The Heir Of Hatred
                         Prologue
           10,000, Age of Arcadia, Late Spring
    His breath steamed in the air before him, evidence of 
the cold power beating from the Circle of stones behind. 
But still he did not turn to face it, did not take that 
final, decisive step. Still he stared out over the 
cracked, gray Falchian Plains, clay fields that stretched 
beyond sight, barren save for the scattered boulders, 
deathtrotter herds, and Circles.
    The home of his people for twelve Ages. His own home 
for fourteen thousand years.
    And now he must ask them to leave it.
    Elshar Deathwield closed his eyes, a tight squeeze 
that did nothing to stop the tears from rolling down his 
dark cheeks. The death Elwen clenched his fists for a long 
moment, fighting down the last whisper of hope that said 
they could stay. He had read the Prophecy of Divirsa over 
and over, looking for some clue that would tell him the 
disaster it promised would not fall upon the world. He had 
found none. The Prophecy had not yielded up its secrets to 
him, in these days the most powerful mage in the 
continent, or to the prophets who had tugged and coaxed at 
it.
    Fully half the Prophecies in the Archives were wrong, 
but they did not know which half, and they could not take 
a chance on the Prophecy of Divirsa being one of them. 
They had to leave Arcadia. The ships were already built, 
bobbing gently on the tide at the foot of the cliffs that 
kept the sea from Arcadia's land. Only the Call was left.
    Elshar nearly laughed aloud, bitterly. He did whisper 
aloud. "Only?" he said. "It will take nearly all my 
strength, leave me drained for days." He paused, and then 
recited a truth he had recited before, and would recite 
even as he turned back in the last ship and watched the 
horizon of his homeland vanish.
    "I could stay. I could wait here and learn if we ever 
had anything to fear. If we did, at least I would die with 
my home."
    He would have already done that, but he was not alone. 
He led Deathwield Klaina, and, through them, his race. He 
had not struggled since he became Lord to keep his people 
alive merely to see them die now. Besides, his magic was 
the only sorcery strong enough to break the ancient ties 
of Klaina Lords and Ladies to the Falchian Plains, ties 
that would not permit them to leave the Plains' physical 
boundaries.
    He bowed his head at last, accepting more, he knew, 
than simply the necessity of this, and turned and walked 
rapidly downhill.
    The rest of his people were gathered in the boundaries 
of the Circle, a ring of irregularly shaped and placed 
black stones that should not have been able to hold nearly 
a hundred thousand death Elwens, much less them and their 
deathtrotters. But there they were, ensconced and 
protected by the magic of the Forces of Death. The Forces, 
in exchange for granting aid at a crucial time, had 
demanded he lead the exodus from Arcadia. They, however, 
knew he would not be able to perform the Call if he were 
worrying about his people, and so they would hold them in 
a boundary nothing could break. They were capricious, at 
times, but good allies.
    Elshar put it from his head- it was time to put much 
from his head- and closed his eyes. A few breaths, and 
then he began the delicate weaving of powers, something he 
had never before tried, combining the magic of his own 
will and soul with that of the Falchian Plains.
    It had to be this way, he told himself stubbornly as 
he felt the immense, shifting coil of strength below him 
awakening. There is nothing else all death Elwens have in 
common, but a love of our home.
    The power reared up like a snake- or more like a worm, 
blindly searching for what might have disturbed it. It saw 
him, and moved as if to strike, but he captured it first, 
looping silken, invisible reins around its neck, crooning 
to it, asking if it wanted to help save its children.
    The power of the Falchian Plains slowed and moved, 
charmed. Then he allowed it a glimpse of the disaster that 
his futuresight as Lord of Deathwield had shown him, the 
possible twisting and heaving of the land that the curalli 
Selkendal Shadowgift would cause.
    Water turned to mercury. Mountains raised up to 
impossible heights, or driven down into trenches or lakes 
of molten rock. People stalked by living fire, patient 
fire, fire that would never let them reach the sea alive. 
Mental, magical plagues sweeping through towns and cities, 
destroying them without a weapon raised. Famine, drought, 
sea overwhelming land, war, more ordinary physical 
diseases, storms whose rain ate flesh and whose lightning 
entrapped the struggling and carried them up into the 
clouds...
    The snake/worm's roar of protest stopped him at last. 
On his side now, agreeing that its children, the death 
Elwens and the trotters and the few life Elwens who had 
chosen to live under Elshar's leadership, needed to be 
saved from this, it rose in a glowing, smoking column of 
yellow light visible only to its summoner.
    Then beams of light, too many to count, raced away 
from it in every direction, pulsing and growing the 
stronger as they traveled from their source, not weaker.
    The pillar collapsed and was gone, and Elshar fell to 
one knee, a hand over his burning eyes. Somehow, he had 
done it, he told himself numbly. He knew he ought to be 
rejoicing. Every death Elwen away from the Falchian Plains 
now, or even those of partial blood, would receive an 
instant and irresistible compulsion to travel homeward. 
All of his race would be saved.
    Save three alone.
    Tears stung his eyes, and he told himself that they 
were staying, all three, out of love for Arcadia and hope 
that they might yet turn the Prophecy of Divirsa. Strange 
that they were aiding the one prophesied to destroy the 
world.
    But the other fate, the fate embodied by the spider, 
was even worse. Death would claim many quickly if what the 
Prophecy warned of came to pass. But the death that waited 
at the other end of destiny stalked future generations, 
and the soul, not the body.
    It had to be better this way, Elshar thought as he 
stood. It had to be.
    -Elshar-
    He turned, with a weary smile, at the sound of 
Rheedue's voice. His deathtrotter nuzzled him gently, ruby 
eyes glowing, her white mane swirling in the strange, 
magical tempest that always tossed it. The chill of death 
beat through her dark fur, even as it did his skin, but he 
was well able to bear that.
    -The other Lords and Ladies want to know when you will 
free them- Rhee said at last. -They are anxious to leave. 
Even though we will not be leaving until all the other 
churni arrive- She shook her head and snorted softly at 
two-legger stupidity.
    Elshar nodded and closed his eyes. "A moment- to 
rest," he said, and then nearly sagged to the ground. Rhee 
lent him a comforting shoulder at once, waiting for long 
minutes before he signaled for her to lead him toward the 
place where the other Klaina rulers waited.
    -I think they just want to test that the compulsion to 
stay here no longer binds them- Rhee said after some 
silence on both parts. -How could they doubt it- Her 
voice, not quite physical or mental but really a 
rearrangement of the past, held at least some real 
disbelief.
    Elshar chuckled, but it did not last long. He 
remembered all too well two months before, when they had 
ridden out laden with hope, not knowing then that it was a 
doomed cargo. "What about you, Rhee? Do you in truth want 
to come with us, or would you prefer to remain, to die 
with your home if necessary?"
    The mare did not even hesitate, but again lowered her 
head and swiped her nose against his shoulder. -My home 
has been yours since the day I looked into your soul and 
saw you worthy of me. If you wish to make your home on a 
cramped, smelly ship for months at a time, then I will do 
that. If you wish to come back to Arcadia in some years, 
and run on the Plains again, I will do that too-
    Elshar lifted his head and gazed searchingly into her 
eyes. "We may not ever be able to return. You know that."
    Rheedue turned her head to look out, unseeing, over 
the waves. Perhaps she was seeing the continent where 
their distant kin awaited them, ready to welcome them.
    -I know- was all she said.




                        Chapter 1
                     The Wisest Fool
           10,000, Age of Arcadia, Early Summer
    "Toa fomaf yulimayer mista dalumus telasta ej 
lusterusta eja raiyi." (The wisest fool is one who thinks 
he knows his own heart).
    -Elwen Proverb.

    Grukkar Goatleap lay flat on his stomach with thick 
grass blades attempting to crawl up his nose, and wished 
irritably that he could get closer, close enough to 
actually see something. But Sinniltra, the star Elwen 
crouching beside him with one hand on his shoulder, had 
done the best she could, drawing on the starlight and the 
magic in the silver blood of her patron. They could go no 
closer, or the presence of those with white blood would 
disrupt her spell.
    The land Elwen decided, at last, that he would make 
do. This was a scouting mission, after all, not an 
assassination attempt.
    Though if he got the chance...
    Slowly, he lifted his head, easing it up over the 
curve of the hill on which he lay. Below him, curalli, his 
people's direst enemies, bustled about a makeshift camp on 
incomprehensible tasks. Grukkar pressed his lips firmly 
together as the sight ignited his blood-hatred. He 
couldn't reveal their presence now with a scream of rage, 
or he would ruin everything.
    His gaze slowly roamed the camp, drawn to the eastern 
side by he knew not what. And there his eyes froze. He 
drew in a deep, satisfied breath, and felt Sinniltra's 
hand tighten on his back. And then he lost contact with 
such physical sensations. 
