For The Singer
                         Prologue
           19,999, Age of Change, Early Autumn
    The song thundered to a close, and the viaquia rose 
from their seats to clap and yell as the singer, floating 
in midair, bowed, and the dancer slowly tumbled to a halt.
    Peranor Lightfoot was on his feet, and then in the 
air, with all the rest. He had a somewhat more personal 
interest, though, his aqua eyes running back and forth 
between singer and dancer as his mouth quirked in a soft 
smile. This performance should also have proven them fit 
to be husband and wife.
    Or not.
    But the vespels who sat in the seats nearer the ground 
rose to their feet, nodding and touching their splay- 
fingered hands together. Peranor relaxed and smiled, and 
an enormous cheer rang around the chamber of the Temple 
from those who had been watching. Those who had not been 
quickly caught on and gave their own version of the cheer, 
strong and steady and wishing all happiness to the new 
couple.
    Peranor hovered a moment, seeing Vremin take Vanisha's 
hand in his and stare hard into her eyes for a long time. 
He wanted to give them that time. Stars knew that they 
would have less and less private time as the days wore on 
and the necessity of providing art and entertainment and 
everything else they needed for their wedding caught up 
with them.
    But, at last, Vremin released Vanisha's hand and 
turned away, in time to meet the first string of well- 
wishers. Peranor decided that he could join them.
    The singer smiled a little, though only a very little, 
as his friend came up beside him. The bright, deep blue 
eyes remained as hard and gleaming as ever. Peranor 
thought that he looked even more like a hawk than usual, 
anxious to capture something and kill it. "Lightfoot," 
said Vremin. "I trust that you will create the illusion 
that we need for our wedding?"
    "If you would have me, Violetsong, I would be 
honored," said Peranor, and then shook himself. It was 
easy to fall into formal patterns of speaking near Vremin, 
but not something he liked to do. It sounded wrong coming 
from his own mouth.
    "We will have you."
    Very definite. Peranor grinned. The man knew what he 
wanted.
    He always had.
    Vanisha Stormsummon looked over at her husband-to-be, 
and nodded slightly. She had always known what she wanted, 
as well, and at the moment it was to be out of the crowd 
before it did them any damage. Her eyes, of the color 
called autumn smoke- pale amber stained with gold- 
reflected exhaustion, and her entire body shook and 
trembled a little.
    Peranor lifted a hand as his friend flew over to join 
his new betrothed, and then turned to make his own way out 
of the Temple. With the sky awash, it wasn't easy. After a 
glance downward, he decided that he would be better 
advised to try the ground.
    The worn stones of the Temple bruised his feet, and 
Peranor winced a little. He really should walk more. But 
his profession so little lent itself to strenuous 
exercise, and the feeling was so much more a nagging, 
unfocused guilt than anything else- something to do with 
half-absorbed vespel doctrines about living a life that 
included some of everything- that Peranor inevitably 
forgot the resolve as soon as he made it.
    "My Lord Lightfoot."
    Peranor started, and turned. One of the vespels stood 
behind him, staring at him with great, dreaming, cat-like 
eyes. Thankfully, she wore the violet robes of a worker in 
the Representatives' District, and not the white robes of 
a member of the Bashisani. Peranor relaxed a little, but 
found himself wishing that he had flown.
    "My lady. What can I do for you?"
    The vespel woman bowed and handed him a folded piece 
of paper, keeping her claws in as she did so. The courtesy 
was great, and usually wasted on an Elwen. Peranor kept 
himself still for a long moment after she stepped back 
into the crowd, not really believing that this could be 
what he thought it was.
    He opened it the moment he was sure that no one was 
looking at him to see disappointment wash over his face if 
it wasn't.
    It was.
    An invitation to participate in the illusionists' 
trials before the Representatives, to see if he would 
become the illusionist from Leecirna sent to the Kaleina 
this year.
    Grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, Peranor resisted the 
urge to whoop- it was in the middle of the Temple, after 
all, and just after the very private joy of someone else- 
and instead murmured a quick prayer of thanks. He made his 
was slowly, jauntily, towards the exit, taking off as soon 
as he was able, but not fighting any more.
    There was nothing to fight about.
    Once outside, he stood still, taking a breath of the 
sunset air, and then floated aloft and away from the 
Temple of Mirsun, God of Creation, Art, and Music, laid 
out in three concentric rings, and over the width of the 
Temple District.
    A moment of disorientation swept over him. He had 
rarely eaten near the Temple, and he was not used to 
looking at the Pens, or for the Pens, from this angle. But 
he was so hungry that the thought of eating would not 
wait, and he recovered his balance and sense of direction 
at last and pressed eagerly forward.
    Ah, yes.
    In moments, he compensated for being on one point of 
the great twelve-edged star instead of in the middle, and 
angled out over the side of the city and towards the 
nearest set of Pens. It was a lovely sunset, but he did 
not linger to study the colors, instead hurrying through 
them and to the Pens.
    Everyone would be doing sunsets tomorrow. It was such 
a common subject whenever the God had put on a remarkable 
display the evening before. But Peranor wanted to do 
something different.
    He could do something different, as long as he got to 
the Pens before the best ones were gone.
    He landed at last in the small cluster of buildings 
and corrals known as the Pens- in defiance of what they 
actually were- pushed to the outer edges of town here. The 
vespels did not like looking at them, and Peranor did not 
blame them. He supposed that they did not like thinking of 
what else the sunset Elwens could do if they put their 
minds to it, even though no viaquia would ever feed on a 
vespel.
    The woman who came out to greet him immediately began 
dickering to try and force the price up, and seemed 
surprised when Peranor paid her first price without a 
murmur. Peranor smiled at her surprise but said nothing. 
If he flashed the letter from the Representatives she 
would probably think that he was either already rising in 
favor or bragging, and either way the price would change 
drastically. He just wanted what he could afford right 
now.
    Well, the best that he could afford, too. But that was 
coming now, a large, water-white heifer on the end of a 
small lead rope. Peranor studied her and nodded. Calm 
enough to be led by that small a rope and not to startle 
at the smell of blood that was everywhere in the Pens. 
Everyone would be trying for violent images of glory, too, 
in the morning. They always did, if they were vespels, to 
startle and horrify the audience.
    Images of gentleness would be rare, and might even 
start a trend. That was one wonderful thing about the 
world of Leecirna under the Vespel Defense. Anyone could 
do anything that his gifts and talents and the laws would 
let him do.
    Peranor thought that it was about time he got to start 
a trend. It hadn't happened for almost two hundred years.
    He bit into the heifer's throat and tried to think of 
only good things. That would affect the memories that 
would come from the blood, too, something that lesser 
illusionists never understood.
----------------------------------------------------------
    Color arced and splattered, and then broke apart in a 
small, radiant cascade that made the river run as if with 
spilled blood or sunset.
    Peranor snorted under his breath and rolled onto his 
side, sighing beneath his breath, also, in contentment. He 
could feel the blood he had drunk coursing through him, 
warming him. He didn't really need practice. He knew that 
he was getting better. The tricks that he had once 
struggled with, he now mastered better than almost any 
other illusionist in the city. He was receiving 
commissions slowly but steadily. He didn't need to force 
himself to concentrate when he felt more like sleeping.
    The great rationalization that everyone who wants to 
put things off has used since the world Changed, he 
thought sleepily to himself.
    But, in his case, it was true.
    Peranor rolled over again, then paused as he heard 
something moving in the grass nearby. A moment later, a 
foul blood-scent caused him to wrinkle his nose.
    He lay still, though. He was on the bank of the Mei 
Stream, the only source of water for miles in the middle 
of the Mezek Plains. It was only natural that animals 
would come here to drink. He could not expect to have the 
water all to himself, especially on such a lovely clear 
night with the stars silver and the water leaping and 
shining blue-white and the magewinds moving bright and 
sprightly through his nostrils, smelling more like clover 
than like burned sugar.
    Yes, but no animal has blood that smells like that.
    Peranor forced himself to stay still anyway, and as a 
result the thing that came out of the grass and down to 
the water did not kill him, in fact gave him no more than 
a passing glance.
    Peranor held his breath and lay still, watching. This 
time, though, the stillness was really more shock value 
and wonder than anything else. He had never seen a reno up 
close.
    He found himself staring with an illusionist's eye, 
watching the play of muscles, the shift of the dark purple 
fur, the swing of the dark blue eyes to watch him every 
now and again as the wolf-like thing stood there and drank 
more water than he had ever seen an animal drink in his 
life. He blinked as something struck him.
    The animal looked like Vremin, in the colors of 
everything from hair and eyes to the look in its eyes. 
This was another savage, proud hunter, not used to bowing 
to anyone.
    On impulse, Peranor stretched out a hand and summoned 
an image of Vremin forward. His friend stood on the bank, 
almost as real as life, if I do say so myself, Peranor 
thought proudly. Even more significant to a reno, his 
smell was there with him, blood-scent and body-scent and 
the hawk-look in his eyes.
    The creature lifted its head and stared at the image 
without apparent fear.
    Then the image shifted and warped- and Peranor knew 
that he had not lost control- into an image of Peranor 
himself. The reno vanished into the tall grass.
    Peranor lay there in wonder until he fell asleep.




                        Chapter 1
                    Reno In The Walls
    "She sees still with wide eyes the images of stars..."
