough." She knelt down and scooped her "sleeping" 
son into her arms. "At least this once I think I'll put 
him to sleep before he finds his feet once again and 
starts galloping around. Sleep in an actual bed instead of 
on the floor will be good for him."
    "Sleeping on the floor toughens him, Firi." There was 
a soft warning in his father's tone, Selk thought, lifting 
his eyelashes a little further. "You know that. He will 
have to be tough-"
    "Stop it!" His wife turned her head away, her silver 
hair spilling about her son's head. It felt cool and 
smelled sweet, like the brook just outside Deepdark's 
walls where Elenian sometimes took him to bathe and swim 
and catch fish. "I hate it, Elen. I hate all the killing, 
the bloodshed, the swaggering with swords. I don't want 
our Selk to be like that!"
    "Would you rather have him dead?" Elenian's voice had 
risen slightly, and Selk squirmed the tiniest bit in 
surprise. They never argued in front of him. "That is the 
only other option."
    "It is not! We could move away from here, go to one of 
the Farms somewhere in the mountains. They shelter 
families like us."
    "Not families with silver skin and white blood." Elen 
sounded tired, so tired Selk wanted to cry. Was his father 
going to fall down? "Despite all appearances, Firi, the 
Farms are run by the lords of Rowan. They might pretend to 
welcome their direst enemies, but they would kill us soon 
enough. In our sleep, likely. I do not know about you, but 
I would rather die fighting."
    "I would not! Why do we stay here?" Now it was 
Firital's voice that was rising. "Just waiting for the 
members of your old gang to find us and kill us. What kind 
of life is that?"
    "The only one we have. Black stars, woman, I-"
    Selk had just opened his eyes, to tell them not to 
worry, and he was shielded by his mother's hair, so he 
could not see very well. But the arrow still seemed 
horribly swift to him, and horribly alive, as it skimmed 
through the open door to the kitchen and plunged into his 
father's throat.
    Elenian Shadowgift died without a sound. Firital's 
scream flayed the air as she rushed to him. She knelt 
down, holding Selk in one arm while she patted at her 
husband's body with the other. He might rise if she tried 
hard enough, the boy thought hopefully. He might!
    Then another arrow knifed in, pinning his mother's arm 
to his father's body. Blood flowed, and Firital writhed, 
screaming as if she were already joining Elenian in death. 
But she did not let go of her child.
    Another bolt entered her eye, and she fell to the 
floor. Selk hid under her, too terrified to scream, 
shielded by the long silver hair his mother had been so 
proud of.
    Selk held her arm and tried to think about screaming. 
But he was so scared he couldn't even do that.
    Feet entered the room, light, almost audible footfalls 
that the terrified boy nevertheless heard. He crouched 
lower and held his breath. They couldn't hear his 
heartbeat unless they were concentrating, but they might 
hear his breath.
    But what if they stayed for more than an hour- or more 
than five minutes, when his mother's body would burn as 
the stars reclaimed her? He wept without breath, without 
sound, the sobs racking his body and stirring his mother's 
silver hair.
    The killers stood over the bodies, speaking words he 
did not fully understand until later, just like his 
parents' words. 
    "They're dead? You're sure?"
    "Of course. At that range, I can't miss."
    "Didn't they have a brat, too? A son? Selki or some 
strange name such as that?"
    "I'd heard the kid died. But that might have just been 
a rumor this bastard put around." Someone kicked his 
father's corpse, and Selk flinched as though the blow had 
landed on his own body. "You might check the other rooms. 
The little one's not in here, that's for damn sure and 
certain. He would have cried out when the bodies fell on 
him."
    "You don't want me to spare him? The leader can always 
use new blood. He might get some twisted pleasure out of 
rearing this Selki or whatever as his own."
    "Elenian's son? Have you been raped by a land Elwen 
lately? Elen betrayed his trust, and you know he didn't 
ever let anyone get away with that. All those of the 
bastard's blood are dead as well. If you find the kid, you 
kill him."
    The voices moved away, never noticing the slight 
breeze that seemed to stir the glowing mane of the woman 
they had slain.
    Selk at last let his breath out and crept to his 
father, already flaring with bright silver flames as the 
stars called him home. The seven-year-old stood there for 
a long moment, gazing at him, wondering if anything would 
be gained by dying in the flames as well.
    "Farewell, Daddy," he said at last, and looked over at 
Firital. The aura around her body ignited as he watched 
it. "Farewell, Mama." He struggled to remember the good- 
bye words they had taught him, and finally came up with 
them. "Black stars sing your praises, and the darkness 
guide and guard you."
    The fires died, leaving behind nothing but the metal 
his parents had worn. He picked up his father's long 
dagger and dragged it after him. It wasn't much, but it 
was all he could manage...
    ...Selkendal rose from the waters of sleep like a 
breaching dolphin, whirling out of the niche and landing 
on his feet with both swords drawn, eyes darting about 
alertly.
    He saw the shadowy figure at once and attacked, 
screaming with hatred. He knew he should not make a sound- 
it would only draw more 'runners like rats to a corpse- 
but the fire blazing in him, a dazzling diamond light, 
demanded it.
    The figure took a step back and pulled off his hood, 
revealing a face unmistakably curalli in line and form but 
darker than any shadowed Elwen face had a right to be. He 
gazed at Selkendal with sorrow and compassion shining in 
his eyes for a moment before he drew his own weapon, a 
long sword.
    Selkendal came within a foot, well within the 
stranger's reach. It was a move such as one would expect 
from someone made reckless by anger. But he was not 
reckless.
    He kicked forward, hitting the other fighter in the 
stomach. The man lost his breath and fell backward, but 
did not lose his grip on the blade. Nodding in reluctant 
admiration, a darker blot in the brilliance of his hatred, 
Selkendal struck with Soulfeeder, slicing at the level of 
the man's throat.
    It was a thrust no one should have been able to evade 
in that position, bent over and wheezing, even if the 
bastard had somehow been expecting it. But this man 
whirled aside as if dancing with a feisty partner, saluted 
him with a hand at his brow, and advanced. There was 
perhaps a bit more caution in his movements than he had 
shown, but that was all.
    Selkendal smiled. It was long since he had faced a 
worthy opponent, because of his reputation for walking 
away unscathed as much as anything else. It might be that 
he would die this day, but- a strange thought for one who 
had always sought to preserve his life- he did not care.
    "Come on, then!" he whispered, and was startled when 
the stranger answered in the same language: Melli, the 
curalli tongue.
    "As you wish." He darted forward, sword flying wide,  
reaching for Selkendal's waist, while he twisted a bare- 
hand thrust at the throat. It left a wide hole in his 
defenses, but Selkendal did not attempt a strike, knowing  
that the stranger could get his blade back in time.
    Therefore, he spun slightly, Starslayer picking off 
the hand with a slight nick. Soulfeeder sped over the 
arcing sword, straight for the other's groin area.
    The stranger turned it aside, but barely, looking at 
the gang leader with a kind of curiosity. Selkendal 
smiled. No doubt he was wondering why someone with rage 
shining in his eyes and twisting his features could make 
such a precisely controlled movement.
    "You speak our language well for a halfbreed," he 
offered, swaying slowly into the steps of a circle.
    The half-curalli suddenly appeared weary of the whole 
business, though his shorter blades kept flying with 
expert speed, taking down every strike Selkendal could 
think of. Likewise, he saw through every feint. "My father 
was curalli- or mostly. My mother was a churni, a death 
Elwen. That should tell you well enough who I am."
    Selkendal stepped back to surreptitiously shake loose 
a hot knot of pain that had formed in his left arm. The 
price for carrying a sword like Soulfeeder, he thought 
without humor. "Corlin Durillo?"