    He had seen the one he had come here to find.
    The curalli who stood listening to the reports of 
several sentries was taller than the others, standing 
closer to six feet than five. He bore an expression 
somewhere between harried and patient, the same expression 
Grukkar had seen his own field commanders wear. Now and 
then he bowed his head to converse with one of the inner 
circle who surrounded him almost protectively: a dark- 
haired curalli woman, a land Elwen with shining silver 
hair and a mocking grin, a male curalli who constantly 
stroked the edge of his saber-like sword and looked bored, 
or a figure wrapped in a cowled cloak who preferred to 
keep his face out of sight.
    But it was the figure's hair that was the telltale 
beacon, as Grukkar's own scouts had assured him it would 
be. All the shadowed Elwens in sight had hair in some 
color of darkness- black, blue, purple, indigo, or the 
darker shades of green or red- save for a very few with 
silver hair almost as bright as the land Elwen advisor's. 
But this one's hair was white, so pale that it shone with 
a ghostly glimmer that almost overwhelmed the aura 
enfolding him.
    Selkendal Shadowgift. The curalli determined to 
destroy the city of Rowan's control over lands that were 
rightfully hers.
    And, if what Grukkar had been led to believe was the 
truth, the other half of the Prophecy of Divirsa, the one 
who would destroy the world if given half a chance.
    The land Elwen gradually did become aware of physical 
sensations again. One of his hands had ripped up all the 
grass underneath it and dug into the soil beneath, fingers 
worming and clenching, as if he meant to take a firm grip 
on the spinning world of Shadeemira and place it on a 
course that would be more beneficial for it.
    "Careful, my lord." Sinniltra's voice was all chimes 
and starlight, sweet and bright and cool, but her hand 
tightened on his shoulder again, this time in unmistakable 
warning.
    "I won't let that bastard do it," Grukkar muttered 
violently. He turned to look at Sinniltra, silver eyes so 
wild that she flinched back. "Do you hear me? I will save 
the world, by force if I must! I will save Rowan."
    "Of course, my lord," the star Elwen soothed when she 
recovered her breath. Her pale blue eyes still regarded 
him a touch uneasily, but he had grown to expect that, 
even be pleased by it. It was she who had urged him on 
this path, but he had broken free of what she intended to 
make of him and had become his own person.
    "And now," Grukkar murmured, turning back to Selkendal 
as if he had forgotten the sonorqui's existence, "to see 
if our little friend here is immortal. Walk over here, you 
murderous bastard. Walk, and see if you can withstand 
this." His hand closed over the hilt of his sword, and he 
drew it forth, almost silently.
    As if the hiss of steel, or something more mysterious, 
had alerted him, Selkendal snapped his head up. The eyes 
of those around him widened, and they stepped back as he 
walked toward the hill with an abstracted air, eyes 
darting around in search of something. Only his inner 
circle trailed after him, all radiating worry that the 
emotionally sensitive land Elwen could feel, even at this 
distance.
    Grukkar watched with excitement, hoping to get a 
glimpse of his rival's eyes before he slew the curalli. 
The eyes are the vision of the soul, and Grukkar wanted to 
see the ultimate darkness peering back at him, wanted to 
assure himself that Selkendal was indeed a worthy foe.
    Selkendal halted beneath the hill, looking about. Then 
his eyes, a deeply gleaming jade green, rose slowly in 
Grukkar's direction. 
    Grukkar again bit his lips hard, this time to stifle a 
cry of delight. Who could have asked for more? It seemed 
destiny worked on his side after all.
    And then, green eyes and silver eyes met, the two 
contenders for the world peering into each other's faces 
for the first time.
    Or- so Grukkar thought.
    But the moment he saw Selkendal's eyes reflecting his 
face, he had the inexplicable feeling that they had met 
each other somewhere before. More than that. It was as if 
he were gazing into a mirror, staring at a picture like 
himself and yet not himself. A wrench traveled all through 
him, and the air seemed to shiver. For a moment, he 
thought he could feel magic, powerful magic, pounding 
around him like a beating heart.
    From Selkendal, magic answered, and the curalli knew 
who it was he faced. The green eyes widened, and then one 
silver hand gripped the hilt of a slender sword belted at 
his waist.
    Grukkar hesitated no longer, but let his own blade 
fly, a bolt of righteous starfire, come to strike down 
this one who threatened Arcadia's peace and safety.
    The throw was true, and though the land Elwen was no 
swordmaster, as was the shadowed Elwen, it should have hit 
its target.
    Instead, it seemed to strike a wall three feet from 
Selkendal. No, more than that- a slingshot. The sword did 
not clang and fall to the ground. Instead, it bounced in 
the opposite direction, singing all the while as if it had 
collided with glass.
    The attack and Grukkar's involuntary movement of 
surprise had broken Sinniltra's spell. Shouts sounded all 
around them, and curalli appeared from the trees, pouring 
toward them in a marvelous display of controlled chaos.
    Selkendal flung himself onto the hill's slope and 
began climbing. He had eyes for none but his foe.
    Grukkar wished he could return the blood-hungry stare, 
but Sinniltra tugged at his shoulder insistently, 
reminding him that he had responsibilities. He turned to 
her, only to see the shadowed Elwens no more than five 
feet away. He was too stunned to do anything. In another 
moment, they would have had him.
    But they did not know the magic of star Elwens, and 
this was the night. Sinniltra's time.
    The sonorqui flung up her hands and closed her eyes. 
Her skin, silver also but far purer and paler in hue than 
any curalli's, paled still further as light blazed from 
beneath it. The next moment, starfire burst out from her 
in a glittering circle, steaming, filling the air with 
crackling, heavenly power.
    The changed light of the silver stars slew the curalli 
instantly, and left no trace of them in the passing. That 
done, Sinniltra seized Grukkar's shoulders and sprang into 
the air. From her shoulders, blue wings unfurled, tangling 
for a moment in hair as blue-white as a forging fire, and 
then they soared upwards, winging and wheeling toward 
Takon, the one visible moon, and the stars.
    Selkendal mounted the edge of the hill a moment later 
and stared after them in unfulfilled bitterness, hand 
opening and closing on the hilt of the sword. Grukkar had 
only time for a moment of surprise that the starfire had 
not slain him before realization came. He nodded grimly.
    Of course. Just as the silver stars- among them the 
creator of his race, Laerfren- lent their power to 
Sinniltra in order that she might aid in preserving the 
world, the foul black stars that had created the curalli 
protected Selkendal. He should have remembered that this 
war was not for the future of Arcadia alone, whatever the 
traitor Corlin might say. It reached beyond the world, 
embroiling the timeless forces of good and evil in the 
struggle. He bowed his head in awe. He was part of 
something far grander, far greater, than himself.
    But he quickly recovered his usual pride. After all, 
one of his goals had been to bring pride back to Elwens. 
He could not go around preaching humility now.
    Grukkar glanced back once over his shoulder, but he 
could no longer see Selkendal. He imagined the curalli's 
bitter, frustrated cursing, and smiled darkly to himself.
    "That was close, my lord," Sinniltra said suddenly, 
her voice breaking the chill silence that normally 
prevailed this close to the stars. "So close that I am 
wondering if we dare go back again."
    Grukkar waved a hand airily. "Perhaps not to the same 
place. Or perhaps I should not return. It would seem 
Selkendal can somehow sense my presence, as I can sense 
his. Probably the prophecy-touch we both share. But we 
must find some way to kill him. We can prevent many lives 
from being lost that way."
    He could not see Sinniltra's face when hanging beneath 
her, but her voice expressed all too well the disapproval 
likely stamped on her features. "You do not honestly 
believe those ridiculous tales that he is a battle-lord, 
do you?"
    Grukkar nodded. "Beresun told me of that, and nothing 
else he has told me about that stars-damned curalli has 
been wrong thus far."
    "But none with that Gift has been known since the 
Ravendark Wars."
    "And that means they exist no longer?" Grukkar asked 
wryly. He sometimes found the star Elwen confusing; she 
asked him to accept the most incredible things on faith 
alone, yet she balked at believing horrendous truths. 
Likely frightened, he thought, and moderated his tone. "I 
know that it is a terrible thing to contemplate, 
Sinniltra. It may mean we dare not meet him in open 
battle, but must use trickery and subterfuge. Still, I 
believe we can do it."
    "Of course, my lord." Sinniltra's tone had retreated 
to her usual mixture of love and subservience. "Never yet 
have you been wrong."
    Grukkar nodded to himself, and both fell silent for 
the remainder of the journey. But it did not affect 
Grukkar's racing thoughts. Those centered on Selkendal. 
The curalli would lose; he had no doubt of it. Did not 
good always win out over evil, land Elwen over curalli?
    "The stars who created this world would not let it be 
otherwise," he whispered to the evening wind.