    -Line from a song lost with the Release.

    "No, my lord, that won't work. Do you see? Standing 
here, the sunlight will block out the images."
    Steps pounded across the floor, then paused, then 
stalked back sullenly.
    "Make the colors stronger, then."
    "I can't, my lord, not with the stones surrounding 
them. The mosaic has too much of the natural in it. The 
construction would look artificial, and since the temple 
is to have everything of the natural about it, that is the 
last thing you want."
    "Come up with something!"
    Peranor paused, studying the landscape thoughtfully. 
It really was lovely, a deep green forest with slender 
silver and brown trees, most possessed of blue-green 
leaves. Some of the colors were not that common in nature, 
in fact, but under the skilled hand of the mosaicist, it 
did look as if the temple opened into the forest. The 
small place of bare stone- or, really, more softly-colored 
stone, because the mosaicist could not bear to leave 
anything blank- where he could place an image would have 
to be worked over carefully, permanently, with one of his 
strongest illusion.
    But strong would destroy the illusion of soft. The 
leaves looked as if they would rustle in the winds of an 
eternal spring, not as if they would come tumbling down in 
the sharp bite of a winter storm. The trees themselves 
were beech and aspen and others that would sway with the 
wind if it came. All of it was one moment the artist had 
convinced to pause for eternity. He could use a strong 
illusion to complete the picture, yes, and jar the seer a 
little, but it would have to fit in at the same time, and 
not destroy the whole point of the mosaic.
    Or Peranor's perception of the mosaic. That was 
something that many illusionists who labored at setting 
magic to walls did not understand. It was not only about 
the client's perception of the picture, or the picture 
itself, or even the illusionist's skill. The illusionist 
had to have a picture of the image firmly in mind, and 
understand what it was meant to convey, or he could not 
anchor the loveliest mirage in the world to the surface of 
the stone and make it last.
    But here... this was one of the harder challenges of 
his career. Lord Feathergem wanted an animal of some sort 
in the middle of the image, something that would draw the 
eyes and yet fit in with the rest of the forest. Peranor 
had rejected deer as too bland and ollori, though they 
would fit the mood of the mosaic better than any creature 
he could think of, as too eye-catching. That pure white in 
the middle of all the soft greens and blues would not go 
down well. There was not a scrap of white anywhere else in 
the painting. He was currently considering unicorns, 
trying to think of more advantages than problems to that. 
He was having to rapidly become resigned to the idea that 
this would not be his best work. There were too many 
problems with it.
    Wait.
    Eyes wide, Peranor stepped up to the picture and ran 
his hand lightly over the pattern of the stones. There was 
a thread of deep purple in the picture that he had not 
noticed before. He thought that it might work as a 
complement, and that would mean...
    "What is it?" Lord Feathergem was used to dealing with 
artists, give him that much, Peranor thought. He knew what 
that intake of breath and the half-otherworldly movements 
that followed meant.
    At least, what they meant for Peranor.
    Peranor lost the normal self-congratulatory thought 
that would have followed that as he bent over the mosaic 
and lost himself to the play of light and reality that he 
did so often in the daily world and that mattered so 
little there. His fingers brushed again over the stones, 
and then he stepped back and smiled. As strong as the 
temptation was, he should not link the illusion 
permanently to the wall until his employer had approved 
it.
    Peranor thought he would.
    "What about this, my lord?"
    There was a shimmer, and Peranor, concentrating, 
brought a reno into being in the center of the mosaic, 
overwhelming and challenging and complementing the deep 
and soft colors of the stones.
    For a moment, Lord Feathergem was silent. Peranor 
looked at him to see an appraising expression on the 
violet face, followed by a slow nod.
    "I understand the colors," he said at last. "But is a 
reno entirely appropriate for this work?"
    "Oh, of course," said Peranor, pretending shock and 
outrage. "Why wouldn't it be?"
    "I-" His employer frowned as he realized he had been 
set up, that even if there were legitimate reasons for not 
having a reno in his temple, Peranor would have his own 
for doing so and would make him look like an idiot. His 
green eyes bored into Peranor's face, telling him he would 
extract payment for this later.
    Peranor only smiled. He was in that realm where joy 
overflowed and became impertinent giddiness. If Lord 
Feathergem could not see what he saw, then too bad for 
him. He would, the moment that Peranor had explained it to 
him.
    "All right," said the Lord, at last, heavily. "Do tell 
me why you want a reno here."
    "The colors, first of all," said Peranor, reaching out 
to touch his illusion. He could almost feel something, and 
he beamed. One of the more realistic ones he had ever 
crafted. Of course, it should be, given that he had seen 
the living beast only last evening. "Strong, and yet- see 
here-" He ran his fingers over other stones. "Here the 
purple, here the blue. There is no color in my reno that 
is not in the rest of the picture, somehow, somewhere. He 
does fit in."
    "And yet he is natural." Lord Feathergem was looking 
more and more thoughtful.
    "Yes. That is part of the problem with this picture, 
as beautiful as it is- the challenge that the image would 
present any illusionist. You want something strong in the 
center here. The mosaicist even planned for that, leaving 
this stone as bland as he did. But the colors have to be 
part of the picture, too, and the image should draw the 
eye without distracting from them."
    "I know that-"
    "I know you know that, my lord. But try to imagine 
this." Peranor knelt, banished the illusion of the reno 
even though it hurt to do so, and laid his hand in the 
center of the bare area. "A beautiful white ollor, here. 
It would overwhelm the picture. And a deer, a wolf, a 
kingfisher, anything else that looked too natural would 
blend in too well. It needs to be something colorful that 
can adapt to the world and yet make it clear that it 
commands it."
    "I did not know you that you were a poet as well as an 
illusionist."
    Peranor shrugged and stood, his eyes on the top half 
of the painting, showing a summer sky with hints of the 
dark blue of the reno's eyes. "Many of the old tracts on 
my art were written by poets, my lord." His voice was 
distracted. "And a reno also presents a different 
impression, a different challenge, to the viewer."
    "I should say so."
    The tone of voice was enough to bring Peranor out of 
his reverie. He looked at Lord Feathergem. "What do you 
mean?"
    "Do you not know what renoi symbolize?"
    Peranor shrugged. "I told you that I was not a poet, 
my lord. I would not put blood in the center of an image 
such as this, but other than that... I choose for color 
and light and let others worry about what a thing might 
mean to them."
    "Renoi symbolize- wildness. A kind of darkness."
    "This is a temple to Mirsun, my lord. Some kinds of 
creation are dark. And I would not say that the renoi are 
dark, merely wild."
    "That is enough."
    "Has someone told you, my lord, that you could not 
have a reno in your temple?" It would not be the first 
time. Sometimes the vespels would come and forbid some 
exercise of art. It happened less often with the illusions 
that Peranor and others like him crafted, though, probably 
because illusion was close to the vespels' own gift of 
envisioning.
    Lord Feathergem looked down at the ground. "Not a 
reno, as such, but there has been growing worry over 
glory-sentiment in the population lately. Among the 
younger Elwens. Not that anyone sane would want to return 
to the Age of Glory, but..."
    "I understand. But you are older, my lord, and 
demonstrably sane. You hired me, after all." Peranor 
smiled, and the more broadly when the older man did not 
smile back. "Tell them that, if they ask. You have the 
right to decorate your temple if you want, especially with 
something like this. It will look right, I assure you. I 
would almost do it for the art alone."
    "Then perhaps it would be all right if I paid you 
less?"
    Peranor stared at him haughtily. "Let me create the 
image," he said. "And then you can decide what you wish to 
pay me for."
    Lord Feathergem nodded.
    Peranor faced the mosaic again. Stars, as frustrating 
as this had been a few moments ago, he loved challenges 
like this. The mosaicist had been unable to decide 
himself. If nothing else, then, near-perfect pictures like 
this provided work for illusionists like himself, people 
who saw with all their senses.
    He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the reno by 
the stream last night, the proud lift of the head, the 
flow and drape of the fur, almost as graceful as a 
comfortable old robe.
    In many ways, though they looked nothing like it, the 
renoi were like the vespels. All graceful, all aloof, all 
seeming part of another world. He called that to himself, 
his impression of the picture and his memory and his 
knowledge of vespels mixing and mingling into something 
new.
    And then he added in the look that he saw so often in 
Vremin's eyes. The hard brightness, losing himself in 
song, caring for nothing but what he chose to care for. If 
this was the Age of Glory and wars were still permitted, 
then Vremin would be a terrifying enemy, he had no doubt 
of that.
    He heard Lord Feathergem make a strangled sound.
    Peranor wearily opened his eyes, and stared, a small, 
proud smile working his lips.
    He had envied singers and dancers all his life- he 
would have loved to be able to sing- because they seemed 
so joined to their art, a part of it, while he hovered of 
necessity beyond his own. He had to remember that he was 
making artifice, however real it might seem to others. It 
was rare that all the qualities could blend and carry him 
away, make him forget what he was doing, and when it 
happened it was usually no better than a song dashed off 
the top of a singer's head would be.
    But this-
    This was different.
    Peranor found himself murmuring a prayer to Mirsun. 
Maybe it was the God who had sent him the reno last night, 
after all.
    Before him stood a reno in the center of the cool 
blue-green wood, adapted to that wood and a part of it. 