    "Yes."
    Selkendal shrugged and leaped forward, it being 
Starslayer's turn to fly for the groin area. Corlin caught 
it an inch away, staring at it incredulously.
    "You place too much trust in the shock value of your 
name," Selkendal told him.
    "It has never failed before."
    "Just because it hasn't doesn't mean it won't." 
Selkendal charged and feinted, his blades flying wide. 
Corlin blocked them and struck at him in an exact parody 
of his own response to the wide-blade movement earlier. 
Selkendal jumped the shorter blade and took the 
opportunity to slam his feet into Corlin's face. The 
halfbreed flew backward, crashing into the wall, but 
somehow kept his feet.
    "You are a tough one," Selkendal murmured.
    Corlin stood again, fire flashing from his eyes, a 
dark color somewhere between brown and black. Despite his 
swarthy complexion, many women would consider him handsome 
with those eyes and that ink-black hair, Selkendal 
supposed. He knew next to nothing of such matters.
    "My father was the finest fighter the curalli have 
ever known!"
    "He's dead now," Selkendal pointed out. "Besides 
which, I have never worshiped anything. On your feet, if 
you please."
    Corlin scanned his face, the regal hauteur gone. 
Selkendal had the odd feeling it had all been for show 
anyway. "I was helpless in that first instant. If you had 
followed, you would have killed me."
    Selkendal snorted loudly. "Obviously. But I don't like 
killing- helpless people."
    "You were about to say something else?"
    "What did it matter if I was?" Selkendal's rage was 
like a diamond fire now, blazing so brightly that he was 
astonished it did not surround him with a shimmering white 
aura. "Everyone's entitled to say what he wants to say. 
I-"
    Corlin jumped at that moment, and Selkendal darted to 
one side, cursing himself for a fool. He was swift enough 
to avoid one foot, but not the other. It smashed him back 
into the wall, briefly snapping his head back and 
depriving him of his swords.
    Eyes closed against the pain, he started to roll to 
find them, but steel came against his throat and hung 
there, poised. Selkendal closed his eyes and drew in a 
breath, forcing himself to speak lightly.
    "Congratulations. You have slain Dermekim. Now will 
you please get on with it so I can join the stars? I want 
to speak to a few of them about this."
    Instead, Corlin withdrew the sword. Selkendal opened 
his eyes warily, with pain, and saw the halfbreed sheathe 
his weapon and bend down to retrieve Starslayer. Selkendal 
accepted the weapon, but made no effort to move, eyes 
skimming lightly over the shadows in a search for 
Soulfeeder. He did not want Corlin touching it.
    "I am sorry. I am not sure where the other one went-" 
Corlin's eyes scanned the darkness that was light to the 
eyes of a curalli, his ability to see perfectly hindered 
by his mixed blood.
    Selkendal started to say it didn't matter, but just 
then the halfbreed brightened. "Ah! Here we are!" He 
walked over to one corner and stooped over the sword.
    Selkendal shook his head and waited, wondering if the 
sword would tolerate another hand on its hilt.
    Corlin screamed suddenly and dropped it, staring at a 
palm evidently seared. Then he lifted his head to stare at 
the gang leader, face a mask of loathing. "How can you 
stand to carry a thing that evil?" he whispered.
    The gang leader shrugged and stood, gliding over to 
Soulfeeder. The evil it exuded was indeed unpleasant, but 
at least part of that was anger about being torn from his 
hand. He shrugged again, clenched the hilt, and sheathed 
it. "We are partners. We understand each other." He swung 
to face Corlin, eyes gleaming. "As I wish to understand 
you. You came here for no ordinary purpose. Why?"
    "What makes you think I did not want to kill you for 
food?"
    "You would have killed me," Selkendal answered with a 
smile that did not reflect in his eyes. "That is the way 
things work here. Still, I have no right to pry into 
private business. If you will not answer, thank you and 
farewell." He turned to walk back to the Ice Dancers' 
home- though he would not go there directly, of course.
    "Wait!" 
    Corlin's voice had a strong ring to it, and despite 
his better judgment Selkendal turned and waited. The 
halfbreed no longer looked like a halfbreed, Selkendal 
realized suddenly. He looked transfigured, reformed, both 
races and neither.
    Selkendal nodded slightly. Nice trick, however he did 
it.
    "I have come," the half-churni intoned, "on a matter 
of destiny. And prophecy."
    Selkendal waited politely, then asked with an upcurled 
eyebrow, "And?"
    "That should be enough for any Elwen." Corlin pulled 
his hood back from his face fully for the first time and 
gave him a baffled look. "Destiny and prophecy are heavy 
burdens, yet I believe you can carry them."
    "I don't want to carry them," Selkendal answered. 
"Besides which, I don't really believe they exist."
    "How can you not? Think of all the wondrous things 
that have happened in the world. They had to have some 
aid, did they not?"
    Selkendal shook his head and slapped one of the alley 
walls, twice. "This is reality, halfbreed. Not wonder, not 
flying horses or rainbows, but this. Blood, and death, and 
a knowledge- not a belief- that you will shed one and meet 
the other. Food, and the desire for it. Friends, and the 
desire to defend them, and the pain of watching them die. 
A longing for sleep that you can never fulfill. Cool water 
to drink, and the pleasure of having it ease your thirst. 
Wariness, and fighting. That is life. So long as you do 
and know those things, you are alive."
    "Is there, then, no room in your world for emotion?"
    Selkendal smiled. "Of course. Hatred, rage, jealousy, 
avarice, sorrow, fear-"
    He stopped, a bit puzzled, when he saw Corlin shaking 
his head. "What more do you want? I have given you a more 
detailed and thorough description of our home than most 
outsiders ever receive."
    "What about joy? What about love?"
    "There is joy, of course. When you defeat an enemy, or 
escape one, or find food. But joy is a precious thing. We 
have learned not to ask very much of it."
    "And love?" Corlin pressed.
    Selkendal gave him a puzzled stare. "Yes," he said at 
last. "Yes, I suppose there may be."
    "Do you never think of it?"
    "Never." Selkendal stared hard into the dark eyes, 
doing his best to understand this dangerous man and yet 
failing to understand the import of the question. "Should 
I?" he asked a bit doubtfully.
    "One who does not love is not Elwen," Corlin asserted. 
"Besides, I have watched you for a dance, as per my 
instructions. You love those who make up your family. You 
would not leave them to die. And you loved your parents-"
    "I would not speak of them again, if you value your 
life."
    He said the words casually, but Corlin nodded, 
evidently impressed. "I see you are the kind of man who 
killed your parents' killers and will now harm anyone who 
tries to make fun of their deaths."
    "I did not kill my parents' killers," Selkendal told 
him quietly.
    "Why are you whispering? And why not?"
    "If I said that aloud, it would destroy my reputation. 
Most of my enemies think I am the kind of man who would 
kill for vengeance." Selkendal shifted his cowl over his 
white hair, prepatory to leaving. "I would not- vengeance 
is a pointless act- but it suits my wishes to have them 
think I would."
    "Is that why you will not consider love, either? 
Because it does not have a point?"
    "I am becoming very tired of your constantly harping 
on this," Selkendal said, gazing at him. "What I feel for 
my 'family,' as you call them, is not love but concern and 
friendship. I like them, and it would hurt me if they were 
to die. In the walls of a curalli town, this thing you 
call love does not exist. Perhaps it does in the outside 
world. I don't know."
    He had again turned to go when Corlin said, "I think I 
understand it now. Your parents' deaths froze all the love 
inside you, and-"
    Selkendal turned to him, and his face must have shown 
something despite his efforts to keep it smooth, for 
Corlin blanched and fell silent. Good, Selkendal noted 
dimly through the pounding in his ears. Now he would not 
have to hide his rage.