----------------------------------------------------------
    The sentries gaped as the star Elwen swooped neatly 
over their heads to land in the center of camp. Even after 
months of having Sinniltra work openly as his first 
lieutenant, Grukkar noted, he still had others who could 
not get over her beauty. He derived amusement from that. 
Let them see how lovely she was, how unattainable- and 
then remember that he had attained her.
    People surrounded them even before the sonorqui folded 
her wings, the guards who went everywhere with him now. 
Grukkar nodded brusquely to them and then strode off, 
heading for the far side of camp. There was someone he had 
to see.
    The plain where the Army of Rowan had encamped was 
enormous, a rolling place of grasslands sloping up to the 
edge of the immense Forbge Forest where the curalli dwelt. 
Tents, fires, and bedrolls bewildered the eye, as did the 
sound of chanted war-cries and the wink of shining, 
polished weapons. Grukkar nodded in approval to those 
field commanders who at once jumped to their feet and 
saluted him, but he had no time to stop and admire their 
work now.
    It took a long time to walk the distance, for nearly a 
million hardy, able men and women had followed him. And 
that was but a twentieth of Rowan's force! Pure bliss 
swelled in Grukkar's heart as he thought of that. He now 
commanded the proudest, the oldest, and the largest city 
in Arcadia.
    At last, he reached an area different from the others, 
though not to first glance. There were plenty of armed 
Elwens about, plenty of weapons drawn and glowing in the 
starlight, and the common tents and fires. It would take 
an experienced eye to note that the armed ones paced 
beats, carefully marking out a circle about the area of 
dark tents. Inside that circle lived Grukkar's tamed 
shadowed Elwens, who had once been inhabitants of the 
Sanctuary in Rowan. Sheer foolishness, allowing curalli to 
live among the Free Ones as if they were equals. He had 
stripped that veneer from them, exposing them to the 
truth.
    He firmly believed that they were the happier- and the 
better off- for it.
    He passed the guards, who parted for him with a simple 
tilt of their heads nonetheless profound in its respect. 
The curalli moving about the circle with heads and backs 
bowed paused and glanced up.
    He shook his head, just barely keeping from clucking 
his tongue at the fierce fire in their eyes, the pride 
that stated their hanging heads and humped spines were 
only a facade to prevent pain. Those dark eyes- though 
occasionally silver, or gold, or the blue shade of ice- 
followed him with the black, icy hatred that is the 
curalli heritage. A lesser man might have feared for his 
life, walking among them unarmed save for his magic and 
the weapons in the hands of others. 
    But he had won. He had them under his thumb. They 
showed him the pathways through the Forest that he could 
move his people along when the time came, seizing villages 
in the very heart of Selkendal's conquered land before he 
could even marshal a counterattack.
    Yes, they had their uses, and the one he had come here 
to see was more useful still.
    Guards, snares, and magical shields surrounded the 
largest tent, a deep blue and made of fine cloth. Grukkar 
shook his head again as he studied it. He had given his 
defeated enemy all honor, all luxury, and still the 
curalli refused it. He slept in the tent, but only because 
he was forced to, and did not enjoy the colorful 
tapestries, or the magical shows mages put on for him, or 
the rich food that the guards fed him at Grukkar's 
command.
    It had to be because he was curalli, the land Elwen 
thought, heading for the tent. Traps gave way at the feel 
of the one who had set them, and the guards bowed low and 
released their holds on the shields. His bodyguards 
remained outside obediently when he signaled that he would 
go in alone.
    Grukkar ducked through the flap, and then paused, 
staring. The tapestries had been torn and slashed, flung 
to the ground and trampled into the grass that was rapidly 
becoming mud under the pressure of feet day after day. The 
plates had been shattered, as if explosions had rent them. 
The sticky remains of food slid down the tent walls.
    Near the flap lay the body of the elven mage Grukkar 
had sent this day to entertain his prisoner, his open 
throat and eyes both seeming to accuse his master.
    That was all the land Elwen had time to notice before 
he fell to the floor under the impact of a blow from 
above. Rolling, struggling to catch his breath, he cursed 
himself mentally. He should have remembered the curalli 
fondness for hanging and attacking from ceilings.
    He had no time to blame himself further. He came to 
his feet enraged, one hand outstretched and ready to fling 
fire, or other deadly land Elwen emotional magic.
    Before him stood a curalli he hardly recognized. This 
was not the cowed, cringing fellow whose heart he had 
ruled for a month and more. This was not the man he had 
imprisoned.
    This was an Elwen who had rediscovered his pride and 
his heart.
    Maresl Alvyon stood only a few inches above five feet, 
a much more normal height for a curalli than the height of 
Selkendal Shadowgift, and had dark hair. At the moment, 
however- at least, to Grukkar's shocked gaze- those were 
the only normal things about him.
    His clothing was more than half gone, revealing silver 
skin flowing over muscles that had not wasted away during 
his captivity. Indeed, anything but. He seemed to have 
grown stronger, even to have transformed what little fat 
he had into muscle. In both hands gleamed daggers. Grukkar 
had no idea where he had gotten them.
    But it was his azure eyes that made the land Elwen 
fight to keep from taking a step back. Even overborne in 
soul and mind, he had maintained the civilized demeanor of 
the Councilman he had once been. Now, his eyes blazed with 
empty flame, the thick, greasy fire of hatred.
    He does not care if he lives, Grukkar realized in numb 
fear, so long as he kills me.
    He began backing as Maresl started forward, and forced 
himself to speak rapidly and calmly, using the tactic he 
had used to force the curalli into submission before. It 
was not easy. Death stared at him from those eyes, and 
seemed to neither heed nor hear his words.
    "Now, now, Maresl. There are people who depend on you. 
Or have you forgotten? Would you deprive the shadowed 
Elwens of Rowan-"
    "Shadowed Elwens of Rowan!" The voice was sudden 
thunder, thick and roaring with unrestrained hatred. 
"There were never any shadowed Elwens of Rowan. There were 
only my people, prisoners in the Sanctuary and your 
prisoners now."
    He lifted one dagger high. "This is for them, Grukkar 
Goatleap. This is for the spirit you stole from them and 
poured into your precious land Elwens. This is-"
    Finally, Sinniltra figured out something must be 
wrong, and poked her head in through the tent flap. Her 
eyes went wide when she saw Maresl armed, and she lifted a 
hand to hurl starfire.
    "No!" Grukkar shouted hoarsely. He hated to risk 
revealing her presence to Maresl, but neither could he 
take the chance that she would kill the curalli. Without 
the former leader, he had no leash on his shadowed Elwens. 
"A gentle blast, if you must, to stun him, but no more 
than that!"
    Sinniltra, bless her, did not lose her head over him 
being attacked, and obeyed without question. A knife-thin 
slice of starfire took Maresl in the back, slamming him to 
the ground with enough force to knock him unconscious. The 
curalli fell at once, the daggers flying wide from his 
hands.
    Grukkar stooped over the shadowed Elwen, feeling a 
little ridiculous in this concern for an enemy, but 
justifying it to himself as practical concern. He let out 
a sigh of relief when he found Maresl still breathed, and 
then could no longer restrain a scowl and a light slap on 
the side of the curalli's head.
    "What did you think you were doing?" he growled, 
though he knew very well the former leader could not hear 
him. "You know I cannot die until my part in the Prophecy 
of Divirsa is fulfilled, and yet-"
    He shook his head, finding no answer, and administered 
another light slap.
    "My lord?" Sinniltra, hovering nearby- not literally- 
recalled him to reality with a soft cough. "What should we 
do with him?"
    Grukkar returned to himself with a small smile. From 
the tone in the star Elwen's voice, he knew what she would 
like to do to him. Anyone who even thought of hurting 
Grukkar Goatleap since she had become his betrothed tended 
to die painfully by starfire.
    Except two. And those two he had killed himself...
    He shook the thoughts away. They brought pain he 
couldn't afford, not least because it was pain that had 
belonged to the old Grukkar, before the grand vision 
became the center of his life. He stooped down and lifted 
Maresl in his arms, grunting, and then laid him on the 
cot. It was the only piece of furniture left relatively 
intact.
    "What caused him to go wild like that?" Sinniltra 
peered over his shoulder as the land Elwen minutely 
inspected the curalli for damage other than a bump on the 
head. "I thought he was My Lord's obedient slave now."
    "So did I." Grukkar, finding no clue as to the 
madness, stood with a sigh. "Only he can tell us that. 
I'll remain here until he wakes."
    "Very good, my lord." Sinniltra started to fold her 
wings, and then stopped as his silver glance impacted on 
her face.
    "I will wait alone."
    For a moment, emotions warred in the sonorqui's eyes, 
but then she lowered them and nodded. Perhaps she 
recognized the stubbornness in Grukkar's face, and knew 
that it would do no good to argue. Or, perhaps, she even 
understood.