The deep purple coat did not glow with the reflection of 
sunset colors as it had last night, because it was not 
sunset now. It had tints of green-blue, as if it stood in 
the flood of the water that flowed a short way away or the 
shadow of the leaves. The deep blue eyes shaded, subtly 
and without drawing attention to themselves, in the same 
way that the sky did. Sky and earth flowed together in the 
animal, in more ways than one; he stood covering part of 
the horizon line, just where sky joined earth in the 
mosaicist's stones.
    The few touches that only an illusionist could add 
played around him: the noises of running water and lifting 
leaves, the roughness of bark and softness of fur that 
would come if the image was touched, the smell of animal 
musk and wildflowers. And, more than that, a feeling that 
Peranor had striven for for centuries and only recently 
begun to achieve. It was compounded of danger and what 
renoi meant, even what it meant to be a reno, and half- 
heard howls, and the feeling that somewhere beyond this 
forest lay the Mezek Plains. Peranor was smiling so hard 
he thought he would chip his teeth.
    He turned to look at Lord Feathergem. "I will buy the 
wall from you," he said quietly, "if you still think that 
you do not want it."
    Without taking his eyes from the reno, the Lord 
Feathergem handed him the money that they had agreed upon.
    And half as much again.
    Peranor would have objected over the extra money 
usually, because that had always meant that a lord or lady 
wanted to retain his services for an indefinite period of 
time. But this time, he thought it meant that his 
reputation had climbed again.
    He bowed to his erstwhile employer, who didn't see it, 
and went away, tucking the silver into his pouch and 
humming as he did so.
    He still had some time before he needed to appear in 
the Representatives' District for the tests, and he was 
hungry, as always after a major bout of magic. He made his 
way to the estere, the small market in the center of the 
city, just beyond the Temple District, and set about 
following his nose to the finest cheese and bread. Viaquia 
could eat few things beyond blood or other drinks, but, 
because one could grow tired of even the wine of life, 
they avidly pursued those few other things that they 
could.
    The man standing behind the shop counter stiffened 
when Peranor approached him. Peranor pretended not to 
notice and gave over the money without flinching at all, 
even though the man named an outrageous price. A little 
baffled, the merchant then leaned on his counter and 
watched Peranor eat.
    Peranor sneaked small glances at him from time to 
time. This was Aradon, a man who had once tried to be an 
illusionist and court Vanisha Stormsummon, not exactly in 
that order. He had failed at both. Peranor was usually 
kind to him, but did not really like his company. 
Sometimes failure rubbed off.
    "What is it?" he said at last. "Have you acquired some 
disease that renders you selectively blind only when you 
see something that you want to render on a wall?"
    Aradon scowled at him. "I heard that you have been 
doing well," he said.
    "Yes."
    "And that you are soon to create a vanishwyan for the 
wedding of Vremin Violetsong and Vanisha Stormsummon."
    Peranor wondered how he had known that, then decided 
that Vremin must have sought him out to tell him. It 
sounded like the kind of thing that Vremin would do. 
"Yes," he said, his sympathies switching back to his 
friends as Aradon nodded and cast his eyes down. The man 
shouldn't be poking at old wounds if he didn't want to 
feel pain.
    "I never thought that I would win her," said Aradon, 
in a voice that bumbled around on the edge of a murmur. 
"Not really. But I thought that I had to try. It was an 
obsession. Something I couldn't fail at because I had 
already failed, and the mere thought of success was enough 
rapture to let me continue."
    Peranor swallowed the last of his bread. "Find someone 
who gives a damn," he said, pushing away from the counter.
    "You can't really think that Vremin deserves her," 
said Aradon.
    "Why not? He's my friend, they just proved that they 
could sing and dance together and thus survive in a united 
marriage, and according to you, no one could prove worthy 
of her beauty and grace in any case, so it doesn't really 
matter, does it?"
    "I think sometimes that I would have succeeded if not 
for you."
    "You were born a failure, Aradon," said Peranor, eying 
him. "The moment you started thinking like that, at 
least."
    "I could still try," Aradon muttered, scraping a 
finger around the edge of a plate and ignoring the woman 
who had arrived and was patiently trying to attract his 
attention. "I think that I could do better work than you 
if they would just give me a chance-"
    Irritation and doubt and all of them together- all 
those emotions that he had been expecting to feel if he 
was ever called for one of the tests, but which until now 
had not come to plague him- made Peranor pull the letter 
from beneath his tunic and hold it out. "It seems," he 
said, with sarcasm dripping from his voice, "that someone 
thinks that my merits are worth as much or more than your 
bread-making ones."
    Aradon accepted the letter, and his expression 
changed. He read it for a long moment, and then looked up 
at Peranor as he gave it back.
    "You know what this means," he said.
    "Of course," said Peranor blithely. "It means that I 
am finally receiving the rewards I have struggled to earn 
for so long, and that you have had little or no part in my 
earning those awards- just as I was not the one who burned 
his talents out in a failed attempt to court Vanisha." He 
folded the letter again, and slid it back into its proper 
place. "You had nothing to do with it," he repeated, "not 
even to provide stimulating competition. You might have 
once, but you insisted on doing things that you knew you 
couldn't do."
    Aradon had recovered a little dignity; it seemed that 
the shock had let him do that. "Do not make fun of me in 
that way, at least," he said simply.
    Peranor blinked, then nodded. He was not Vremin, to 
need to haunt everyone who had once struggled with him or 
thought that he could contest Peranor's talents. He 
preferred more challenging targets.
    "My apologies, my lady, for taking up so much of your 
time," he said to the waiting woman. She was one such 
target. She lifted her head and stared haughtily back at 
him, then turned to buy her own meal, the tone of her 
voice sharp and reprimanding.
    Peranor lingered a moment, memorizing her face. He 
would tell everyone later about the courtesy that he had 
given and that had not been returned. That would humiliate 
her enough, he thought.
    He wandered out the door and into the sky. He did 
still have an hour or so before he needed to go to the 
District, but he thought that he might go early, such as 
now. He did not know the building that he was supposed to 
enter, according to the letter. It was the home of the 
Envisioner, of course, but that meant nothing. Vespel 
buildings all looked alike.
    He nearly collided with someone as he flew over a low 
shop in search of the best road to the District, and would 
have snapped, but he knew this person.
    "Lelxi!" Peranor smiled at her openly, not caring who 
saw. They were friends, and lovers sometimes, and did not 
care who knew it. It was not as if they would be getting 
married, after all. "How have you been? Where are you 
going? What are you going to do when you get there? Are 
there any other questions that you think of I should ask 
you?"
    "Peranor, as annoying as ever."
    Lelxi Cougarrush was almost the same height that he 
was, but her long blue hair and stunning expressions of 
pride and power of command made her look taller. Right 
now, she looked to be more annoyed than she usually was 
with him. She paused in midair for him, though.
    The business couldn't be that urgent.
    "Where are you going?" he repeated. "I'm off to the 
Representatives' District myself, but I'll fly you part of 
the way."
    "I'm going to the District as well. The singing 
competitions are today, and I have a real chance of being 
chosen this time, I think." Lelxi made a face. "Not like 
last year, when Vremin captured all the accolades and then 
refused to do anything with them."
    "It appears that I'll be accompanying you the whole of 
the way, then," said Peranor in delight. "I received an 
invitation to the competition in illusions and envisioning 
yesterday."
    Lelxi had begun flying again, but she turned and 
stared at him. "You?"
    Peranor sniffed at her. "Yes, me. I know that it is a 
first-time thing, and perhaps one-time, but you were only 
asked for the first time last year."
    "Yes, but... that's different."
    That was one of the reasons that Peranor and Lelxi 
would never marry. She remained stubborn in considering 
illusion of any kind inferior to singing, and Peranor's 
talent smaller than most. Peranor agreed with her about 
the first thing, which did not help, but not about the 
second, and he was going to make sure that she knew that.
    "I can't help it if the Representatives didn't see fit 
to consult you in your infinite wisdom about the decisions 
for this year," he said. "I would make your wounded pride 
clear to the Link, if I were you."
    Lelxi's frown did not alter. "Peranor, I mean it. You 
shouldn't have been considered."
    Long years of this had inured him to what he 
considered a peculiar kind of teasing, but he had never 
seen her so vehement, almost alarmed, before. "What is the 
matter with you?"
    "Nothing is the matter with me. But you are not suited 
to the competitions. Are you sure that someone is not 
playing a joke on you with that letter?"
    "It was given to me by a vespel. They never play jokes 
like that, you know that."
    Lelxi sighed in defeat. "It isn't just talent, you 
know," she said, beginning to fly again. Peranor paced 
her, this time carefully looking out for other people. 
"You have to understand certain things to compete. They 
won't let you, otherwise- or, at the very least, they 
won't choose you."
    "Tell them to me, then."
    "I can't. It's something that you're not supposed to 
know if you don't already know it."
    Peranor snorted. "It's something you can only find out 
if you pick up the right book in the Defense Library, 
then? Is that it?"
    Lelxi's face twisted. "I wish that you wouldn't talk 
that way. History doesn't work that way and doesn't matter 
that much, you know that."
    "To you. All you ever read is scores. But I need to 
have instruction in my branch of art."
    "If you can call it an art."
    Peranor relaxed, letting the familiar, castigating 
words flow over him. It wasn't just illusion, really, that 
Lelxi hated. She thought that every artist in society 
should try and contribute something to Leecirna's musical 
tradition, or just remain still.