    "I do not think of my parents' deaths any longer." He 
said the words slowly, trying to shove them through 
Corlin's brain as he would a sword. "It was seventeen 
hundred years ago. That time is long enough to forget 
anything. I am who I am now- Selkendal Shadowgift, and not 
their son. If you must have a poetic concept, that child 
died that day."
    "You are not Elwen," Corlin said, folding his arms and 
for all the world looking like one of the righteous 
alalori that occasionally came to the city and tried to 
convert curalli.
    "And you are not shadowed Elwen," Selkendal said, 
moving smoothly into the darkness. His eyes could see more 
clearly than those of the one who hunted him, and he moved 
swiftly away from Corlin's frustrated cries.
----------------------------------------------------------
    "A stranger, Selkendal? Hunting you?" Jurashi's brows 
drew together in thought. "Perhaps you should have some 
guards when you venture outside."
    "No." Selkendal shook his hood back and raked his 
fingers through his hair, grimacing. It badly needed a 
wash- in fact, the whole of him badly needed a bath that 
he was not looking forward to. He disliked water, cold or 
hot. "I do not think he will appear again. If he does, I 
will handle him."
    "But just in case, Dermekim-"
    Selkendal sighed, Jurashi was wisely keeping the hated 
title of "my lord" from his lips, but he now invested 
Selkendal's street name with all the reverence he had used 
in the title. "If it will make you happy. But only 
outside, you understand? Anyone I find attempting to stand 
guard outside my chambers will walk away with a cut 
throat. Or a lacerated one, at the very least."
    Jurashi seemed too happy that Selkendal had agreed to 
note the warning. "As Dermekim wishes," he said, bobbing 
like a bird searching for crumbs and then scurrying away.
    The gang leader snorted as he made his way from the 
main meeting hall of the mansion to his own rooms. These 
were far from any doors, and had no windows. Unlike most 
curalli, he required no visible reminders of an escape 
route. There was always an escape if one looked hard 
enough.
    Usually through his enemies.
    He knocked twice on his door, paused, then rapped 
again, right above the lock. There was a slight hissing 
sound, and the deadly gas that would stream out of the 
lock if someone tried to open it without tapping first was 
sucked further back into the trap, to be readied again 
after the door was closed.
    Selkendal stepped into the room and sank gratefully 
into one of the chairs that had come from the house. The 
room was small, neat, and quiet- neither the richest 
chamber nor the poorest one. He had taken it mostly 
because the dark colors of the black chairs and rugs 
soothed him, and because it had a private bathing room. 
Those were amenities the others could live without.
    In this room was as close to relaxation as he could 
ever come. He allowed his eyes to drift closed briefly and 
sucked in a deep breath, as if he could pull in the peace 
of the deeper regions of sleep. Then he forced himself to 
his feet, opening his eyes again.
    He walked to the table in the middle of the room, 
where the few Ice Dancers he trusted enough to teach the 
door code to had left messages. He opened the first one 
and scanned the words quickly, then snorted. He wondered 
sometimes if Alamey would ever give up on these constant 
invitations to visit her private quarters- privately.
    The other two letters dealt with ordinary matters- the 
plans for a raid on a land Elwen border town in a few days 
to resupply themselves with necessities like flour and 
dried fruit and milk and sugar, and the report that one 
loner who had constantly dared the Dancers to attack him 
by walking into their territory was dead. Selkendal nodded 
in satisfaction and stretched, sending a shudder down his 
spine. It had been an unusually satisfying night. None of 
the letters had borne poisoned seals or the like from his 
enemies. Perhaps they had finally learned that Dermekim 
and the Ice Dancers were not to be tampered with.
    That last was never going to happen, he knew, but it 
was pleasant to think about.
    He paced toward the bathing room, eyes moving in quiet 
circles past the sweeping "corners" of the room. Another 
reason he had chosen this room was that it had no hiding 
places, save for shadows, and a lamp placed on the table 
would eliminate even those. Still, it never hurt to be 
cautious.
    He reached the bath without incident, however, and 
found the copper tub already filled and steaming, thanks 
to the ingenious system of pumps Reladen had installed. 
There was one young woman fascinated with mechanical 
rather than magical things, he thought as he shrugged out 
of tunic and leggings, leaving them on the floor like the 
shed skin of a snake.
    He stepped into the water, gritting his teeth against 
the touch of heat, and reached for the shallow bowl of 
sand that sat beside the tub. Used in small amounts, it 
was better than any soap, which was too damned expensive 
anyway.
    His mind raced across the plans for the next several 
days as he scrubbed, outlining the raids he planned to 
make. The land Elwen border town would take the majority 
of his Dancers, but that was more from the danger of 
emotional magic than from any innate fighting spirit in 
their victims. For people who had chosen to make their 
homes in the Forbge Forest, they were incredibly meek.
    The others, led by himself, would raid a band of 
"free" hunters returning to one of the numerous small 
curalli settlements in the Forbge. The cityfolk and the 
wilders hated each other with a passion; the hunters would 
fight. But his gang would win. They fought every day of 
their lives, something the "free" curalli who cared more 
about safety than their heritage would never understand.
    His rage had come again, hovering just outside his 
awareness, its white light tempting, beckoning. He calmed 
it with an effort and sent it away again. He was already 
hot enough, thank you.
    He forced his mind back to more pleasant thoughts, 
namely the land Elwens. He shook his head, a faint smile 
tugging at his lips. The borderlanders' most frequent name 
for their silver-skinned kin was "aeritralu," or "dross of 
the stars." Strange that they named so a race who defeated 
them ten times out of nine.
    Selkendal at last finished the tedious business of 
washing his skin and turned to his hair. Ducking it, he 
moved his fingers swiftly through it, pulling out the 
softened tangles.
    His rage came back as he straightened up again and saw 
himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. He had never 
asked to have white hair, for all the black stars' sakes. 
He wished there were some way he could get rid of it, 
short of dyeing it- the dye never took- or shearing it. 
Its thickness had made a useful shield across the back of 
his neck too many times.
    Muttering an oath, he reached for his clothes again. 
Sometimes it seemed people noticed that stupid, shining 
hair and forgot everything else about him- his strength, 
his fighting skill, his tendency to enter a battle-rage at 
the slightest provocation. When he started doing that 
himself, he was in trouble.
    He dressed himself again and reached for his weapons. 
Starslayer was an ordinary sword, or fairly so, made of 
steel that shone like silver even in the pale brilliance 
of auralight. It had never broken on him, even in a 
hundred years, and so he supposed some magic must have 
been used when it was forged. 
    But it was Soulfeeder, next to his own skill, that 
made him a fighter to be feared. Made of silver-chased 
steel and edged with diamond, it would have been deadly 
even in the hands of a rank beginner. And its physical 
qualities were the least of its special properties.
    Selkendal smiled, remembering his response to Corlin's 
revulsed question. 
    "Yes," he murmured, eyes on the sword. "We understand 
each other, don't we? We may not be partners- or we may 
be. I win battles, and you get what you want, as well."
    A pulse of something like mingled pain and emotion 
traveled up his left arm and to his mind. Soulfeeder was 
hinting, not so delicately, that it was a long time since 
it had gotten what it wanted.
    Selkendal eyed the change his face underwent in the 
mirror. The silver skin collapsed into lines of weariness, 
the dark green eyes turned glassy and haunted, and he bit 
his lip.
    "I am reluctant to use you in that way," he said, and 
then his face hardened again. "And I do not appreciate it 
when you try to force me to use you."
    The sword went silent- as much of an apology as he was 
likely to get for its behavior in the battle against 
Corlin. He shrugged, sheathed it, and started to move from 
the room, then paused to glance one last time at his 
reflection in the mirror.