    "All right." She turned and slipped from the tent, 
shooing the other guards away.
    Grukkar sat down on the edge of the cot, then happened 
to glance at the flap and frowned. With a careless 
gesture, he set fire to the body of the elven mage. It was 
really a cleaner funeral rite than the careless man 
deserved, but Grukkar did not care enough about him to 
display his contempt by burying the corpse.
    He was far more interested in Maresl right now, and 
the curalli's slowly opening, wary blue eyes. They were 
still more radiant than Grukkar had ever expected to see  
them again, but the madness had faded. Maresl met his gaze 
for only a moment before turning his head away.
    "I could have your people punished, you know," Grukkar 
said in a pleasant voice. Only the former master torturer 
of Rowan, he thought with some pride, could speak of such 
grim subjects so calmly. "I could take any vengeance on 
them I wished, and no one would stop me or think me 
wrong."
    "So you could."
    That acceptance was the last thing the land Elwen had 
expected. Usually, a threat to his people brought Maresl 
to his knees. Grukkar drew back and eyed him coldly, not 
at all certain he liked this new Maresl.
    "Do you no longer care about your people, then? Where 
is the vaunted curalli loyalty?"
    The blue eyes, which had turned back to him now, did 
not flinch. In color, they somewhat resembled Sinniltra's, 
but were deeper and possessed of a light that the 
sonorqui's had never had. The shadowed Elwen continued to 
hold his captor's gaze as he lifted a hand and tapped 
himself on the chest, over the heart. "I came to realize 
that I was in truth betraying them all along. The best 
thing I can do for them is die, both to remove your leash 
on them and to show that I am true to the real pride of 
all Elwenkind."
    "You cannot stop your heart," Grukkar said, feeling on 
familiar ground once more. Maresl's repeated threats to 
commit suicide had led to a solution. "You have a ward 
that prevents that on you."
    The silver face beneath those sapphire eyes smiled. 
"But I can irritate you so much, and cause so much 
trouble, that eventually it will be more trouble than it 
is worth to keep me." He leaned back against the cot, 
still evenly holding the land Elwen's enraged gaze. "Right 
now, of course, I can do nothing. The madness took too 
much from me. You have another question to ask me about 
the curalli. So ask."
    Grukkar glared at his enemy, not for the first time 
thinking that he should just have used an essence 
medallion to find out the true name of Maresl's soul and 
enslave him. The problem with that was that curalli had 
two essencenames, and retained a certain limited freedom 
to act unless the possessor of the medallion knew both- 
and no known torture could make them reveal the inner.
    "All right," he said at last, ungraciously. "I tried 
to assassinate the curalli Selkendal Shadowgift tonight. 
The blade ricocheted as if something around him had 
launched it away. What magic do your people possess that 
can do that?"
    Maresl stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, then 
slammed his jaws shut. "None."
    Grukkar stared at him, searching for some way to hear 
a lie in that direct reply. But there was no buzzing in 
his ears, as there would have to have been.
    "But you have heard of it before?" he ventured, 
probing for clues. Maresl was no mage, but a scholar of 
magic- and there had been a flash of recognition in his 
eyes, however swiftly he tried to hide it.
    Given the curalli's mood, Grukkar thought he might 
well not answer, but he replied with a certain glee 
shining like light from his face. "Oh, yes, lord, I have 
read of it. Certain legends- certain legends, mind you, 
not all- say that such magic surrounds the destiny- 
touched. For example, Maruss Freewind."
    Grukkar snorted. "I find it hard to believe that this 
curalli is going to change the world as much as Freewind."
    "Perhaps not save it from slavery, my lord, or the 
silver unicorns." The shining eyes watched him carefully, 
with a blankness of expression almost more annoying than 
the glee. "But destroying Arcadia would change it, would 
it not?"
    "Enough!" Grukkar snarled. Sometimes he was sorry he 
had ever revealed the Prophecy's existence to Maresl, 
though it was essential his slave know about it in order 
to answer some questions. "He will not destroy it, Maresl. 
And he cannot be destiny-touched. I am. 
    "And I know the legends of Maruss Freewind as well as 
you do." He rose to his feet, preparing to depart, his 
point made. "There were dozens of assassination attempts 
against him, some of which came very close to succeeding. 
None ever ended up like mine did. It must be some spell of 
which you-"
    "Perhaps." Maresl's eyes were literally shining now; 
they seemed to light up the tent's cool, comfortable 
darkness. "Or perhaps it is because Maruss Freewind was 
never confronted by another destiny-touched, and you 
were."
    Grukkar halted, remembering the wrench and shiver 
inside him, the tingling feeling that he confronted 
something very like himself...
    "But that would mean we cannot directly harm one 
another." His voice was all but a croak.
    "Of course, my lord. Of course, also, all of this is 
so much speculation." Maresl lay back on the cot and 
closed his eyes. "If you will pardon me, I must try to 
recover some of the strength the madness lifted from me. 
Good night."
    Shaking, Grukkar did not even try to muster a civil 
reply. He stalked out of the tent, the shields and traps 
lowering. Such was his face that all the guards bowed 
deeply and remained in that posture until he was out of 
sight.
    He stalked through a camp that had, at last- for the 
most part- gone to sleep. Land Elwens could see in the 
dark, but not as well as curalli; the day was their time. 
And the few humans and elves with the army could not see 
in the dark at all.
    Grukkar felt the flame of quicksilver hatred burn 
through him, and surrendered to it willingly, preferring 
it to the suspicion and rage and helplessness battling for 
control of him. He turned, moving through the tents with 
the grace of the spider that was his namesake, looking for 
someone he could take to task with little trouble or 
guilt.
    If Selkendal were in truth protected against his 
direct wrath... if he could not have the satisfaction of 
killing that bastard with his sword or his bare hands...
    Well, there was a spell- or a rite- or a magic- that 
Maresl had told him about, under pressure. He had been 
looking forward to trying it, and now was the perfect 
time. He had all that was required: a powerful healing 
gift and a destiny-touch.
    He came upon the perfect target leaning sleepily 
against his tent and relieving himself. Grukkar's nose 
wrinkled at the stink of human urine, and he thought for a 
moment that he was going to be sick. Humans were such 
disgusting creatures, so much so that his revulsion 
overwhelmed his hatred for a moment.
    But not for long.
    He coughed- you had to make some sound to let the 
animals know you were there- and the man looked up, 
startled. When he saw Grukkar, his face turned into that 
commingling of fear and respect that all the humans 
offered their leader, and he hastily tied up his trousers.
    "Oh- ah- Lord Grukkar. Is there something you need? 
Something I can help you with?"
    Grukkar scanned his face one time, rapidly, to be 
sure. Yes. The man had green eyes- not the rich, deep 
jade-green of Selkendal's eyes, but the watered green of a 
scummy pond. Still, corresponding eye color was all that 
was required. Eyes were the windows of the soul, and this 
was a rite that tied the soul, more than anything else.
    The man backed up a step, perhaps unconsciously, at 
the look in Grukkar's eyes. "My lord? I-"
    The land Elwen caged him with invisible shields, so 
that his back slammed against what seemed no more than 
solid air. Grukkar observed with pleasure the man's 
scrambling in the moments before he strode forward.
    It didn't take long. A land Elwen need not rely on 
something so crude as rope. Under Sinniltra's teaching, he 
had learned to handle fire with utmost delicacy, and his 
hatred was more than strong enough to weave the shining 
scarlet and golden ropes of flame. His delicacy bound them 
about the man's arms and legs.
    "One move," he informed the wide-eyed human, "and 
these will singe you with such pain as you've never felt, 
while at the same time leaving you essentially undamaged. 
Understand?"
    The man managed to croak out, "Yes," before Grukkar 
filled his mouth with dirt transported by telekinesis. He 
was still spitting when the land Elwen began the- 
ceremony, he supposed one would call it. Ceremonies were 
part of religion, and religion was something beautiful and 
scared and ultimately right.
    As was this.
    He closed his eyes, or at least half-closed them. One 
couldn't be too careful when dealing with humans. It was 
humans who had stolen his love from him, and since then he 
had never trusted them.
    For the first time, he reached out to the force he had 
only dimly sensed beating about him before this, waves of 
power that rolled from him and changed the world through 
which he moved. Glowing magic, magic of destiny, where the 
forces that drove the world came to the surface like a 
wellspring forcing its way through rocky ground.
    From above, a soft, silvery pulse of light answered 
him. Starlight danced and glittered through the air, and 
he felt his blood- the blood some legends said was 
liquefied starlight- tingle as well.
    It was the closest to bliss he had ever known, save 
when acting to counteract the evil influence of someone on 
the wrong side of justice. At such times, he regretted 
that he had not been born with the Gifts necessary to 
become a mage.
    He glanced quickly at the human, and nearly sneered. 