    Given her disdain for history, too, Peranor wondered 
if it wasn't just that she hated anything more permanent 
than a note or an attempt to write a note down. That was 
her prerogative, of course, though on occasion it could be 
annoying.
    They passed out of the viaquia part of the city and 
into the Representatives' District. Here, the buildings 
altered from the practical things that Peranor's own 
people built and into things that looked as if they had 
come from a dream. They were made of white or purple 
stone- though not the gold-stained vesperstone that sunset 
Elwens favored, and which the vespels didn't seem able to 
stand- and twisted in spirals and decorations and climbing 
things.
    He turned briefly on his back to look at the spirals 
over his head, and then grunted as his magic lurched him 
around. He shouldn't indulge in fancy flying, which also 
depended on magic, so soon after a major expenditure of 
magic like the illusion that he had created for Lord 
Feathergem.
    "What's the matter?" Lelxi, pacing him again and 
looking concerned.
    "I used magic for a commission earlier," said Peranor, 
pulling himself back over and massaging his shoulder, 
which had felt the brunt of the magical blow. "I used more 
than I likely should have."
    "That's another reason that you shouldn't be here, 
Peranor. You accept commissions."
    "So do you."
    "From vespels. There is a difference. I don't expect 
you to understand."
    Peranor cocked his head. He might not be as good at 
hearing shifts of tone in the voice as Vremin or Lelxi, 
but he could see things in their eyes that they would 
never let him get away with if they knew how revealing 
they were. Right now, it was the same look she had worn 
when telling him that he did not understand what he needed 
to know to participate in the competitions.
    Could this perceived difference between vespels and 
viaquia have something to do with the things that she 
wanted him to understand? Maybe. Peranor would wait until 
he figured it out and then surprise her with it later. She 
would like it better that way.
    He thought. Lately he had not been a good judge of 
what would please Lelxi, and the situation was exacerbated 
by his refusal to care.
    At last, the cluster of spires in the center of the 
District rose up before them. Six, as there always were. 
Six members of the Kaleina, six great Arts, six great 
Principles that the vespels had espoused at the beginning 
of the Age of Change when they began the Defense and ended 
the wars of the Age of Glory. That was one reason that it 
disturbed the vespels so much that the viaquia had twelve 
lesser temples and one in the center of the city, making 
thirteen. Peranor grinned. The vespels did a good job of 
keeping peace and order in the world and in the city, but 
if they could be rattled so easily by something that he 
had taken years even to notice...
    They were such targets for mockery as he most loved.
    "There," said Lelxi, flipping a hand towards the 
nearest spire. "There is the home of the Envisioner. Of 
course, I must be on my way to the home of the Link to the 
Kaleina." She turned and dove away before Peranor could 
thank or curse her or even tell her any of his thoughts.
    But not before he could do something else.
    He affixed a minor illusion to her hair, a writhing, 
blithering creature of shapeless blue tentacles that stood 
up on the back of her neck and made obscene gestures to 
anyone she passed. When she got to the buildings, 
envisioners would remove it, of course, but she would not 
be able to say where she had gotten it. That would mean 
admitting his own talent was greater than she would ever 
admit it was.
    Content, Peranor resumed his own course.
----------------------------------------------------------
    He landed in the quiet, clean white stone courtyard of 
the tower and looked around. Nothing. He created the 
illusion of a ringing bell and then waited again, 
confident that would bring them.
    The giddy confidence that he had found this morning 
when raising the reno image was rising within him once 
more. He would be able to do this no matter what the state 
of his magic was, he thought with soft contentment. 
    A vespel woman came hurrying up at once. Peranor's 
stomach tightened on instinct, and he gripped his letter. 
She wore the white robes of the Bashisani.
    "What do you want?" she said, halting in front of him 
and staring at him.
    Peranor returned the favor and stared back at her. She 
was tall for a vespel, almost his height, and her cat-like 
eyes and ears and whiskers all showed evidence of almost 
obsessive care. Her robe could not disguise the claws on 
her hands, her almost simian feet, the spine-mane of hair 
that bristled out just above her shoulders, or the long 
tail that whipped around her legs. Vespels had not worn 
clothes at all before they silverpathed across the void 
between worlds to Arcadia to establish peace, Peranor had 
heard and read. But, of course, they did now, being 
civilized.
    He shook the thought from his head and held out the 
letter. What the Bashisani could do was terrifying, and 
that made him tend to rambling. "I am here for the 
illusionist competitions."
    The vespel took the letter, folding back her claws so 
that she would not punch holes in the paper. She regarded 
it for a long moment, and then nodded. "I see. Come with 
me, if you please." She turned her back and made her way 
towards the spire.
    She kept the letter.
    Peranor had decided that he would not ask for it back. 
And taking revenge with an illusion would not be 
intelligent this close to the Envisioner's home. He 
settled for making faces at her back.
    She had too much dignity to turn around and give him 
the satisfaction, of course.
    Peranor did not care. It felt immensely satisfying 
just to do it.
    They stepped through the great doors of soft purple 
metal, studded with dark purple jewels, and into the 
middle of a lower floor that arced most of the way up the 
spire's length. A staircase carved into the wall led up 
one side of the room, bleeding into another floor just 
where Peranor would expect to see a spiral reaching out. 
The floor was restricted to half the room-space, though, 
like a very large balcony, and only near the ceiling was 
there a full floor. Peranor leaned back and wondered what 
was up there. Living quarters for the Envisioner, most 
likely, he thought, and turned back when he heard someone 
speak his name. He had not thought that anyone here would 
know it.
    It was the woman who had brought him the message last 
night. She stood waiting, and he walked cautiously towards 
her. When he looked back, the Bashisan had gone once 
again, climbing up the side of the tower and disdaining 
the stairs.
    With his letter.
    "Don't I need that to get into the competition-"
    "No. You are expected." The vespel woman turned her 
back and began to walk.
    Peranor trailed behind her for a moment, and then 
said, "What's your name?"
    "This form has none. I am a conduit for the mass mind 
of all vespels, and no less than that."
    Peranor shivered. The vespels had a queer concept of 
individuality; they didn't seem to need it, at least not 
all the time. They could link into pairs, triads, sextets, 
or great masses that were like separate beings with their 
own personalities. Peranor found himself glad, for once, 
that his people were not telepathic, however much he 
wondered about the mental world and thought it must be 
like singing. He would hate to be caught up in something 
larger than himself, as sticky and hard to get out of as a 
spider's web.
    They proceeded across the room, and it grew bigger and 
smaller at once, and then they were no longer strictly 
within the tower. Peranor forced himself to keep his 
features calm as they made their way along the silverpath, 
that road of magic that led from one place to another 
without traveling through the space between. He could fly 
if he fell off, after all.
    Yes, but the starry space all around him was no more 
real than the silvery road beneath his face. He was not 
sure what he would fly in, or what he would land on, if he 
was to fall.
    After a few moments, thank the stars and the God, the 
path ended, and Peranor found himself standing in the 
middle of a large room with mosaics on the walls, glass 
windows that looked out on a churning green light, and 
more carpets than he had seen in his life in once place. 
He stood with his eyes on the floor. He would not look up 
until he was told to.
    He was aware that the vespel vessel had vanished 
somewhere, apparently to tell the Envisioner that he was 
here. Peranor was grateful. He lifted his head and 
breathed in a little without bothering to take his eyes 
from the floor. He would only have to put them back again 
in a few minutes.
    Across the room, a door opened.
    Eyes on the floor, even as his skin prickled with the 
awareness of someone coming towards him, the slow and 
measured beat of footsteps.
    "Peranor Lightfoot." The voice was too high, piercing, 
sweet and shrill as the music of the flutes that the 
vespels so loved. "Will you look up at me, my Lord 
Lightfoot, please?"
    A little startled at the courtesy, Peranor did so, and 
found himself gazing at the Envisioner.
    He had seen him before, of course. He had had to, to 
make sure that his talent was within respectable limits, 
and to swear that he would never use the honored craft of 
illusion, that viaquia practiced at the discretion of 
their overlords, to revive war or the other despised 
practices of the Age of Glory. But he had never seen him 
this close.
    The Envisioner had star-shaped eyes, the mark of the 
vespel ruling class, bright lines of green light 
stretching away into the white fur. His eyes seemed almost 
blank and very bright, with hardly a pupil to mar them in 
any direction.
    "My Lord Lightfoot," said the shrill voice again, "if 
you would begin the illusion that you were brought here to 
complete?"
    They made it sound less a competition and more a task, 
Peranor thought irritably, regaining some of his strength 
of spirit with that tone in the voice. He lifted his hands 
and began weaving.
    He didn't need his hands, but only the best 
illusionists didn't, and sometimes, he knew, other 
illusionists were allowed to watch the competitions. He 
did not want to reveal that secret to those who would 
contest him until the last moment possible, if he could 
help it at all.
    The illusion took form before him, the gentle colors 
of the memory that he had recovered from the heifer's mid 
with her blood last night. He could feel the Envisioner 
stirring; the man would know that he was using blood to 
enhance the image, then. 
    Well, so be it. The illusions of Peranor's people 
could not in any way compare to the vespels' natural gift 
of envisioning, in any case. Peranor considered it 
perfectly fair to use any and every advantage that he 
could get.