    "Talking to swords?" he asked in a lightly mocking 
manner. "Aren't we getting old, Selkendal?"
    "Not at all."
    Selkendal whirled, drawing his blades so fast that he 
was barely aware he had moved. It had become an 
instinctive reaction after so many years. Soulfeeder 
whined and pulsed, sound and movement invisible to anyone 
but Selkendal. It did not help that his rage grew at the 
sight of the visitor, and with his will twinned to the 
sword's, he had to fight twice as hard to hold Soulfeeder 
back.
    Corlin Durillo rose from the chair he had taken, the 
chair Selkendal had taken before entering the bath, with 
an explosion of fluid motion. His voice retained the calm, 
almost light, tone, but his eyes shone darkly.
    "You cannot go mad," he said. "I will not allow you 
to."
    "How did you get in here?" Selkendal snarled at him, 
stalking cautiously to the side of him. If Corlin made a 
move in either direction, any step or leap or twirl that 
could be counted as a feint or strike, Soulfeeder would 
get its wish.
    The Durillo son only spread his arms, however, and 
watched the curalli from under half-lidded eyes. "A power 
of my mother's people," he said, "passed to me with her 
blood. I can make myself invisible to people who are not 
expecting a churni- or half-churni- to show up. Almost no 
one expects a death Elwen, so it works most of the time."
    "I am not interested in extended explanations. Either 
go or let me kill you."
    Corlin did not say something stupid and predictable, 
like, "Why not let me kill you?" He folded his arms and 
trained an even stare on Selkendal. "I came here to seek 
you, not to die."
    "I do not understand what you want with me." Selkendal 
lowered the swords a little, but did not sheathe them.
    "That is because you did not wait to listen to what I 
offered." Corlin suddenly smiled, exposing teeth as dark 
as any curalli's. "You said earlier I was not a shadowed 
Elwen. That is true. Nevertheless, I admire you. You are 
stubborn, incredibly proud, and among the finest fighters 
I have ever seen. You are a credit to your race, and more, 
a credit to Elwenkind. Only one of the Three Great Goods 
in not fulfilled."
    Selkendal did not know what to make of the halfbreed's 
rambling, but he did know he was keeping his swords out. 
"And what might that be, pray tell?"
    Corlin lifted a hand, stretching out three dark 
fingers, then folded two down. "You are stubborn and 
proud. But you are not independent."
    "Because I trust the Ice Dancers, you mean?" Selkendal 
gave him a long look. He had almost decided not to kill 
this man, and could feel Soulfeeder's disappointment. 
"Even in a place like Deepdark, you must trust some, or 
you will die."
    "Independence does not mean not relying on others, 
Selkendal. It means being able to rely on yourself."
    "Ah, but I can. The fight with you today, and the 
first fights of my training, are the only ones I have ever 
lost. I will die eventually, of course. But do not all 
Elwens die?"
    "You view everything as a battle." Corlin gazed at him 
distantly. "I could almost find it within me to pity you, 
if I did not admire you so much. You have spent your whole 
life building yourself into a killing machine, and the 
killing machine does well. But you are not able to 
understand situations outside of battle."
    "There are no things outside of battle."
    "I wish I knew what you have done to yourself," Corlin 
whispered, furrowing his brow and staring at him intently. 
"I listened to some of your Dancers as I followed you, and 
even they love and weep sincere tears, and feel death as a 
chill touch they would rather avoid. But nothing seems to 
exist for you save rage, evading death if you can, and 
accepting it when it comes."
    "I did not allow you to remain so that you might 
criticize my life." Even Selkendal was startled at how 
chill his voice was, cold as steel or death. "Say what you 
have come to say, and depart."
    Corlin looked at the ground, muttered something in the 
musical death Elwen tongue, and then looked back at him. 
"I will try one more time to let you understand. After 
that, I will make you understand."
    "Is that a threat?"
    "If you want it to be." Corlin looked around the room. 
"Where might I find some water?"
    Selkendal sheathed his swords at last and whirled back 
into the bathing room. He did not want to do this, argued 
one part of him. Turn his back on a stranger? Nonsensical!
    I am curious, he answered. And, try though I may, 
something in his words touched me. I do not want it to be 
said that I lived such a life.
    What do you care? When you die, no one will remember 
you. What will it matter whether you were a good fighter 
or a puling child?
    He at last dismissed the voices, watching curiously as 
Corlin knelt over the tub. The halfbreed studied the water 
for a long moment, then nodded and closed the eyes.
    The still water abruptly began to move. Selkendal's 
eyes narrowed. That was a simple trick, one that could be 
done by any Elwen possessing telekinesis- which meant any 
Elwen. But he somehow had the feeling that stronger and 
more ancient magic moved that water.
    Eyes still closed, Corlin drew a silver knife from a 
sheath hidden under his tunic sleeve, a sheath so 
cunningly concealed that Selkendal had never noticed it. 
He held it up as if willing the stars to see it, then 
sliced downward into his arm.
    Blood, an oddly mixed color of silver and white, 
flowed down his arm and splashed into the water. The 
stirring water burst into silver fire. Selkendal staggered 
backward, an oath bursting to his lips. 
    Corlin paid him no attention, instead beginning to 
sing softly in the Primal Tongue, the most ancient 
language of Arcadia. Selkendal forced himself to relax and 
listen, translating to Melli in his mind, though his eyes 
never left the burning bloodfire.

    "Blood speaks to blood, singing through the veins.
     Child to parent- the immortal link remains.
     Blood speaks to hatred, to rage, to pain.
     Blood is the all, the only, for me.

    "Blood sings to water, its rushing world counterpart.
     Blood makes the rounds, combing back to heart.
     Blood speaks sternly, and now comes the part
     Of the rivers flowing down to the sea.

    "As I sing, as I sing to the rushing rivers,
     So give me true sight, a shy bird that quivers
     On the edge of real sight. The demand that shivers
     On your lips is fulfilled. Deliver now to me!

    "Show one who watches in worry and in doubt
     That of Destiny's trap there is no way out.
     Show him the battles to lead, the foes to rout.
     Sing of this to him and to me!"

    Selkendal, the rage pushing at the corners of his mind 
deepening on that last verse, opened his mouth to ask what 
this was all about. And then the silver fire flared, and 
vanished. Like a fly drawn to honey, he came to the edge 
of the tub and leaned over to see what had taken its 
place, hardly aware that Corlin had opened his eyes and 
laid a hand on the curalli's arm.
    The blood mirror showed three images, whirling in a 
triangular pattern, mixing and blending, yet never 
confusing each other. The first image was familiar- too 
familiar. It was of Soulfeeder, its blade not glowing with 
the deadly white light but looking deadly nonetheless. 
Other than that, it told him nothing special.
    The second image showed him a curalli woman he did not 
know, the dark hair that hung to her ankles done up in a 
battle-braid, her indigo eyes wide. They were the color of 
a summer sky at dusk, those eyes. She held a bow carved of 
hylea wood, and wore at her shoulders and hip a quiver of 
arrows and several throwing knives. She seemed to be 
gazing at something, but whatever it was was beyond the 
boundaries of the picture.
    The third image was simply of piercing white light, 
like his rage embodied. He gave it a single confused 
glance, then looked away. For some reason, it made him 
uncomfortable, even sick, to look at it.
    There came a flash of light, and the images flared and 
vanished. He staggered, suddenly dizzy and nauseous for no 
reason. He closed his eyes, feeling the world wheel about 
him as if he stood on its axis.
    Corlin's hand caught his arm in a firmer grip, and 
then the fighter's other hand fell on his shoulder as he 
nearly tumbled to the floor. "Lean on me, Selkendal. 