The man's face had gone as near to white as humans could 
get, and he held himself still within the flaming bonds 
more by force of will than rational knowledge of what 
would happen should he move.
    Of course, no humans wielded magic, save in the most 
unusual of circumstances. The fellow had some reason to be 
scared out of his wits, what with the power of a truly 
alien force beating in the air about him.
    But still, Grukkar, with the sweetness rushing through 
his very veins, could not help but judge.
    He began the soft song that, as Maresl had promised 
him, came of its own accord and poured its lovely notes 
through his mouth. The perfect blending of magic and 
melody danced through his mind, mingled with the 
starlight, and then rose into the night sky in a shining 
fountain.
    The best thing about this was that no other mage would 
be able to sense the rite, as it was spun partly of 
destiny-magic. Unless, of course, Selkendal happened to be 
paying attention...
    Grukkar dismissed that thought, and the automatic rage 
it roused. Even if Selkendal recognized the touch upon the 
world, he could have no idea what it was for.
    Especially because, like a fool, he would never do 
this on his own.
    Starlight shone now less like ordinary starlight than 
like light reflected from a knife's blade- sharp, poised, 
quivering, ready for something to happen. With a totally 
unnecessary wave of his arm, Grukkar conducted it toward 
its goal.
    It vibrated, shivered restlessly, and then enveloped 
the human in a cocoon of fire whose brilliance made the 
flames conjured of the land Elwen's emotional magic look 
like knives next to an enchanted sword.
    The human flung back his head and screamed insanely, 
but there was doubt if anyone could even hear him over the 
song of the spell and the burning of the fire. For a long 
moment, a moment of such heart-stopping sweetness that 
Grukkar found himself near to dying, the conduit remained, 
a link of starfire between heavens and world.
    Then it flickered, and vanished.
    It had taken the bonds of flame with it, Grukkar 
realized. In their place lay something he could not see 
clearly, but whose soft silvery gleam clearly revealed 
that it was not human.
    The glory, the sweetness, of the magic faded, and 
Grukkar found himself slowly licking his lips with a 
tongue that felt as dry as they did. He was not sure what 
he had summoned.
    But then it climbed to its feet, and turned its head 
toward him, and he felt a vast sense of relief, even as he 
shuddered back from its ugliness.
    It resembled something like a very large wolf- 
something. It had a deeper chest, and legs as long and 
ropy as a cheetah's. The jaws had more gripping power than 
a wolf's, with heavier jowl and bigger teeth. The softly 
shimmering coat, as silver as starlight, was short, and 
the paws bore what more resembled an eagle's talons than a 
dog's nails. 
    And its eyes were as deeply green as Selkendal's, 
though they did not give Grukkar the same odd feeling of 
looking in a mirror. Still, their shine as the starhound 
paced forward was unnerving enough.
    It examined him as if searching for some hole in his 
defenses, then folded its front legs beneath it in an 
awkward bow. The next moment, it was standing again, in a 
movement so swift that he had not seen it. The green eyes 
fixed on him, awaiting some command.
    It would take only one, Grukkar knew. Already, the 
strain of maintaining the unnatural beast in this world, 
in a form spun partially of his own spirit, was tugging at 
him. Had not the human given his life energy as well, it 
would have been unbearable.
    "Seek out the curalli Selkendal Shadowgift, whose eyes 
you bear," he gasped. "Kill him."
    The starhound bowed its head, and then leaped away. At 
least, he assumed it did. It moved so swiftly that he 
found himself unsure, unable to remember if he had really 
seen it move. Perhaps it merely teleported across the 
intervening distances.
    That was all the better if it did, of course, and more 
a sign of the silver stars' favor. Would they have sent 
him such a powerful assassin if they were not pleased with 
him?
    No, they wouldn't have. With those softly spoken 
mental words, he quelled the last nagging doubts, and 
turned away to seek his bed. The strain eased as the 
starhound moved further away, burning bright with purpose, 
but was still great.
    He encountered Sinniltra waiting outside his tent, 
with her hands and wings folded and her eyes on the 
ground. He sighed. She only looked like that when she felt 
herself compelled to request something- something Grukkar 
would not like.
    "Yes, my love?" He used the tender name to let her 
know he was not angry with her, but he hoped his weary 
tone also conveyed that he was in no mood to talk right 
now.
    "My lord, I am sorry indeed to interrupt the rest you 
sorely need, but there is a matter of some urgency-"
    "There always is," he interrupted, rudeness flinging 
itself into his tone despite his efforts. "All matters are 
matters of urgency. Always."
    "My lord-" The star Elwen looked startled by his 
outburst, which meant extremely startled. Usually, no 
emotion marred the placid coolness of that face, which had 
its rival only in starlight.
    "I want to be left alone for one hour, Sinniltra. One 
hour is all I ask." He paused with one hand on the tent 
flap and gave her an even look. "A single hour of 
undisturbed sleep."
    "Of course, lord." After one moment of staring back at 
him, she executed one of her flawless bows and soared back 
into the starry sky. The first faint hint of blue in the 
east, false dawn, shone off her betrothal collar, and 
Grukkar reached up to touch his own, matching one.
    Yes. He would marry her, a fact he sometimes forgot. 
She would be the mother of his children.
    As Jesetara should have been...
    He again locked out the thoughts, the memory, the 
pain. His passion for Jesetara had been a boyish thing, 
full of fire and intensity that had ended only in death. 
He loved Sinniltra as a man would, a man well in control 
of his emotions.
    It was not easy, but he had never encountered anything 
that promised it would be.
    He lay down in his bed, a simple cot like the one 
everyone from Maresl to Sinniltra had. He was proud, not 
arrogant. He would act as everyone else did, as his equals 
did, and not strive to surpass them.
    His eyes slid shut, and his breaths slowly deepened 
and slowed. He was not entirely sure when his world became 
dreamland.
    Come to think of that, he was not sure he was 
dreaming. He could feel the sensations around him- the 
sensations that certainly felt physical- all too clearly. 
    The burning pain that raced along his spine at first, 
but swiftly enclosed the whole of his being. The screams 
that echoed in his ears like some mad chorus of the 
damned, as if he stood in the place where the stars cast 
meek Elwens or others who had shown themselves unworthy of 
Tantelya.
    And the light.
    It blazed- like fire caught in diamonds was the only 
appropriate metaphor, if diamonds' light could be 
magnified a million times by mirrors and purged of any 
hint of blue or blue-white. This was whiteness that tore 
sight from him, rendered him blind, left him with the 
blazing memory.
    In the moment before it killed him.
    He woke, drenched with sweat and shaking, to find that 
the hour had not yet passed. Grukkar let out a slow breath 
and slumped back against the cot. It had seemed to him an 
eternity that he had been trapped in that shining arena of 
death, if death it was.
    Even as he thought that, reality snarled at him. As 
much as he hoped it was not a vision such as legends said 
came to those with destiny-magic, he knew it was death. 
Nothing could be caught in that intense a pain and hope to 
retain its sanity, much less survive.
    The world seemed to swim at the corners of the land 
Elwen's vision, and he put his head between his knees to 
steady himself. He knew a moment of bitterness about 
having the remainder of his hour stolen from him. Still, 
if he closed his eyes...
    Even Grukkar Goatleap could not face that again. At 
least, not so soon.
    Shaking his head, he stood and peered out the tent 
flap. No one, not even Sinniltra, was in sight. Such 
guards as protected him were not visible, and the fact of 
their presence was one of the many reasons the others of 
the camp gave their lord's tent a wide berth.
    He felt a soft, cold breeze blowing, and grimaced as 
he reached back for the cloak Sinniltra had given him as a 
Bluedance gift. He hated the feeling of the lingering 
winter- gone now, and yet seeming to cling to the world. 
It was one of the many omens that he found ominous in a 
year when two destiny-touched confronted each other.
    As Grukkar stepped out into the silence, his gaze 
automatically sought out another of those omens. Overhead, 
in the northeastern quadrant of the sky, shimmered the 
faint, eerie blue blaze of a comet.
    Rationally, Grukkar knew this was a comet that had 
been seen before in Arcadia's skies, that sped through the 
depths of the spirit-void in a great cycle and returned 
again. The fact that the astronomers hadn't predicted it 
didn't mean anything. Nothing at all.
    Just as the immense showers of shooting stars meant 
nothing, or the solar eclipse, or...
    Gritting his teeth, Grukkar began striding briskly 
forward, as if he could outrun his annoyance and his 
thoughts. They tagged at his heels, however, and at last 
he found himself standing at the edge of the Forbge 
Forest, staring into the verdant shadows.
    It was so dark and green and cool in there, he found 
himself thinking, with trees tangled as thickly as his 
hair when he neglected to comb it. It was a world where an 
owl's silent drifting sounded as loud as a trumpet call, 
and the crickets singing too early made a wild music the 
curalli understood. It was no wonder that the shadowed 
Elwens felt it was their own, no wonder that they showed 
every sign of defending it to the death.