    The image, woven of memory and skill and magic, became 
what he was reaching for: a picture of a land that had 
never existed, but should. This was a rich green plain, 
unlike the pampas of the Mezek Plains, with rivers flowing 
everywhere he looked, and trees rising in small groves 
that might almost be called forests here and there. 
Peranor had never seen forests before, save in images, but 
he thought that he could get away with creating one. 
Seeing was believing.
    In the forest, birds sang and cows grazed, straying in 
from the plains. Tigers hunted here and there. Cheetahs 
ran. Gazelles leaped. Peranor dropped all the animals he 
knew into it, and then added more and more, some of his 
own creation, some not.
    All the while, he maintained the perfection of the 
image in all its aspects. The scent of humus and grass in 
the sun and leaves filled the room. The scent of animals 
and animal dung soon followed. Peranor scattered grass 
about his own feet and those of the Envisioner, and felt 
the floor grow soft, as if he was altering realty. Then he 
added animal cries, running water, and the soft swish of 
grass moving in the wind.
    Then, because it was going so well and the Envisioner 
only gazed at the illusion without making a move to stop 
him, he dared something that he had not before and went 
for the wind.
    It swept over his head, so well-crafted that he could 
not tell it from reality.
    "Stop."
    Peranor let the image fade, but because he was tired, 
not because he had to or because he had been startled. His 
control was perfect enough now that he could withstand 
such minor shocks as that. And he had become caught up in 
the creation himself, wanting to see something that had 
been moving in the thickets of the forest, waiting to 
reveal itself. He had not known what would happen next in 
that image, any more than someone looking at it from a 
distance would.
    This was his day to become involved in his art.
    He bowed to the Envisioner, his face calm. "Is that 
all, my lord?"
    "Yes," said the vespel, looking at him with those 
green eyes that held so much ageless peace and nothing 
else, nothing that Peranor could read. "You are the first 
contestant and will have to wait until we have judged the 
others, of course."
    Peranor tilted his head. "I thought the competitions 
began at sunrise."
    The Envisioner blinked. "You are the first viaquia 
contestant. The vespel candidates for the position began 
their trials this morning, yes."
    Peranor paused, then forged ahead. The memory of his 
image burning in his mind lent him the confidence to say 
what he wanted to say. "My lord, I would like to 
respectfully insist that my image be judged with all of 
the others."
    The Envisioner, who had been about to turn away and 
point something out, paused. "The vespel gift of 
envisioning is necessarily and naturally superior to the 
viaquia gift of illusion," he said, high voice curiously 
flat.
    "I don't care." The impact of what he had just done, 
what he had created, had just now hit Peranor. He met the 
vespel's gaze with his own and shook his head. His heart 
was pounding so hard that his entire chest shook, and he 
could not seem to catch his breath. "My lord, I want them 
to see it. Even if they don't pick me to go to the 
Kaleina. I want them to see it. And they will have to see 
it if they judge it with the rest."
    "You will lose."
    "I don't care," Peranor repeated. And, at the moment, 
he really did not. He closed his eyes tightly, seeing the 
trees and animals and their depth and reality in his mind 
again. He could see them, see them moving. He thought they 
would have been real in another few moments. He could have 
called them into being.
    If he had had a magewind...
    Peranor took a deep breath and opened his eyes, 
reminding himself of the distance he needed to keep from 
his art, especially in this context. It would not do to 
show too much passion in front of a vespel. Those 
illusionists who grew too passionate might want to add 
their own thoughts on the Age of Glory to the great range 
of vespel Vision.
    It was just as well that no magewinds were allowed to 
blow in the city.
    "Wait here," said the Envisioner at last. He made a 
gesture with one hand, and there appeared on a small table 
two feet away two large books bound in white leather. "I 
will tell the others how you wish to be judged. You must 
await the coming of the other viaquia illusionists, and we 
wish you to be entertained while you wit."
    Peranor nodded and picked up the books as the vespel 
walked back through the door, stifling the comment that 
they did not want him to think.
    But, to his surprise, the books were interesting. 
History books, they spoke of the end of the Age of Glory 
as told from a land Elwen perspective. They were novels, 
really, or almost. There were no histories written by 
those Elwen races who had refused incorporation into the 
Vespel Defense, those who would have kept fighting. But 
whoever had done this had taken known history and some 
that Peranor had not known, and then tried to imagine the 
way an Elwen intent on war would think, and the result was 
almost realistic.
    At least, as Peranor thought of it. He did not know 
the ways of war himself, but he did think it was obvious 
that this author was vespel. There were just some areas of 
Elwen and vespel thought that were different, he thought 
as he read, and always would be.
    He was quite happy until he came to a sentence he did 
not understand, and that put him out of temper with the 
whole business. They could at least take the trouble to 
write without mistakes, he thought, if they were going to 
write things like this in the first place.
    I told him not to worry, that I would be there as soon 
as I could. And while the sun went down over us like 
Dermand casting His crown into a great purple crown, I 
hastened to his side...
    How in the name of the stars could this Elwen- who 
spoke of sunsets in terms that no beginning viaquia poet 
would touch- speak to someone who was miles away instead 
of his side? It made no sense. It was the vespel side 
showing through again, Peranor thought, and cast the thing 
back on the table. They thought that Elwens were just like 
them, or they wanted to. It was one way that they could 
explain almost losing the final battle of the Age of 
Glory, the one that had decided everything.
    "My Lord Lightfoot?"
    If he heard his name pronounced that way one more time 
today, Peranor thought, looking up and fixing a polite 
smile to his face, he would go mad. That was not the way 
it was said. People called him without the title, or by 
his first name, or nothing at all. Courtesy was another 
matter that the vespels needed work on, at least as long 
as they were speaking to Elwens.
    Three vespels, to his surprise and discomfort, stood 
before him. One was the Envisioner, and the one on the 
right, a tall woman with golden eyes and a silver collar 
around her neck, had to be the Silverpather. But the one 
in the center, with a golden collar...
    The Link to the Kaleina?
    The three vespels moved in that odd way, with every 
movement echoed a moment later by one or both of the 
others, that showed they were linked. Peranor thought that 
the Kaleina, the six rulers of the Vespel Defense, might 
even be looking out of their eyes, with the Link there. 
    Which made no sense. The Link was supposed to be 
judging the singing competitions. Lelxi had been full of 
that last year.
    "Yes?" he said at last, realizing they really wanted 
an answer.
    "We have decided," said the one in the center, 
apparently the Link after all. His eyes were brilliant 
purple, hard as the gems on the doors of the Envisioner's 
tower, and almost the same color. "You cannot be judged 
with the vespels after all, for they have entered visions 
too dissimilar from yours."
    Peranor nodded. "And with the others of my own people, 
then?"
    "The contest is done. Your image was very impressive, 
but you were not chosen."
    Peranor nodded again. It was disappointing, but not 
the end of the world, as Lelxi had made it out to be the 
last year. He would have to remain in Leecirna in any case 
if his new talents were going to set any kind of trend, he 
reminded himself.
    "Thank you," he said, at last registering the 
compliment. "And thank you for the invitation to 
participate in the competition."
    They turned and left the room, all of them marching in 
lockstep. Peranor brushed cold sweat from his brow and 
left the room with the same vespel woman, who appeared to 
him almost at once. She took him back along the silverpath 
and left him with words about the stars helping him if he 
needed it.
    Peranor stepped into the courtyard of the tower and 
scowled at the stars that were beginning to appear, 
creators of his people or not.
    Well.
    That had been a complete and utter waste of his time, 
he thought.
    Well, maybe not really. He had only done what they had 
wanted him to do, and he had proven to himself that he was 
capable of something better than even the work on Lord 
Feathergem's wall. It might be all right to feel a little 
pride at that.
    Stars. He was so proud that, the moment he managed to 
shed part of his cloak of irritation, he was grinning. No 
need to pretend. He knew that his image had been good, and 
that from now on, he could accept commissions he had 
previously been forced to pass along to illusionists of 
greater skill, or even envisioners.
    Might as well go to the Library and study up on his 
history some more, so that he could handle the new floods 
of requests for historical scenes. Some of the battles and 
tricks in that book had been unfamiliar to him. He had to 
remember them.
    And he didn't even really know what a land Elwen 
looked like.
    He had barely started to fly, though, when a voice 
hailed him loudly.
    "Peranor!"
    He swung around, and found Lelxi beside him, beaming 
as if she had forgiven him for every wrong ever done her. 
Peranor studied her warily. He could not believe that she 
would have forgiven or forgotten the illusion that he had 
planted on her hair that soon.
    "Lelxi?"
    He must have sounded more tentative than he liked, or 
perhaps she was simply in one of the rare teasing moods 
that he found funny. She laughed sharply and spun in a 
circle, hands lofted, her voice dancing and tripping like 
a breeze. "I was chosen to go to the Kaleina in the spring 
and sing before them."
    Peranor caught his breath and reached out to hug her. 
"I'm glad for you. It must have made you so happy." He 
smiled at her. "And the other competition must not have 
been that good."
    She restricted her retaliation to a little slap on the 
arm. "You are so funny," she said in a voice that 
proclaimed the opposite, while her eyes proclaimed 
something else. "And you?"
    Peranor shrugged. "I lost. Of course. But I crafted 
one of the best illusions of my life, so the evening was 
not a total waste."