That's it. Now move your feet. Move this way."
    Selkendal felt the walls spread wide around him, and 
knew he had come out of the bathing room. He struggled to 
shrug off Corlin's hands and stand on his own, but the 
halfbreed seemed suddenly a thousand times stronger.
    "Ah, no, lord. You cannot stand on your own, not yet. 
The Bloodfire Ritual was meant for you, and so it drained 
your strength to exist."
    "I don't care about Rituals, and I don't care about 
spells." It was becoming harder to talk, the words 
slurring away from him as if he were drunk. "I don't need 
your help."
    "You do." Corlin's voice was so firm that Selkendal 
felt he had no choice, really, but to obey. "You do not 
yet know how to care for yourself after the exercise of 
magic like this; you will not be able to think coherently 
until after you are rested."
    "I suppose, while I sleep, you will knife my throat?" 
Strangely, he found, he was so exhausted that he almost 
did not care.
    "Why should I?" The halfbreed sounded astonished. 
"Your kappan, your destiny-magic, is even stronger than 
the Prophecy of Divirsa predicted. There can be no doubt 
that you are the one I was sent to seek."
    "Seek for what?"
    Corlin made an exasperated sound as he eased the gang 
leader into a chair. "I see you will not rest until you 
have the answers. Very well, I will give them to you."
    Selkendal forced his eyes open and gazed straight at 
the halfbreed. "Understand this, Corlin. I am no one's 
fool. I know you will lie to me, but eventually I will 
find out the truth and kill you for not giving it to me."
    The halfbreed stared at him, his mouth vibrating 
toward a smile in much the same way that Selkendal's often 
did. "Do you know that that is the second time you have 
used my name, and the first time in direct address? You 
are growing to accept me, at least in part."
    A movement of Selkendal's shoulders dismissed that as 
unimportant. "No more nattering. Why were you sent to find 
me, and what were those images in the water?"
    "The two questions are two pieces of the same puzzle, 
perhaps the same piece." Again Corlin tore his head free 
of the hood and raked his fingers through his hair. It 
seemed to be a gesture of relaxation, though his eyes 
never moved from Selkendal's face. "I was sent to find you 
because of a destiny, and those images shown you are 
pieces of that destiny."
    "I have no destiny. I am not a slave to fate. I am a 
free Elwen."
    "No one will contest that," said Corlin with a slight 
smile. "You are the most unlikely hero I have ever seen, 
and I have lived nearly ten thousand years. But I digress. 
It is not important why you were chosen, only that you 
were and we found you in time."
    "In time for what?"
    "There is a prophecy, called the Prophecy of Diversa, 
that predicts two fates for the world: destruction, or 
something even worse." Corlin lapsed into silence, staring 
at the wall. In the silence, Selkendal felt his eyelids 
drooping shut again.
    "You cannot make me go to sleep," the curalli said, 
forcing his eyes open to their widest extent. "What is 
this worse fate?"
    Corlin bowed his head. "Prophecy is a delicate thing, 
and this one is so full of riddles that we cannot tell how 
it will come out. If I tell you, it might fulfill 
something, and turn the Prophecy in one direction or 
another. No, I think it best if I do not reveal the 
wording or the other fate to you."
    "I suppose I am the one who will destroy the world?"
    Corlin speared him with a glance. "Do not say that. 
Saying it could make it so."
    "Ignore it, then. On to this kappan. What, exactly, is 
it?"
    "If you cannot accept the force of destiny..." The 
words trailed off, and Corlin arched a brow at him.
    "I cannot."
    "Not understanding it in that way might kill you."
    "Then I will die a free Elwen."
    Corlin grinned for the first time, a smile that caused 
much of the tension to melt from his features. "Well said. 
If you must have a different explanation, I can give it to 
you. Say there are forces behind the world, changing the 
outcomes of different events."
    "I still cannot accept that."
    "Really?" Corlin put his face on a fist and stared at 
the drowsy curalli hard. "Can you live with the fact that 
when you toss a pebble in the air, it comes to the ground 
again?"
    "Of course. What does that have to do-"
    "Gravity is a force," Corlin cut in. "So is hunger, 
thirst, emotion, and a thousand others. They may change 
the outcome of anything, and together we call them fate. 
But that is only a name we give it.
    "You are a place of outlet for these forces, where 
they might come to power in the world directly instead of 
indirectly. They will lend you some of that power. Your 
destiny-force is powerful indeed. According to the 
legends, only Maruss Freewind's was stronger."
    Selkendal snorted. "Maruss was curalli. So am I. I 
wonder why the Webspinner chooses curalli to commit her 
greatest acts of treason?"
    "I'm sure I don't know." Corlin seemed much more 
relaxed now, which meant his muscles were only halfway to 
the snapping point instead of fully there. He smiled at 
Selkendal approvingly as he continued his reply. "They 
have a hard time bending their stubborn necks, that's for 
sure and certain."
    "Perhaps it's because we get things done?"
    Corlin sat still for a moment, then nodded slowly. 
"You will do well, my lord."
    "If I had the strength, I would climb from this chair 
and hit you," the curalli muttered, his eyelids dropping 
shut once more. "Don't call me that anymore. Now, what do 
those images in the water mean?"
    Corlin fell silent, and when Selkendal looked again, 
he saw the halfbreed gazing away. "I'm not sure," he said 
distantly. "But when three appear like that, one means an 
obstacle that you must overcome, one is something that 
will help you, and one is something that you must 
achieve."
    "Do you know which is which?"
    "No.
    A soft buzz in Selkendal's ears told him the halfbreed 
was lying, but he had lost the battle against sleep. As he 
had always done when he could not overcome something, as 
he would do when he at last lost the fight against death, 
he bowed his head and surrendered.
    He slipped into cool darkness, absurdly comforted by 
Corlin's whisper. "You will do well indeed, Dermekim. 
Sleep now. I will stand guard over your slumber."
----------------------------------------------------------
    Selkendal opened his eyes lazily about four hours 
later, feeling absurdly refreshed. But then, that was the 
first time in a long time he had allowed himself to sleep 
deeply, or hadn't awakened every few minutes to patrol his 
surroundings, or something similar.
    He peered around the room, but Corlin was gone. 
Selkendal nodded, accepting that. The halfbreed more or 
less abided by his own rules, and there was really nothing 
to offer that but acceptance.
    He stretched and made his way towards the door, 
already muttering dire threats if he found a guard on the 
door after express orders not to put one there.
    There was no one waiting for him with shiny sword and 
idiotic grin, but there was a sealed letter, no doubt 
placed there by someone whom he had not trusted enough to 
teach the door codes to. He had stooped and lifted it 
before the oddity struck him. A sealed letter?
    Moving cautiously now, he took a knife from a sheath 
just behind Starslayer's and stuck it under the wax, which 
bore the impression of a tower with stars around it. The 
seal of the School Masters, who controlled the second most 
important resource in Deepdark- education- as the 
streetrunners controlled food.
    Selkendal stared at it with deep suspicion. The two 
factions of Deepdark had an ebb and flow of power between 
them, almost as natural as the tide, because they were 
content to ignore each other. He could think of only a few 
reasons why the School Masters would summon a gang leader 
so peremptorily like this, with a letter instead of a 
personal agent.
    None of them were good.
    At last he shrugged, muttered in annoyance under his 
breath, and slit the seal.
    No poisons came at him. Still, he did not touch the 
broken seal as he pulled the letter from the envelope. It 
was a single sheet of paper, so small it had not even 
needed a fold to fit in the envelope. Oddly, the 
salutation was formal, almost lordly, and that caused his 
heart to sink even as it ignited his temper.