    Grukkar shifted the cloak and looked away. Looking at 
the Forest made him uncomfortable, not least because it 
seemed to harbor accusing eyes.
    He turned and walked eastward along its edge, farther 
from the commingled gleam of campfires and other signs of 
civilization. He felt a heady defiance as he did so, like 
a little boy escaping a punishment.
    The land Elwen smiled darkly to himself as his mind 
completed the comparison. Punishment? But he could have 
asked for no better fate- standing in the way of one who 
would destroy the world for his own gain. He had been born 
to fight the ultimate wrongdoer...
    His passion had been justice. Now it was the safety 
and best future for his people. 
    Unlike the fools Maresl and Selkendal, however, he 
knew better than to commit his entire heart to such a 
belief. It had allowed Maresl to be captured and enslaved, 
because he had not been able to bear the thought of even 
one shadowed Elwen dying. Selkendal, according to reports, 
was the same way.
    Not that Grukkar would need to lure that white-haired 
bastard into a place where he could easily be taken. Not 
now, not with a starhound on the trail.
    Thinking of that...
    He leaned against the trunk of a tree and closed his 
eyes, sending his mind out questing after his beast. For a 
moment, he received the blurred impression of leaves 
flying past, of twigs and earth barely brushing the 
pounding paws, of the hated black roses scent filling the 
silver nostrils, of relentless, patient purpose.
    Then, the impressions halted. Grukkar opened his eyes 
and exhaled in disappointment. He must have caught up just 
as it passed out of range. He had hoped to feel the moment 
of the kill, the hound's jaws ripping out the would-be 
battle-lord's throat and consigning his soul to starfire.
    Shaking his head, now and then touching the fragile 
bond that connected him to the starhound just to be sure 
it was still there, he slid down the tree trunk and sat, 
almost daringly, with his back to the Forbge. He continued 
to hear the rustles of night-creatures on their rounds, 
but no more than that. 
    His eyes dropped closed, but he snatched them open 
again at the first return of searing white light and hid a 
yawn behind his hand. Tired as he was, there would be no 
sleep for Grukkar Goatleap until the vividness of that 
unexplained dream image faded.
    It was there that Sinniltra found him, watching the 
fading of the stars. She gave him only the briefest of 
smiles, that private smile she used when no one else was 
around, and then folded her wings and leaned in close.
    "My lord, I have had another dream."
    Every muscle in Grukkar's body went tense as he looked 
up at her. He might not know whether his own dreams were 
prophetic, but he knew Sinniltra's were. She had warned 
him of the foul Soflam Lafoxbane's treachery, and she said 
he would bring the sunrise back to Arcadia again- surely 
nothing but a prophecy that he would defeat Selkendal.
    "Tell me." It slid out as barely a whisper, a shaking 
sound born of an intense need to know.
    "As my lord wishes." She bowed her head with humility 
no more real than his was, and began her account, dropping 
into the singsong chant she sometimes used when describing 
exactly what had happened to her.
    "I dreamed that light had returned to Arcadia- the 
light you will bring back, my lord. And yet, there was the 
blurred impression of something fallen. It may be that 
many will die to win you this victory."
    Grukkar waved a hand, feeling his face relax in a 
smile. "That will not matter, Sinniltra. They will give 
their lives willingly, eagerly, knowing that they are 
fighting for the greater good."
    She held up a hand that was rebuking, although the 
gleam in her eyes showed that she shared his excitement, 
his joy. "My lord, you must permit me to tell the rest."
    Grukkar was feeling so ebullient that he overlooked 
her use of the word "must," and turned to gaze at the 
stars again. The stars no longer appeared to be fading 
things, but bright holes that pierced the canopy of 
heaven, letting in the clear radiance of another place. 
Yes, with the help of the destiny that had chosen him, he 
would make Arcadia into a place that those far, brilliant 
heavens would envy.
    "You may go on."
    "Thank you, my lord." Her suddenly grim tone snapped 
his head around. "You see, there are things that may 
interfere with the return of the light."
    "There are?" Grukkar did not recognize the growl that 
had emerged in place of his voice. His good mood was gone 
as suddenly as it had come. "Tell me what they are, that 
we may find and destroy them."
    "Yes, my lord. I must confess that the impressions 
were very blurred, just as was my impression of a fall-"
    Fall.
    For a moment, the word seemed to touch something off 
in Grukkar's brain. He saw rushing images too horrible to 
comprehend, heard dying screams and the clash of steel, 
smelled spilled blood-
    And he looked down at his hands, and saw them dripping 
with liquefied starlight, silver blood.
    As if he had just driven a dagger into the heart of a 
land Elwen.
    "My lord?" Sinniltra's emotions were changing with 
startling rapidity. This time, she sounded frightened.
    He returned from the vision, breathing deeply. "I 
think I need to have another talk with Maresl, that is 
all," he managed to say. "Pray, continue."
    "As you will. One of those who may interfere is a 
nightingale, another a shadow. The other-" Sinniltra 
frowned slightly. "He shines with light that blinds, but 
it is darkness that casts the light. Does that make any 
sense to you, my lord?"
    Grukkar shook his head, though his heart and resolve 
faltered a little. Another enemy, that he didn't know 
about? "I take it there was a fourth. None of those sounds 
like Selkendal."
    He hoped she would say that there were no more- after 
all, there could not be if the starhound succeeded in 
killing Selkendal- but his hopes were doomed to dashing 
again. Sinniltra's blue eyes hooded. "There were three 
more pictures, lord."
    "Well?" he prompted, after letting a suitably dramatic 
silence pass. Sinniltra was like that sometimes.
    "One was a sword, my lord, the perfect weapon, shining 
as if it had been stolen from the heart of the sun. The 
second was a shadow, much like the other, save that this 
shadow was more enormous than any mortal being could have 
cast. The third was a flame, blazing like the sword, but 
far more brightly." Sinniltra swallowed, and her hands 
moved in an odd gesture. "The fire that inspires hearts, 
but only to consume."
    Grukkar thought a moment, then shook his head. He 
could make no sense of her strange word choice. How can 
one fire be any different from any other?
    "I am sorry to have troubled you, lord," Sinniltra 
said in that mock-humble voice, pulling his attention back 
to her face, "but I thought you should know. I could not 
be sure if you would recognize an image that I would not, 
or if-"
    "You have done well," said Grukkar, to reassure her 
and calm these babblings. The sunrise filled the sky now, 
golden light spilling out as if from an overturned bowl, 
and he felt the strange, magical feeling of the night 
receding. He rose to his feet, swatting grass from his 
leggings, and absently touched his bond to the starhound 
once more. "I think now I must talk to Maresl. There is 
something he once mentioned that preys on my mind."
    The star Elwen bowed and moved off, not bothering to 
fly. She sometimes seemed to enjoy the feel of fresh dew 
on her boots.
    Grukkar moved in the opposite direction, entering the 
curalli part of camp by a roundabout route. He wanted no 
one to wonder what the Councilmaster of Rowan had been 
doing beyond the camp in the hour before dawn. It was none 
of their business, of course, but it would still set minds 
to wondering, if not tongues to wagging.
    He reached Maresl's tent and once more passed through 
the circle of snares and wards and guards that kept the 
curalli from escaping. He passed inside the tent like a 
wind, feeling his face tighten and grow bleak. Maresl did 
indeed know of this, and the curalli had not seen fit to 
tell him.
    "My lord?" The title that was one of sincere reverence 
elsewhere danced off the curalli's lips with a mocking 
sound. He rose to his feet and stretched, rippling silver 
muscles moving under his repaired clothes. He looked 
healthier than ever, stronger, and not at all impressed by 
Grukkar's expression. "You wish to enjoy yet another 
pleasant conversation?"
    Grukkar did not respond, save to gesture. Shields 
pressed against the shadowed Elwen, walls of solidified 
air so tight that he should have difficulty breathing.
    "I will ask you questions," the land Elwen said. 
Silver pounded and danced at the corners of his vision, a 
haze that beckoned him to fall into a killing rage. He 
held that back with an effort. "You will answer them, or 
suffer more pain."
    Despite all the evidence telling him the land Elwen 
was enraged, Maresl looked at him and chuckled. "As you 
will, lord. But you must remember that I know nothing of 
Selkendal Shadowgift, other than the rumors everyone has 
heard. It will you do no good to ask yet again."
    "I do not need to ask that!" The haze grew ever 
brighter, sweet and tempting, and then flashed to the 
color of mercury. In the land Elwen hierarchy of hatreds, 
quicksilver hatred was the most powerful, surpassing all 
the others, and the most dangerous. "I want to ask you 
about the past and the future."
    Maresl's face smoothed, darkened, and he nodded 
slowly. He still did not look impressed, nor daunted by 
any threat of torture, but he did seem melancholy, even a 
bit fearful. "Yes, my lord. I remember that conversation. 