    "Come with me," said Lelxi, pulling insistently at his 
hands. "This is not a night I want to be alone. Come with 
me, and we can celebrate together." That look in her eyes 
deepened, eyes and voice matching now, and he realized 
where this was going to run.
    "Are you sure?" They had not shared a bed in months, 
with persistent arguments driving them apart. They were 
both dedicated too intensely to their own creations, 
Peranor had always thought.
    "Of course! I just told you-"
    "Yes," he said, floating apart from her a little so 
that they could both be sure, "but there are others you 
could be spending the night with." He narrowed his eyes 
and made his voice as neutral as he could with her looking 
at him like that.
    "Who said anything about spending the night?"
    He might even have believed her if not for the look in 
her eyes, the almost fever-glitter brightness of them. 
That always led one place. "I know you, Lelxi. And you 
know me. Both of which things make the question I just 
asked you a valid one." She was at the age where her Line 
would want her to begin seeking out a husband, and that 
would have to be from among the dancers or singers, the 
only ones she might be able to marry. The vespels would 
never approve it otherwise.
    "I am leaving Leecirna in the spring," said Lelxi 
softly. Her green eyes glittered and flashed as the 
leaping river had last night. "Leaving all I have ever 
known. They will not compel me to marry now. And, Peranor, 
whatever your other faults, I do enjoy you as a lover. 
Come with me tonight, and let me do this for the both of 
us. I promise that you won't regret it."
    All of the things that she said were true, except 
possibly the last. But Peranor reached out and let his 
hand rest in hers. He had his own joys and wonders to 
celebrate.
    They need not be the same.
----------------------------------------------------------
    He blinked awake at night with his own fever running 
through him, a sudden clear certainty that he had 
forgotten something. He had actually sat up and gone most 
of the way to the edge of the great soft bed that Lelxi 
had bought herself with her first great success before he 
remembered what it was.
    Research. He had meant to read some history tonight, 
refresh himself.
    It could wait a few hours, he thought with a sigh, 
falling back into the pillows and feeling Lelxi's hands 
shift restlessly on his shoulders for a moment before she 
awakened. She looked down at him and smiled, then stood 
and paced to the side of the room, as graceful as the reno 
in his image. Peranor raised himself on his side and 
watched her move.
    "Here," she said, rummaging the contents of a table 
until she found whatever it was she wanted. "I wanted you 
to see this." She paced back to him and handed him a heavy 
chalice full of a dark red liquid.
    Peranor sniffed and frowned. Cold blood. Lelxi liked 
it, but he never drank it. It tasted like the worse kind 
of wine to him, and tended to make him sick besides. "No, 
thank you," he said, trying to shove it back.
    She held the chalice fast. "I don't think you 
understand," she said, her eyes sparkling. "This is 
magical. Take a drink of the blood and then tell me what 
it tastes like."
    Peranor favored her with a skeptical eye. The vespels 
were always trying magical creations that would replace 
blood so that viaquia would not have to drink it and make 
them uncomfortable. Lelxi, who worshiped the vespels in 
everything else, had never given in to this. "I don't want 
it," he said.
    "Not what you think."
    Peranor wrinkled his nose again and took a sip of it, 
and then started as he realized that the drink sliding 
down his throat was warm. He sipped it, again. If it was a 
magical creation, he could not tell the difference.
    "The chalice keeps the blood warm," said Lelxi, 
smiling in delight at his inquisitive expression. She 
propped herself up on one elbow, taking a drink herself 
and closing her eyes. "It can adjust the temperature from 
anything I want, boiling to cold. It was a gift for being 
chosen to go to the competitions a second year in a row, 
and this time for the Kaleina. The man who gave it to me 
thought I would win." She closed her eyes more tightly and 
handed the chalice to Peranor.
    He drank himself and nodded. "I am surprised that 
Aradon would bother."
    Her eyes popped open, and she glared. "What? What 
makes you think it came from him?"
    "Well," said Peranor, "given how much you dislike 
illusionists, one would assume that you would want a lover 
who has failed at illusion."
    "He failed, Peranor. It doesn't matter what at. He 
could hardly be a good lover."
    "Do I dare guess who it is, then?"
    "Lord Feathergem."
    Peranor spat the blood he was trying to drink back 
into the chalice and then rolled over and over, to place 
the chalice carefully on the floor and dissolve in howls 
of laughter. In moments, he was panting for breath, and 
wincing at strained muscles. Lelxi hovered over him, her 
eyes green thunder.
    "Will you tell me what you find so amusing?"
    "I just- I just did some work for him this morning," 
Peranor gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "A very 
serious man, who was actually worried about me putting a 
reno on his wall because he thought that it might suggest 
something wrong in a temple of Mirsun. He loves delicate 
colors and wildlife and pictures of birds and trees. I can 
see him buying that." He gestured to the chalice, a heavy 
cup laced with red jewels. "But actually giving it to 
you-" He lost himself in laughter again.
    "Why?"
    "He loves delicate things." Peranor wiped his eyes 
again and sat up. "There is nothing delicate about you, 
Lelxi. I just find it amusing that he would think there 
was."
    He could see her blinking and trying to decide if 
there was a compliment in there or not. She decided there 
was, but she would have to prove it to him. Peranor saw 
the shift in her eyes and was ready when she pounced, 
half-flying, at him.
    She held him down on the bed and said in his ear, her 
fangs pressing briefly against his throat, "I think that I 
can show you you are right, but only if you promise to let 
me do what I want."
    Peranor nodded. He never did regret the nights when 
she was like this, if only because they were so unlike 
anything else he had ever experienced that he did not 
really think of them in the same way that he thought of 
the rest of his life.
    "Be ready," Lelxi said, and then fell to her testing 
and her proving.
----------------------------------------------------------
    And the same preoccupation woke him a little later, 
when he would have thought that he would sleep, sated as 
he was with loveplay and blood and the drain that the 
magic had imposed on him. But he was awake, and he sat up, 
rubbing an eye and then an ear, half-curious and half- 
grateful for the fact.
    It was not often that he had a chance to study Lelxi 
as she slept, and he did so, thinking that her face could 
serve as some model for a heroine out of olden times, if 
someone decided they wanted a picture of the Battle of the 
Mezek.
    She lay there sternly, chin and nose jutting forward, 
blue hair that swirled around her features barely 
softening them. Perhaps it was the color of the blue- deep 
and dark as the night sky- or not, but she did not look 
soft. She looked nothing like the things that Lord 
Feathergem would usually admire. There must be sides to 
her that Peranor did not know about.
    Or that Lord Feathergem did not. He smiled quietly, 
thinking that he knew which was the truth and pitying the 
man for a moment.
    Restless still, even after he had studied her face in 
repose and committed it to memory, he rose from the bed 
and paced to the far side of the room. The far side was a 
great glass window that looked out on the Mei Stream, here 
channeled to flow through the city. Peranor found himself 
leaning on the glass and staring down, his breathing 
slowing and calming.
    He should go.
    The resolution struck him with quiet force, and he 
nodded, glancing back at Lelxi. Yes. She usually did not 
like him here when she woke up, and though this time she 
had said nothing about it and he thought it must be one of 
the rare exceptions, he did not want to presume. He turned 
quietly back and began gathering his clothes, struggling a 
bit with one of the laces that he had torn earlier in his 
excitement.
    In moments, he was dressed and flying out through an 
open window, spiraling lazily above the city before 
heading in the direction of the Library. It loomed above 
the other buildings, large and to his eyes lovely, 
shimmering white stone guarded by vespel magic and viaquia 
illusion. He landed in front of one of the gates framed by 
trees just beginning to turn gold, and knocked softly on 
it for admittance.
    A vespel woman he knew well, her eyes turned black as 
the eyes of some vespels did when they had lived among 
Elwens a long while, stepped out of the house near the 
gate, took one look, and opened it to him. He smiled at 
her. "Thank you, Nerian," he said, stepping inside. "How 
much do I owe you tonight?"
    "Ten silvers."
    Peranor winced a little at the price, then brightened. 
It usually meant that she had a new shipment of books in 
that she had been instructed to let no Elwen see. "What do 
you have?" he asked, as he dropped the silver into the 
center of her six-fingered palm.
    All six of Nerian's fingers curled around it as she 
made it vanish. "Histories," she said, turning her back to 
stalk up the path.
    The stars in heaven favored him tonight, Peranor 
thought contentedly as he followed her, in this as in so 
much else. It had been one of those days. He had explored 
two of his great passions, and thanks to the inspired 
energy running through him, he was about to get a rare 
look at the third.
    Forbidden history.
    Nerian stopped beside three large crates that sat in 
the middle of the Library courtyard and touched the top 
one. "These come from the Age of Glory," she said. "These 
from the Age of Time." A second crate. "These from before 
the Change." A third.
    Peranor hesitated, torn for a moment. The most ancient 
history, from before the Change, was his own passion, but 
everyone wanted Age of Glory scenes, and the wars were 
better documented.
    What the starhell. He had enough money to last him for 
days if the first customers to come to him decided that 
they did not like his work. He nodded decisively. "The 
ones from before the Change, please."
    "Brave," said Nerian, though he did not understand 
why, and gave him the top two books from the pile, one a 
history of tactics of war and the other one about the 
Rowanpride Wars and the end of the Age of Arcadia. Peranor 
sighed in contentment, nodded to her, and started to make 
his way towards the Library proper.