    To Selkendal Shadowgift, leader of the Ice Dancers, 
from Alevka Bladelord, School Master of Discipline. May 
the black stars cast their stardark upon you this day.
    You are commanded to present yourself at the Rallar 
Aprendilna at the first time the stargazer proclaims eight 
hours after midnight after this reaches you. You are part 
of this year's Selection.
    Alevka.
    Selkendal only stared at the message for a long while. 
Then he hissed deeply and tossed the paper into the air, 
pulling his swords from their sheaths as he did so.
    Alamey, a young, pretty curalli woman with dark indigo 
hair and silver eyes, rounded the corner just then. 
"Dermekim, there is something I must speak to you about-"
    She jumped back and cowered when she saw Starslayer 
and Soulfeeder out and the bleak expression on Selkendal's 
face. The swords flew, cleaving the dropping letter in 
half.
    A white light burst from the shreds of paper and 
attempted to race up Selkendal's arm. But it slammed into 
the blade of Soulfeeder and was gone.
    Selkendal shuddered as he sheathed the blades, first 
checking to make sure Soulfeeder's keen edge had taken no 
damage from the magic. "That was meant to kill me," he 
said absently, still staring at the shreds. "If I had torn 
it up, as they expected me to do-"
    "A most devilish trap, my lord." Alamey stared at the 
drifting motes of white and swallowed. She had joined the 
Dancers only six months ago, and was still impressed by 
the speed of Selkendal's swordsmanship. "Was it bad news?"
    Selkendal was too upset to be angered by her slip of 
the tongue on his title. "Yes. I am Selected."
    For a single moment, Alamey stared at him. Then she 
rushed forward, flinging her arms around his waist and 
weeping.
    Selkendal rocked her, without love but with great 
tenderness, and gradually the tears subsided. Looking up 
at him, she choked, "You do not mean to go, do you?'
    Selkendal brushed the tears from her face with a 
gentle finger. She knew him well enough by now to admit to 
herself that that action meant nothing. "I must. You know 
what will happen if I do not."
    Alamey shuddered slightly. "I know," she said in a 
small voice.




                        Chapter 2
                        Selection
    "Deenui toa waberacaonadaten." (Fear the unexpected).
    -From Toa Tumblao Telcema Telon, or The Book Of 
Rational Thought, by Y'endiy Darkspinner.

    Selkendal shook his head and turned to pull on a fresh 
tunic, leaving Jurashi to handle the complaints. 
Practically the entire gang was at the door, pleading with 
him not to go to the Selection. Selkendal was tired of 
hearing their protests, their one hundred and fifty 
reasons why he shouldn't go, and the plans to smuggle him 
out of the city.
    Jurashi tried a new tactic, for which Selkendal 
blessed him. The gang leader himself didn't have the 
patience. "Can you honestly think he would die where 
others die? He is Selkendal! He was not meant for a death 
such as ordinary curalli have."
    That calmed them a moment; then Alamey said, sounding 
close to tears, "But if they send three at once against 
him-"
    "He faced seven at once yesterday," Jurashi said in a 
sprightly tone, exactly as if he had not stood there with 
bated breath and waited to interfere. "Can you deny him 
the opportunity to prove his superior skill?"
    Selkendal smiled to himself as he examined his 
glittering blades and then slid them home in their 
sheaths. That's it, Jurashi. Do what I could never do, and 
make it sound as if I go to this of my own free will.
    He glanced at the stargazer on his bedside table. The 
small silver flower responded to the dark stars through 
any barrier, and paced its magical growth accordingly. It 
dropped six petals from midnight to noon, one every two 
hours, and then regrew one every two hours until midnight 
again. It made a useful clock for those curalli who felt 
they needed such things. Right now, it had dropped three, 
and the fourth was on the verge of dropping.
    Time to go.
    Gently, he pushed his way to the front of the room. "I 
care about you all," he told them, pitching his voice to 
carry, "and I don't want to see you dead in the suicidal 
charge you might make to save me."
    The startled, guilty looks on faces all around him 
convinced him he was right. He smiled and shook his head. 
"No, if you please. If I allow myself to die, I will carry 
enough guilt for that, without you adding yourselves to 
the mess."
    His confident, almost arrogant manner, his suggestion 
that if he died it would be at his own allowance, and his 
gentle farewell were all that were needed, he knew. He 
reached out and shook hands, embraced offered shoulders, 
and all the time moved inexorably toward the doors.
    They flowed around him in a protective, guardian mass 
for as long as they could, until they reached the main 
door of the mansion. There, they had to halt and let him 
go on alone.
    Selkendal turned to wave, and paused at the sight of 
their shining eyes. An irrelevant thought flashed into his 
mind: If love could be said to exist anywhere in Deepdark, 
it existed here.
    He managed to keep his face smooth as he waved, and 
until he turned away, but then it contorted into a snarl. 
Damn Cor- the halfbreed! He caused trouble even when he 
wasn't here!
    He stalked down the streets, three-quarters of his 
mind on the dangers in the darkness around him but the 
other fourth worrying at Corlin's words. How was it that 
they sank into the heart and went on echoing long after 
the half-churni had stopped speaking? They hadn't really 
been all that inspiring. "Simple" was the best word he 
could have applied to them.
    And yet... Two days ago he had not thought about love 
at all. It simply couldn't get past the diamond walls of 
his rage.
    Now, because of one simple discussion, he was worrying 
whether Alamey loved him, wondering why the Dancers loved 
him when he returned nothing but concern and affection, 
wondering... Ahhhh!
    He shook his head twice, determinedly, and leaped with 
the grace of a cat to an alley walltop, balancing easily. 
From now on, he would make his way to the Rallar 
Aprendilna, the Dark School, this way. It would leave a 
less predictable trail of scent.
    He set out, leaping from walltop to walltop or the 
roofs of low buildings, and warding his mind against 
thoughts of an emotion that had not existed for him since 
a terrible day seventeen hundred years ago.
----------------------------------------------------------
    He reached the School at the appointed time, and 
balanced on a low wall, studying it, before actually 
approaching. He had spent at best sporadic parts of his 
childhood here, learning what he absolutely had to know. 
He had preferred the lessons of the streets.
    Now, perhaps because of that, it seemed a dark place, 
vaguely threatening.
    Enclosed by a thirty-foot-high sivleth fence laden 
with magical traps, the Rallar Aprendilna sprawled across 
three miles of fertile ground in majestic waste. Also 
built of black silver, it was, like most curalli 
buildings, long and low, with many windows to serve as 
escape routes or discreet entrances. Guards paced both the 
slender bars on top of the gates and the perimeter of the 
School itself. The barracks for the students were some 
distance away, tiny buildings arrayed on a vast web of 
giant-spidersilk.
    At last, when Selkendal decided nothing overtly 
harmful moved in the compound, he jumped down and 
approached the gates.
    He had tried to dress his best for the occasion, 
discarding the nondescript, sivleth-colored clothes he 
usually wore. In their place, he wore tunic and leggings 
of a color between deep green and black, and he had used a 
silver band to smooth his white hair back. He had brought 
along his usual cloak, however, and its hood concealed the 
hair that shone like a soft beacon in the darkness.
    The guards watched him carefully. Selkendal knew they 
were noting his weapons, his gait- swift and graceful, 
that of a dancer who moves with blades in his hands- and 
his air of mingled wariness and confidence. Most 
streetrunners act like hysterical rabbits. Those who do 
not are ones to be reckoned with: the strongest of the 
strong, the survivors.
    Selkendal came to the gates and stopped, waiting 
patiently for them to be opened.
    "And who are you?" one of the guards asked at last, in 
the neutrally polite tone most curalli use with someone 
who has not yet given them a reason to feel either 
flattered or insulted.