Have you discovered something, then?"
    "You knew!" Grukkar accused him in a grating voice. 
"You knew this would happen, that the future would reach 
out and touch the past, and you did not tell me!"
    Maresl's eyes turned the color of falling Sweptorian 
snow on a moonless night. "No. My lord, on my honor-"
    Grukkar laughed aloud. "Curalli honor" was a term used 
as the butt of jokes all over the continent. Everyone knew 
the shadowed Elwens had none.
    "Listen to me." Maresl's voice did not rise, but 
possessed a sudden power that made Grukkar stop laughing 
and look at him. "I did not know this would happen, my 
lord, because I could not be sure what kind of destiny- 
touch you possessed. The books I read make mention of two. 
I know now."
    "Which?" Grukkar said, interested despite himself.
    Maresl looked at him like a cat. "You know that the 
past can touch the future, influence it. This happens all 
the time. Less common is the future touching the past, but 
it can happen.
    "The two kinds of destiny-touch might be described 
that way; they open a hole through which the future can 
reach a hand. The more common type of fate-magic, that 
which Maruss Freewind possessed, brings the future in 
contact with the destiny-touched because the future wants 
to happen."
    "What?" Grukkar felt his head spinning, and tried his 
best to make his answer sarcastic instead of confused. 
"The future cannot want to happen, you madman. It does not 
have a sentient will of its own."
    "We don't know that for sure- but I won't lead you 
into that scholarly discussion right now. Let us pretend 
it does, if that will satisfy you."
    "All right," said Grukkar with a shrug. "If that's the 
game you want to play."
    The former Councilman gave him a hard look before 
continuing. "The future works to coax the destiny-touched 
into creating it, largely by showing the events that must 
take place for it to exist. But that is only the most 
common form of future-gazing, of destiny-touch."
    Maresl lowered his voice, like some cheap fortune- 
teller at a fair. Despite himself, Grukkar leaned forward 
and listened intently.
    "The other type, my lord, opens up the hole through 
which the future reaches- but not to persuade the 
destiny-touched to help it. It is trying to prevent its 
own existence, by giving the Fatechosen a glimpse of 
events so horrible that he will turn from the path he now 
walks."
    Grukkar drew back and stared at his hands. But he was 
not seeing them. Rather, the visions he had been granted 
paraded before his eyes.
    Horrible events.
    He had seen his hands covered with blood, blood of 
silver and starlight, the blood of a Free One. Was the 
future somehow telling him that if he pursued the course 
he followed now, he would slay his own people?
    And the eternity-second of compacted pain, of death in 
white fire...
    With an effort, Grukkar at last shrugged off the sense 
of doom closing in on him. The visions must not be true, 
for the only way he could slaughter his own people would 
be to continue this war. And the war would not continue, 
not with Selkendal dead.
    "I do not believe you," he said grandly.
    Maresl blinked, staring at him in a mixture of 
uncertainty and fading expectancy. "But, my lord, you 
must. There is-"
    "Nothing in that load of gryphon pies you fed me 
convinces me that it is truth. Possibly some of it is 
true, but the future does not yet know that I have set a 
starhound on Selkendal Shadowgift's trail. When it does, 
it will have been prevented, and it will stop sending me 
visions.
    "And what reason would you have to tell me the truth, 
curalli? You have made it abundantly clear that we are not 
on the same side."
    "In this, we are." Maresl started to lean forward, 
then banged his chest on the shield in front of him and 
leaned backward with a grimace. "I am as interested in 
preventing the destruction of the world as you are, 
Grukkar. Believe me, I do not want to die, or see my 
people die."
    "You mentioned yesterday-"
    "It will be one thing if I cause you enough trouble 
that you kill me," Maresl said, daring to interrupt his 
master for the first time in a long time. "It will be 
another thing if I die along with them."
    "It will free them from my slavery," said Grukkar, 
toying with the shadowed Elwen, using his own principles 
against him. "Is that not what you want?"
    Maresl lowered his head with a ragged sigh. "If you 
will not listen, I suppose there is nothing I can do. At 
least, I tried."
    Grukkar snorted and turned away, leaving the curalli 
caged. He would return in a few hours to dispel the 
shields. That amount of time, spent upright and unable to 
move, ought to convince the shadowed Elwen not to lie or 
interrupt again.
    He reached out again to the bond that connected him to 
the starhound, trying to sense if it were returning. 
Considering the pace at which it moved, it should have had 
time to reach Selkendal's camp and make the kill. If it 
were only beginning the journey back, still he should 
receive some physical impression-
    He did not, however, and uttered a sigh of his own. 
Pausing on the verge of exiting the tent, he fixed Maresl 
with a gaze both stern and benevolent.
    "If nothing else, the advice you gave me on summoning 
a starhound is invaluable to our cause. Take comfort that, 
in that much at least, you have helped to prevent the 
destruction of the world."
    Maresl paused, his face a battlefield between loyalty 
to his kind and the almost frantic concern that the world 
not be destroyed. Grukkar waited for his answer-
    Only to have the world explode in blinding pain.
    His blood foamed in him like a rising tide of poison, 
savaging his body from the inside, while his heart 
abruptly increased its pace to that of a charging unicorn 
and his legs shivered with cramps. He felt his knees 
buckle, and he dropped to the floor of the tent, trying 
weakly to scream for help.
    Then convulsions dropped him to his side, and the 
world began to fade before his eyes.
    The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was 
Maresl taking a step toward him. The pain had disrupted 
the concentration needed to maintain the shields.
    The curalli was free.




                        Chapter 2
                      Disagreements
    "Na kerenquia in Na puessi joi." (My close friends are 
my enemies also.)
    -Curalli Proverb.

    Selkendal Shadowgift would have jumped after the 
flapping star Elwen if he thought it would do any good. As 
it was, he could only stand in the grass of the hill and 
clutch Starslayer's hilt, his eyes blazing with the white 
flame of impotent anger.
    For a moment, he thought the land Elwen looked back, 
for he felt the tingle of magic and likeness that had 
alerted him to Grukkar's presence in the first place. But 
if so, it was gone quickly.
    It only angered him more- that the land Elwen felt 
confident enough to turn his back on an enemy who could 
kill him with laughable ease. He began to swear, using the 
filthiest words he could think of as quickly as he could 
think of them.
    A gentle hand fell on his arm, and a voice as warmly 
sweet as a nightingale's song said in his ear, "Selk, it 
won't do any good. He got away, and it's not your fault. 
Stop blaming yourself."
    Selkendal nodded, blew out a breath in which he also 
tried to blow out his anger, and turned to face his lover 
and comrade, Tiela Stardancer. Her indigo eyes met his 
gravely, reinforcing her words, but a smile tugged at her 
lips as she held out her arm for his.
    "I suppose I shouldn't take it like this every time 
something goes wrong," he said softly, offering his arm to 
her in turn. She made it seem as if she did him a favor by 
accepting it, bringing a grin to his face despite himself. 
"But I am supposed to be responsible for the stars-damned 
army, after all."
    "That doesn't mean that you have to be in a hundred 
places at once," Ti said, with the rationality that he had 
come to hate but which was unarguably true. "The soldiers 
don't expect you to, certainly." She began to lead him 
gently down the hill, back in the direction of his anxious 
friends and guards. "You're the one who asks too much of 
yourself."
    Selkendal's gaze turned back to the place where a 
dozen curalli had stood, only to be blasted to pieces by 
the silvery fire Grukkar's companion had called. He 
shivered with hatred, hot and raging. He knew Sinniltra, 
in the worst possible ways. She had once tried to kill 
him, and after that offered to betray her lord and serve 
him.
    Tiela knew, as always, when his emotions, unusually 
strong and wild for a curalli, were about to take 
possession of him. She shook her head at him and dealt him 
a slap on the inner arm, but her voice did not change from 
its steady, slightly flippant tone. It almost never did. 
"And you will make him return and face you by hating him? 
I do not think that will work, Selk. If he knows you at 
all, and suspects that you hate him, he will run as far 
and as fast as possible."
    Selkendal shook his head, refusing the laughter she so 
obviously wanted to give him. It was good to chuckle, but 
some things could not be made light of. Once again, his 
gaze turned toward the circle of light ash that had once 
been living curalli.
    They had to climb down once more, for in no place did 
this hill have a gentle slope, and that gave him time to 
think about what he would tell his friends and those who 
considered guarding him their duty. They wouldn't accept 
the truth: that so long as Sinniltra worked her magic 
under the stars and with at least one land Elwen with her, 
that magic would be impossible to detect.
    Still, it was truth, and one he knew all too well. It 
had nearly slain him once.
    By the time his feet touched the grass at the bottom 
once more, however, he had made up his mind. They would 
have to accept the truth, or nothing he did would make any 
difference.