    "Wait."
    He paused, looking at her, grave and curious, and saw 
her staring directly at him. "You were called to the 
District today," she said.
    "I did not report you," he said, wondering if she had 
really been worried. They had had this arrangement for 
years, and there was no need for either of them to betray 
it. It would only mean the end of a source of free money 
for Nerian, and worse for him. 
    "I know," she said. "I only wondered if you would be 
called to the Kaleina."
    Peranor shook his head. "They chose some other 
illusionist instead of me."
    "Do you know who?"
    She probably knew someone who had been in the 
competitions. That would explain the interest. Peranor 
wished that he had thought to ask now, but he could only 
shake his head, as it was. "No. I think a vespel, but even 
that is not certain. But you know that envisioning is  
more powerful than illusion." He smiled at her.
    She did not smile back. He saw her stare at the 
ground, eyes almost churning, and then she looked up and 
nodded to him. "Enjoy your reading," she said, investing 
the sentence with an emphatic tone that he did not 
understand. Then she glided away, back in the direction of 
her gate duty.
    Peranor shrugged. Everyone around him today seemed to 
be investing things with more meaning than they possessed 
to him. Let him have their fun, though. It was really 
nothing to him.
    He found his way to a table in the back of the 
Library's main room, behind the shelves where no one would 
think to look for a viaquia, especially at this time of 
night. That vespel blindness again. They did not think 
that someone would be awake at night, the time when they 
themselves slept, and they did not think that someone 
would dare to read books that he was not supposed to read.
    Wrong on both counts, Peranor thought as he slid into 
his seat, and the one mistake made it easier to get away 
with the other one.
    He read quietly for more than an hour, taking into 
himself and absorbing what he saw, so that he could 
recreate it at a later time if he wanted to. He slowed 
down at times, to touch on something he was especially 
interested in, and then sped up again. It was a story he 
already knew, for the most part, and this was just filling 
in the details.
    A delicious filling in of the details, Peranor 
corrected himself.
    Perhaps it was the weariness that had only partially 
transformed itself into inspired energy, but Peranor could 
feel a new idea forming in his mind as he scanned the 
words, and he went back and read a few other things to 
make sure.
    Somewhere in his memory, strings moved. The thought of 
the book he had read earlier that day floated to the top, 
and he read the words before him again and again, trying 
to connect them with those that had puzzled him. At the 
same time, he was really too tired to make the connection, 
and he kept falling short of it, until the dawnlight came 
creeping through the windows and he knew that he would 
have to leave soon.
    Peranor caressed the covers of the books, wishing that 
he could take them with him.
    No time for that now. But he would think about what he 
had read, and see if he couldn't make some more sense of 
it with another visit to the Library at another time.
    He started to rise to his feet, and then stopped as 
the idea hit him full force. He stared down at the books 
and let it come into words. The very thought made him 
short of breath.
    Elwens might really have been telepathic.




                        Chapter 2
               Oldest Song Of All The Songs
    "To struggle for love, to right its wrongs,
     Is the oldest song of all the songs..."
    -From Toa Tumblao Vlicai Zaina, or The Book of 
Doubtful Maxims.

    The dawn, and the usual feeling of weakness that came 
to a sunset Elwen with it, woke him. Peranor dragged 
himself up, blinking, knowing that he had fallen asleep in 
the Library and should be concerned about that, but for 
the moment only able to feel his hunger and exhaustion and 
wonder about what could have happened.
    The books!
    "Selkenz," he muttered under his breath, one of the 
foulest swear-words he knew, all that remained of the name 
of the Elwen who had caused the Change, and fell to 
cleaning up the books.
    There were vespels moving in the Library; he could 
feel them. Their blood was silver, the scent different 
from either the honest red blood of beasts or the dark 
purple of his own people. He listened intently for a long 
time as he thumbed out the creases in the paper he had 
caused by having his face resting there all night, 
wondering if one of them was about to turn towards this 
little deserted corner behind the shelves.
    But, though once their voices rose and fell in what 
sounded like animated discussion, he could not hear any 
interest in this part of the Library.
    Thank the stars!
    Peranor shook himself, made a solemn promise to his 
rattled heart and mind never to do that again, and then 
peered out behind the corners of the shelves-
    Only to see a troop of Bashisani heading his way. He 
ducked back, heart pounding, and set his mind to thinking 
of peaceful things. They said that the Guardians of Peace 
could read your thoughts, and would punish anyone they 
found thinking of anything that might remind someone else 
of the Age of Glory.
    Death, or madness. By the time the Bashisani became 
involved, whoever sent them had already decided that no 
less a punishment was merited.
    "I want them found." The voice was not actually 
agitated, because vespels tended to be dragged into a 
communal mind or a sextet and calmed when they felt that 
way, but it was as close as a vespel could come. "The 
Kaleina let us have those books on the very strict 
understanding that no Elwen would read them."
    "They will be found, my lady," said the voice of the 
nearest white-robed vespel. "And we will make sure that 
whoever read them will not talk to anyone about the extent 
of his new knowledge."
    Even in the midst of his fear, Peranor felt his 
curiosity kindle. What had been in those books was nothing 
more than what he and many others already knew. A few more 
names and dates, maybe, but not even the horrific accounts 
of the world as it had been before the Change could stir 
the heart like the far nearer and more terrible stories of 
the Age of Glory. And vespels encouraged study of that, so 
all Elwens could see what they had come to rescue Arcadia 
from.
    Then Peranor remembered his idea of the evening 
before, and his breath caught in his throat.
    Could that be it? Could these books have tales of 
things that Elwens had once been able to do, things that 
challenged vespel power?
    But again, why should that so excite the Bashisani? 
The magic was gone now, and no sane Elwen would ever 
challenge the vespels. The Defense took over all those 
chores that Elwens had never wanted to do because they 
mistrusted power and found those who sought it alternately 
wearying and terrifying. In return for the power, they 
kept the continent safe from the return of war, which was 
an impulse that some Elwen races just could not control. 
Arcadia was at peace, and Peranor's people and everyone 
else who had accepted the Defense had the easy life. The 
idea that anyone would want to destroy that...
    But vespels did not think like Elwens, and though they 
did not live as long either, they had more immediate 
access to the past through their gifts of envisioning. The 
Elwens could not really know what the Age of Glory had 
been like. The vespels could. Perhaps they did fear some 
lone madman, or even had proof of a conspiracy, with the 
caged races who would not give up war or listen to the 
Kaleina having allies in the middle of the more 
enlightened peoples.
    This was exciting.
    Oh, Peranor had to admit, he would not like to see 
someone die because of this, but the vespels always seemed 
so perfect, to know exactly what was best, that it was 
fascinating to see them when they did not.
    The Bashisani had halted and were looking around, 
their expressions intense and their golden and green eyes 
almost blank. Suddenly they all snapped their heads as one 
to the end of the shelves. What one had seen from the 
corner of an eye, they could all see.
    There were six of them, after all.
    Peranor eased to the side, careful to make no sound 
and keep his mind blank. They could not smell or hear as 
Elwens could. They would not sense him there unless he 
wanted them to.
    Technically, no Elwens were supposed to be in the 
Library at this hour of the morning, though Peranor and 
others usually ignored the technicalities. But this 
morning, Peranor was sure that they would insist on 
enforcing them.
    He worked his way backwards, his body moving 
carefully, his thoughts much the same way. He did look 
around to be sure that he was not simply backing into 
another contingent of the Bashisani, but he saw nothing 
but books.
    "We can feel someone here, but it may not be the one 
who stole your histories," the Bashisani were saying, all 
as one, to the librarian.
    Peranor took silent offense at that. He had not stolen 
them! Merely borrowed-
    And then there came the patter of feet as they felt 
the hostile thought and hurried towards him.
    Time to go, as that was not the most intelligent thing 
he could have done. He resented not having more time, but 
he could recreate pages for himself at will later, as well 
as the pictures.
    He laid the books down gently on the edge of the table 
and then flew up, landing quietly on one of the shelves. 
The Bashisani came around the corner and then paused, 
seeing nothing.
    Another example of limited vespel thinking. They never 
thought to look up, never remembered that viaquia could 
fly. Peranor shook his head as he crouched above them. He 
hoped that war never came to Leecirna. It did not seem as 
if their Guardians of Peace would be able to defend them 
in the libraries, never mind the streets.
    As they puzzled over the books and tried to calm the 
librarian, Peranor floated above the shelves and out the 
window. There were alarms to prevent anyone from entering 
the Library unheard, but not from getting out. Off he 
went, and no one the wiser.
    Well, he was. And rather pleased with himself.
----------------------------------------------------------
    Vremin found him breakfasting in the Pens. Peranor 
looked up and nodded a greeting, then returned to the 
throat of the cow before him. She had been drugged almost 
into oblivion, and while that made for a peculiar taste to 
the blood and Peranor would have to be careful not to do 
any high flying today, that made it more pleasant to feed 
from her. She was slumping gently to the ground, dying but 
not feeling it.
    "I have to speak with you."
    Peranor tilted his head at the urgency in the voice. 
"Of course," he said, sipping one more time and this time 
draining the cow dry. He helped the corpse to the ground, 
swatted away the remains of the dizziness that the drug 
would leave in him, and focused on his friend. "Is there 
something that I can do for you?"