    "Someone who comes to the Rallar Aprendilna by 
invitation," Selkendal said. "The School Masters sent for 
me; my name is Selkendal Shadowgift. Let me through."
    "How do we know you are who you say you are?" the 
other guard asked. She and the male exchanged smirks.
    Selkendal felt his cheeks heating, a tide of blood as 
white as the coming rage flooding them. He knew what they 
wanted to see, and what they would say. But he really had 
no choice. It was the one irrevocable proof of his 
identity.
    Teeth gritted, he pulled the hood back. His white hair 
spilled free.
    The curalli stared, then moved smoothly aside, their 
hands weaving spells. The gates opened, and Selkendal 
marched through, looking neither to the right nor the 
left, ignoring the jeers about "land Elwen blood," "silver 
stars' favor," and all the rest.
    Hate pounded and tore at him. He welcomed it; it 
helped him to forget Corlin's soft, silly nonsense about 
love.
    He wished to put up the hood, but he could not; then 
it would seem as if he were hiding from them. Instead he 
moved on across the School's neatly clipped lawn, his 
steps as stately as a king's, his hair a shimmering crown 
of pale fire.
    Only when he rounded the Rallar Aprendilna's corner 
did he dare to put up the hood, and then he was trembling 
so hard with rage and the desire to hit something that he 
almost shook it off again. He had to wait for a long 
moment, eyes closed, before he could move forward again 
with any semblance of calm on his face.
    The courtyard behind the Dark School was crowded with 
curalli, more than were normally in one place except in 
times of celebration or war. Some were students from the 
School who almost managed to copy Selkendal's glide, 
others veteran streetrunners. A few representatives of the 
nervous-rabbit 'runners were even there. They could be 
told because they kept their hands so close to the hilts 
of their weapons.
    Selkendal studied all those around him with an expert 
eye, and then grinned sourly, an expression more like a 
cornered animal's baring of teeth. So it was to be a true 
Selection, then. They were all excellent fighters, even 
the youngsters who still had so far to go.
    He began listening to the chatter around him with more 
than half an ear, and soon found himself disliking what he 
heard.
    "Anyone know why a Selection was called at this time 
of day? I always thought it was at night."
    "How did you learn of it?"
    "The usual note-under-the-door thing: You are 
summoned. They did their best to make it sound impressive, 
but I saw it for what it was. I'm such a good fighter that 
I've become a threat to them, and they want to get rid of 
me before I can raise a rebellion or something of that 
sort."
    "Of course. But isn't that why everyone's here?"
    Selkendal moved silently through the crowd, unnoticed 
or ignored by most. There was a simple reason for that: 
People evaluated him, saw the rage barely held in check, 
and decided they did not want to die before the Selection 
actually began.
    The more he heard, the faster and larger his concern 
grew. No one else had received a personal invitation from 
a School Master, or indeed an invitation at all. It seemed 
Selkendal had been chosen for a singular honor.
    Or something even more serious.
    He was inclined to believe the latter.
    At last, the silver-clad figure of a School Master 
slipped through the crowd and climbed up on a crude wooden 
stage in the corner of the courtyard. He stretched out his 
hands and waited, distant and serene, for the talk to 
calm.
    Selkendal knew him at once. Alevka Bladelord, Master 
of Discipline and writer of personal invitations. His hair 
matched his clothes, a silver that resembled nothing so 
much as starlight. After that hair was he called; his 
Primal name meant "lord of the morning star."
    "I am glad you are here," Alevka said, when the talk 
had died away altogether. "Refusing Selection is a grim 
thing, and does nothing for the future of our race." He 
paused, studying their faces, then smiled wryly. "But I 
suppose you know everything about Selection already, yes? 
Never mind. I have to explain it anyway, in accordance 
with ritual and time-honored law."
    The fighters stared back at him silently. All knew the 
explanation would be a farce. The Selection was no longer 
the ancient contest of strength that it had been. It was 
maintained only as a means of ridding the School Masters 
of those who might otherwise threaten them.
    Alevka spoke with a certain passion and fervor, and no 
lie sounded in Selkendal's ears. But then, the lie- 
detecting ability depended on the speaker's belief in his 
or her words, and the School Masters could often convince 
themselves of something for a certain period of time.
    "The Selection aids our race, trimming from our ranks 
the weak who might otherwise slow the growth and survival 
of the curalli. We do not wait for the land Elwens to 
claim them as prey; we mercifully kill them ourselves.
    "Three fighters will be Selected in the usual manner. 
One will then be chosen as the Leader. He will fight three 
opponents- an outsider, and the other two Selected. The 
victor will decree the fate of those he defeats, if he 
does not simply kill them in battle. 
    "Of course, the audience will be allowed to sit in the 
arena and observe, as befits custom."
    By the end of the School Master's speech, Selkendal's 
hands were clenched on his sword hilts as if they were 
handholds that would save him from tumbling headfirst over 
a cliff. There was no reason for this odd mixture of rage 
and fear, he told himself, shimmering up his spine like 
white fire tinged with silver. The rumors that the School 
Masters aided the Leader might be true, but they could not 
interfere in the actual Selection process itself.
    There was no reason for this fearful premonition that 
he would be Selected.
    "Behold the Sonor'Calara!" the School Master called 
suddenly, flinging an arm toward something that had sat in 
the corners of their eyes all along, not really noticed.
    The Silver Hall was indeed a small building, something 
that looked like a windowless hut. The gleaming walls 
shone untarnished and uncracked, though legends claimed it 
had been in existence for over a million years. It looked 
like nothing so much as a tiny, serene home.
    Selkendal nonetheless stared at it hard. This was 
where the Selection took place.
    "The first group to enter," said Alevka, "will consist 
of Dera Amelsa, Willen Sonorpyad, and Selkendal 
Shadowgift."
    The gang leader shot a wary glance at the School 
Master. Alevka only gave him a slightly distracted smile 
and waved him toward the Sonor'Calara.
    Knowing he had no choice- refusing would only bring a 
punishment far worse than death upon him- Selkendal 
swallowed and moved toward the thing. He was joined on its 
threshold by a curalli woman with a tight mouth and a 
fighter's grace and a man who looked competent, though 
young. The woman, Dera, stared hard at them both, but 
Willen looked as if he would like to ask one of them for 
reassurance.
    They moved forward. The last sensation Selkendal felt 
of the mortal world was the coolness of the silver floor 
beneath his feet, a coolness swiftly overwhelmed by a 
blinding blast of light and heat.
----------------------------------------------------------
    The gang leader lifted his head and blinked his eyes. 
He knelt in a long hall lined with doors and hung with 
glittering mirrors of faceted diamond and crystal. His 
tongue felt thick, and his head hurt. For all that, 
though, he remembered who he was and what he was here for.
    He managed to grin as he pulled himself to his feet. 
He had no objection to magic, but this was a little 
extreme.
    He still wore his swords, and cursed all those who had 
told him one went into the Selection unarmed. He began to 
move deeper into this strange place, hand never far from 
Soulfeeder's hilt.
    For once, he did not blame himself for acting like a 
nervous youngster. The place was utterly silent save for 
his own breathing and heartbeat, so silent that he found 
himself straining for a sound of footsteps that did not 
exist, and there was no breath of wind no matter how hard 
he flapped his cloak.
    Selkendal paused before a mirror and stared steadily 
at his own reflection. Green eyes shone back at him with 
utter pride, and his white hair, uncovered during the 
sleep or whatever it had been, hung about his face like 
lank strands of sugarcane.
    Nothing unusual there, even when he dared to tap the 
mirror with a flat hand. Whatever the glasses were for, 
they seemingly would not harm him. That determined, he 
turned and moved to a door.