    "Yes. Come with me."
    Off he went, leaving Peranor to shrug and follow. 
Vremin was the opposite of him in many ways. He could not 
take anything less than seriously. Life was not the joke 
to him that it was to Peranor, but an intense game, to be 
won no matter what the cost.
    It was a rather bare way to live, but it seemed to 
work for him. It was what had won him Vanisha, who was the 
same way. Peranor's smile turned wistful for a moment.
    "What is it?"
    Vremin was unusually attentive to the expressions on 
other people's faces today, or Peranor had sighed aloud 
without knowing it. He shook his head. "Nothing of 
importance. What did you want to see me about?" The dark 
blue eyes that glared into his were sparking more and 
more, almost as if Peranor, just by walking- or time, by 
passing- was agitating him more and more.
    "You should know that there might be danger."
    Peranor sighed. "Do you mind explaining that?"
    "You should know," said Vremin, blinking and pulling 
back to study him a little.
    "Everyone for the past few days has been acting as if 
I should know things that I don't." Peranor created an 
illusion of cats, which Vremin hated, and set them playing 
around his friend's ankles. "I wish someone would spit it 
out for once. My Lord Violetsong."
    Vremin swatted at the cats, then paused. "That is it," 
he said, his voice softer. He crouched and studied the 
illusion.
    "What is what?"
    Vremin ignored him. He picked up one of the cats, and 
Peranor had it swat him across the face with small, bared 
claws. Vremin shot him a glance, for a moment the man he 
knew once more. "You will never outgrow such childish 
tricks, I think," he muttered.
    "Probably not," Peranor agreed easily. "It is who I 
am."
    "I know. And one reason that I am worried about you," 
said Vremin, setting the cat down and rising.
    "Why?"
    Vremin hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't want 
to tell you if... I came here thinking that you already 
knew. If you don't, then I cannot claim a right to put you 
or anyone you might tell about this in danger." He started 
to turn away.
    Peranor caught his arm. "Why don't you let me decide 
that? I swear that I won't tell anyone." A snort of 
laughter escaped from him.
    "What is funny?" said Vremin, turning back and staring 
hard at him.
    "Just- you're talking like one of the characters in 
the poorer Glory novels." Peranor gestured inelegantly as 
he struggled to gain control of himself again. "Forgive 
me, but I see so many Elwens who think that we still live 
in those times, or who think that we should be... I just 
never thought the syndrome would befall you."
    "You are in danger." Vremin was staring at him as the 
reno had stared at him.
    Peranor shrugged. "In the middle of Leecirna? In the 
middle of a vespel city?"
    "In danger from the vespels."
    Vremin was even shorter of words than usual this 
morning. "The vespels don't kill anyone unless they break 
a law or try to bring back war," said Peranor, with a 
sigh. "You know that. I know that you don't like them, but 
don't sit here and tell me things that really could get 
both of us killed."
    "You agree there is danger?"
    "There always is. I fail to see why it should center 
on me. Because I happen to not agree with the vespels 
about the value of illusion-"
    Vremin shook his head. "I did not realize that you had 
so far to go."
    Peranor eyed him. "You have ten seconds before I start 
screaming."
    "It won't do any good."
    "Why not?"
    "This is larger than myself. I have sworn not to talk 
about it unless you have already discovered it for 
yourself. Then I could tell you things. But as you have 
not-" Vremin shrugged and lowered his eyes. When he 
brought them back up, the hawk-gleam was muted. "We should 
talk about the illusion that you will create for our 
wedding."
    "Vanisha has agreed to hire me, then?" That had been a 
point of some contention. Vanisha's brother was an 
illusionist, and she had thought that he would be better 
at the picture she wanted done. Idly, Peranor wondered if 
his summons to the District yesterday had been something 
of an influential factor in her decision.
    "Yes. She thinks now that you are skilled enough, 
after all."
    Peranor nodded. Yes, the summons had to be it. She had 
been so vehemently opposed... "Where are we going, then? 
Shouldn't we be going to your house, so that we can work 
with the surface there?"
    "I want to describe it to you first. And I have to see 
Fernis about something."
    Peranor grimaced. "I could create a facsimile of it 
for you right here and now, and then we could forget about 
Fernis for a little while," he suggested, without really 
thinking that Vremin would take him up on it.
    "You don't want to see Vanisha, you don't want to see 
Fernis..." Vremin muttered back, a smile tugging on the 
corners of his mouth. "One has to wonder how long it will 
be before you don't want to see me."
    "There is a difference between seeing you and being 
seen with you," Peranor replied, looking around for 
observers.
    He looked back to see Vremin laughing silently, baring 
his fangs but not much else. "I suppose that I deserve 
that. Vanisha said the same thing to me many times, more 
seriously. Come with me. I promise you that it will not be 
all that bad." He took to the air, and Peranor flew 
reluctantly alongside him.
    "It's different. Fernis doesn't like me."
    "Neither does Vanisha. Much."
    "Yes, but I like her. That's the difference. It really 
is quite fun to be around people who don't like me or find 
me annoying, so that I can annoy them in return. It isn't 
fun to be around someone I don't like. All I can think 
about is turning the joke serious."
    "I never knew that."
    Vremin was taking him seriously, as usual. Laughs like 
the one he had gotten his friend to give a moment ago were 
rare. Peranor shrugged. "I suppose that it lies in 
Fernis's insistence on singing as the master of all the 
arts, as well. That always rubs me the wrong way."
    "Singing is the master of all arts."
    "The way you do it, it is. The way that Lelxi and 
Fernis do it- it makes me want to strangle them half the 
time. They do it as if they expect you to bow before them, 
just because they're singing."
    "And yet you shared a bed with Lelxi last night," said 
Vremin. Quietly, uncritically, without judging, and yet 
Peranor found himself flushing.
    "I did," he said, deciding it best to keep it to that. 
Yet, in the face of Vremin's gaze, he found himself 
compelled to add, "It was for my own reasons, as well as 
hers."
    "Really? What were they?"
    "I created one of the best illusions of my life 
yesterday." To his surprise, Peranor was able to say that 
without bragging. It was true, and he knew it was true, so 
what need did he have to brag? 
    Vremin was silent for a moment, and then reached out 
and clasped Peranor's shoulder. "You do shame me, at 
times," he murmured.
    "What?" Peranor pulled from his reverie and frowned at 
him. 
    "Your art is all you care about."
    "Well, yes. Just like your singing and your love is 
all you care about."
    Vremin shook his head. "The moment I fell in love with 
Vanisha, I became something other than a pure artist. It 
gave my songs something that had been missing, transformed 
them into greater songs, and yet it took away something 
from me, too. I think that to be a pure artist, one must 
be able to balance at a distance and look down on one's 
art, or be in the middle of it. Either way, one must care 
only about that."
    Peranor smiled awkwardly and patted Vremin's shoulder 
slowly. "I- don't think that your songs suffered when you 
fell in love with Vanisha," he said truthfully. He had 
never heard such graceful, soaring music, he thought, to 
tell the truth.
    Vremin shook his head. "My life became bigger from 
that moment. I shall never really be what I was before I 
met her."
    Peranor let out a breath. "You have been working 
towards this marriage for months."
    "I know. But that does not mean that I cannot mourn, 
at times, for the loss of that purer form of happiness."
    Peranor found himself with nothing to say. Usually 
when they reached the ground of cheering up, Vremin was 
trying to bring him out of some form of artistic pique. It 
did not work very well, but just the hilarity of seeing 
him try was usually enough to bring back Peranor's good 
humor. He had almost no experience on the opposite side.
    "I hope that you find a way to balance the two sorts 
of joy," he said at last.
    Vremin turned to look at him, smiling. "Thank you," he 
said quietly. "I think that I shall, the moment the goals 
I have set for myself are accomplished."
    "What are those?"
    The smile vanished, and his eyes shifted and darkened. 
"Some of them I can't tell you," he said quietly, in what 
looked to be pain. "But be assured, you shall know the 
moment it is safe for you to know."
    Peranor snorted and rolled his eyes. "Then tell me the 
others."
    "Well, I want to have children, of course. And I want 
to sing the best songs of my life. And I want to see 
Leecirna respected in the world for its art, not just for 
the artistic value of past generations and its remarkable 
distance from the Kaleina."
    Peranor nodded. All things that he had heard before, 
though from Fernis's lips rather than Vremin's. It did not 
surprise him that Vremin was becoming more like his 
teacher. Vremin was growing up, just like Lelxi, at last 
nearing the goal that he had worked towards for years, had 
dedicated himself to.
    So was Peranor, really. He wondered if they ought to 
have some celebration, then snorted again at the thought 
of it. They would have to bring Vanisha into it, and she 
would never dance the perfect dance. She was too critical 
of her own efforts for that.
    "What is it?"
    Peranor told him and watched the laughter flare to 
life in the blue eyes again. He did seem to be laughing 
more easily, or at least admitting his amusement more 
easily, these days. That might mean nothing, or it might 
mean that Vanisha was good for him and that his fears were 
unfounded.
    Or it might mean something else entirely, but Peranor 
forgot about it in the wake of what happened next.
    They were nearing the District of Mirsun again, the 
place where they both spent almost all their time, and 
something happened that Peranor could not believe at 
first, because it had never happened in front of him.