    He leaped in the air and slammed the door with his 
feet just above the knob. No traps were triggered, 
however. The door simply swung open and stood there, 
waiting.
    Selkendal moved cautiously forward, and-
    Found himself caught in a silver bubble of light that 
enveloped him soundlessly and with no overt threat. He 
tried to spring free, but the light simply bent outward 
and then snapped him back into place. The fighter swiftly 
recovered his feet and stared warily around the room.
    The chamber was bare save for a mirror, this one made 
of silver, on the opposite wall. The instant his gaze fell 
on it, colors shifted and stirred beneath its surface, and 
began to move in concentric circles.
    Selkendal, with nothing else to do, watched as his own 
face formed. He stood on the top of a mountain staring 
down at Deepdark. The scene was familiar to him; this was 
how he would have looked on the outside the day he 
returned from his Wanderfree, the two-year Elwen trial of 
adulthood.
    In reality, he had gone down into the city, resuming 
his place among his own kind as an adult and shortly 
thereafter rising to the leadership of the Ice Dancers. 
But this young Selkendal sneered, flapped his hands in an 
obscene gesture, and then turned away, climbing rapidly 
back into the mountains.
    What would have happened had he chosen to stay away 
and remain in the outside world?
    The mirror seemed intent on answering that question. 
It followed his younger self throughout the night, until 
the sky began to lighten in the east. Selkendal had 
trained himself to withstand light; it did not have the 
devastating effect on him that it did on most curalli. But 
day was still not a pleasant time for shadowed Elwens to 
travel, and so he located a small cave and curled up in 
it.
    By now there was virtually no difference between the 
enthralled, watching Selkendal and the boy who slumbered 
so peacefully in the shadows of a cavern, and he felt his 
reflection's shock vividly when hooves sang on rock and a 
land Elwen mounted on a horse cantered into sight.
    The boy held very still, hoping the merchant, or 
whoever he was, would pass by. But the land Elwen stopped 
his horse outside the cave and began unloading his furs 
from the animal's back with a weary sigh.
    Selkendal remained still, pondering. He might kill the 
Elwen- possibly- but the moment he moved, the stranger 
would smell him. And the horse had the look of one trained 
for battle. He would alert his master should the land 
Elwen remain unaware.
    But to stay there was no choice at all.
    And then the horse raised its head, dark brown eyes 
finding Selkendal's. Like all animals belonging to the 
pale-skins, it was trained to hate curalli. It reared, 
hooves flailing the air, deep chest vibrating with its 
war-cry.
    The land Elwen whirled around, drawing a slender sword 
and crouching. Before Selkendal could move, fire flew from 
his free hand, hammering into the young shadowed Elwen who 
had just begun to scuttle to the side like a crab. He 
cried out, briefly, jerking, his skin smoking. 
    The fire came again, and he died.
    Selkendal shuddered, rubbing the gooseflesh that had 
arisen on his arms. It was a long time since he had been 
this frightened, and he knew why. Usually, it was not 
given to an Elwen to know when a step in the other 
direction would have meant death. It was not very 
comforting when one did know.
    The mirror darkened suddenly, and Selkendal frowned 
uneasily. He had assumed this room would either show him 
another possible vision or release him now. It did not 
seem predisposed to do either.
    The scene lightened again, this time showing the young 
curalli charging recklessly at the land Elwen, his swords 
in hand. One was quite ordinary, if well-cleaned and cared 
for, but the other shone with a dazzling white light, as 
diamond-edged as its blade. The light seemed- unnatural, 
somehow. Hungry.
    The land Elwen turned, but the sight of the blazing 
sword unnerved him, and he could only stare. Then that 
sword- Soulfeeder- plunged into his heart, and he spasmed 
and died.
    Selkendal screamed. The sound had been building in his 
throat since the envisioned sword had first began to glow, 
and now burst free in all its terror. He knew what would 
happen next, and it was bad enough that he felt it when it 
actually happened. He had no need to see an illustration, 
especially such a graphic one.
    The sound might have shattered the mirror, because it 
was suddenly only blank metal once more. Selkendal knelt 
within the bubble of light, staring numbly at his hands, 
shivering. Something had thawed within him for the first 
time in a long time, and now it let him regard himself 
with revulsion.
    How had he ever forced himself to wield such evil? 
When had Soulfeeder- or his own soul- convinced him that 
it was so necessary to survive that such foulness was 
permissible?
    He buried his head in those trembling hands, and wept. 
The tears might have just recently turned from ice to 
water, for they felt cold, and it took an effort to pull 
them from his heart. How long since he had cried? His 
parents' deaths?
    No, not even then.
    When the weeping stopped, his hand fell on 
Soulfeeder's hilt and drew it from its sheath. He meant to 
hurl it from him, let it lie in a corner of this forsaken 
room, and never find it again.
    But now, gazing at it, he felt its sentient, 
persuasive communication, and hesitated once more.
    Keep me, the sword said- not in so many words, for it 
could not really talk, but with that mingling of emotion 
and image he had always found so hard to refuse. You will 
survive this and walk into the arena, likely as the 
Leader. You will never survive there without me, however. 
Keep me until after the Selection has been completed, and 
then we may part paths- if you wish to.
    "I wish to," Selkendal said, holding the blade up 
before eyes filled with loathing, "and I wish to do it 
right now."
    Then you wish for death, because, as I said, you will 
never live against those finest fighters without me.
    "I will live. I have my fighting skills, which I had 
before I ever acquired you, monster."
    Yes, but you acquired me when you were sixteen, and 
you have never really been without me. I am not saying you 
depend on me, but anything is possible. You are the only 
equal partner I have ever found, Selkendal, the only one 
with whom I can share my gifts. Do not give up that 
partnership so easily.
    "Your gifts, indeed." Selkendal closed his eyes, and 
found himself still shaking. "Gifts so foul that I am 
ashamed I ever accepted them."
    But you did accept them, and they have stood you in 
good stead, have they not? They allowed you to survive 
where others died. You owe me a debt, Selkendal, if 
nothing else. Keep me and permit me to aid you this last 
time. Then you may cast me aside.
    At last, hating himself for it, Selkendal sheathed the 
sword once more. He stood up and walked toward the far 
side of the bubble, which slid apart to let him through.
    He made his way from the room without a glance back at 
the mirror that had so nearly changed his life. He still 
heard something- his conscience, perhaps, if he had one- 
urging him to throw the evil thing away. But he could not. 
His desire to avoid death, if it could be avoided, and his 
pride would not let him do so.
    He told himself it was only imagination that 
Soulfeeder buzzed in its sheath, emitting a sound 
somewhere between a purr and a chuckle.
    Soon enough, he forgot about it. Smashing the next 
door open freed a shadow creature, black and swift, who 
charged at him, waving a sword in one hand and a dagger in 
the other.
    Selkendal darted to one side, then spun into a roll 
when it became clear that the creature would not let him 
flank it. Indeed, it was unusually smart for a monster, 
staying in the doorway and waving its black blades 
tauntingly. Accordingly, the gang leader came to his feet 
with Starslayer and Soulfeeder in his hands.
    He did not want to kill it if such could be avoided; 
he was not sure he could kill it. But when the creature 
seemingly lost patience and opened the engagement with a 
dagger feint and a more solid sword stroke, he responded 
out of instinct.
    Starslayer slapped the sword aside and then darted in 
a wave of silver savagery, just in case this strange thing 
decided to throw the dagger. Soulfeeder dove straight for 
the unprotected belly, slashing upward at the last instant 
when the creature bent to protect the vulnerable place.
    Shadowy or not, the blade bit into flesh, and the 
thing screamed.