    When he turned around, he found himself looking full 
into Corlin Durillo's face. The halfbreed had flung his 
concealing cowl back and now scowled, his dark eyes, that 
indeterminate color between brown and black, flashing. 
"What did you think you were doing, walking away from us 
like that? It ruined our discussion of strategy, not to 
mention nearly got you killed."
    Selkendal felt his hands settle to his sword hilts yet 
again, but he forced down his temper. Corlin had no call 
to be so insulting, but the half-death Elwen was the only 
one of the mysterious churni remaining in camp. Much as he 
hated it, Selkendal still had to rely on Corlin for 
information and guesses about the Prophecy of Divirsa. "I 
walked over there because Grukkar was there," he said, in 
a voice that was halfway civil, if no more. "You were the 
one who told me about destiny-magic, and how like calls to 
like. Or do you prefer not to hear your own lies anymore?"
    For a moment, the half-curalli stood there, his 
unusually dark face even darker, storms and calm warring 
in his eyes. Then he spun on his heel and stalked in the 
opposite direction. He did not curse, but walked in 
dignified silence.
    Selkendal sighed. Arguments between them sprung up all 
the time lately, usually because Corlin insisted this or 
that or the other thing had to be done in order to turn 
the Prophecy. Every time Selkendal lost his temper and 
insisted on thwarting fate in his own way, Corlin would 
look at him with aloof pride and change the subject, as if 
he could not be bothered with the ravings of a madman. 
This was the first time in the stars knew how long that 
the curalli had actually managed to irritate him.
    Selkendal supposed he should count that as a victory 
of sorts.
     "My lord?" The one who spoke knew he didn't like that 
title, but that didn't prevent him from saying it anyway. 
Lenollrosta did as he pleased. "Will you continue to plan 
the battle, or sleep now?"
    Selkendal sighed and stretched, trying to send the 
weariness away along with the coiled tension in his 
muscles. "I have little choice. We must attack at noon 
today. Every day- no, every hour- we sit here without 
moving gives them more time to prepare."
    "That is one thing I do not understand, my lord." 
Lenollrosta leaned back against air, spinning a dagger 
through slender, nimble fingers. His violet eyes were 
narrowed as if he looked into strong sun, but that was 
likely more amusement than anything else. His hair, 
shimmering with the color of a mirror, danced about his 
face as he turned his head to look directly at the battle- 
lord. "Why noon?"
    "You tell me," said Selkendal, trying another stretch 
in vain. It would take hours to remove the pain in his 
neck, that peculiar pain that only comes from bending over 
something for hours on end. "You are land Elwen. Would you 
expect curalli to attack at noon?"
    The eyes measured him, trying to determine if some 
insult had been delivered, and then Len shrugged. "No. But 
you cannot be sure they will think that way. This Grukkar 
Goatleap seems a canny one. I cannot believe he will not 
have guards at all times."
    "Oh, shush," Tiela snapped, her face displaying the 
general annoyance most people exhibited around 
Lenollrosta. She had her own reasons for disliking him,  
though, and loved nothing so much as a chance to prove him 
wrong. "Selkendal is a battle-lord, and you are not. If he 
says he knows how the enemies will think, I am inclined to 
trust him."
    Selkendal hid his blush by pretending to pick a grass 
blade off his tunic. Ti got- very vocal- in his defense 
sometimes. 
    Lenollrosta arched a brow and shook his head in 
ruefulness so perfect it took a practiced eye to recognize 
it as feigned. "I have to agree with that. In fact, how 
could any male not agree, when you turn those beautiful 
eyes on him?"
    It was Ti's turn to flush and try to look elsewhere. 
Lenollrosta laughed softly, soundlessly, his mouth open 
slightly and his gaze unwavering. It was one of the many 
insulting things about him, things which no one dared to 
take offense at. For all his mannerisms, Len was the 
deadliest fighter Selkendal had ever known.
    "Enough of this," Selkendal and the remaining member 
of the group said at the same time. They glanced at each 
other; then the swordmaster deferred to Perishoon with a 
shrug. The mercenary smiled a fleeting thanks, his silver 
eyes shining like the stars overhead as he scrutinized the 
stalker and Tiela. "We need to plan a war, and you are 
supposed to be helping. If you want to squabble, do it on 
your own time."
    The land Elwen looked as if he wanted to plant a knife 
in the other shadowed Elwen's gut, and Ti's hand wasn't 
all that far from one of her own throwing blades. 
Perishoon simply gazed at them, his face placid and 
serene. His hand held the hilt of his great saber-like 
sword, but it always did. He was afraid of nothing, he had 
told Selkendal more than once, because he believed in 
nothing- save Selkendal himself.
    Lenollrosta at last went back to his knife-spinning 
game, inclining his head in acquiescence that seemed 
sulky. Tiela folded her arms and moved a step closer to 
her beloved, staring at the map that Perishoon still 
carried as if it were a real representation of the Forbge 
and she might kill the land Elwens with her intent gaze 
alone.
    Selkendal heaved a silent sigh and nodded his thanks 
to the mercenary, who gave a negligent wave of his hand in 
return. He bent over again, and felt that odd, strange 
stirring of power in him again, the power that was not 
magical in nature but nonetheless beyond the norm.
    It told him that troops should go here, and there, and 
that land Elwens would be bothered by this...
    "We will work to make them think that only a small 
group is charging them." His hand swept a circle around 
the picture of the open grasslands where the Army of Rowan 
had camped, the map now marked with ugly black blotches to 
represent them. "While they come out to defeat these 
upstarts who dare to attack at noon, we will conduct other 
raids on their flanks and rump."
    For the first time in a month, Perishoon appeared 
doubtful. "My lord, the camp is far too large to destroy 
at a single sweep."
    "Yes," Selkendal said softly. "But as I told someone 
who asked me once, all I care about is Blackness, 
Deepdark, and the other cities of curalli in the Forbge. 
If the land Elwens become so fearful that they decide to 
flee, I'll not follow."
    "Grukkar is a fanatic." It was the first suggestion 
Tiela had offered in several hours, and all three males 
listened intently. "I have listened to the rumors the 
refugees carried, Selkendal. Grukkar is obsessed with 
destroying any who rebel against Rowan. He will not go 
until the task is done."
    Selkendal shook his head, his unusual white hair 
flying around him like a sleet coronet. He rarely listened 
to rumors, since he had turned them against his enemies 
with such great effect. But he had to pretend to believe 
this. Only he, Tiela, and Corlin knew the real reason 
Grukkar was here. The Councilmaster knew he was the other 
half of the Prophecy of Divirsa, and was determined to 
fulfill his part.
    Whatever that might be.
    With a wrench, Selkendal forced himself to come back 
to the present and answer. He could not risk any thought 
showing on his face; many would panic if they knew the 
truth. "Grukkar cannot kill me alone, as he proved today. 
For whatever reason, his direct attempts against me are 
doomed to failure. So, to defeat me, he needs his army. If 
we can make his army desert out from under him..."
    He stopped, concealing a smile at the thoughtful 
expressions on their faces. That was usually the prelude 
to his victory.
    "One more question," Lenollrosta said suddenly. "What 
makes you think my people will believe a curalli suicide 
rush? They know that shadowed Elwens don't normally behave 
that way."
    Selkendal raised a hand. "Ah, but two things are in 
our favor." Three fingers folded down, leaving two alone. 
After a moment, one of them followed the first trio. "The 
land Elwens are aware of the extent of curalli loyalty. 
But they may not think our people that dedicated, and so 
the revelation that we are will surprise and unnerve them.
    "Second reason." The last finger folded down, and 
Selkendal lifted the resulting fist high. "Grukkar 
Goatleap was at Shadows, where they did use this tactic. 
Fifty warriors sacrificed themselves so the others could 
escape through the Portal. Grukkar will be more 
predisposed to believe it, and what he believes, the army 
believes."
    The mirror-haired land Elwen squinted at him. "I'm 
still wondering how much of this battle-lordship of yours 
is really a Gift, and how much simple common sense."
    Selkendal laughed. "Go to bed, Lenollrosta." He knew 
the master assassin had been up at least as long as he 
had, and he didn't want his friends- all of whom had 
insisted on taking part in the charge tomorrow- keeling 
over during it.
    The land Elwen shrugged and moved off in that flowing, 
floating trot Selkendal was beginning to wonder if he 
himself would ever master. Usually, he was not so 
agreeable, but the battle-lord's words only made sense. 
Lines of fatigue were stamped deeply into the faces of 
everyone still awake.
    Perishoon lingered for a moment, his eyes bright in 
the night that seemed to darken towards dawn. "You are 
sure you will not want protection while you sleep, lord?"
    "No, thank you." An unexpected boon of sending 
Perishoon away, Selkendal thought, was that he would not 
have to listen to that ludicrous title anymore. "Even 
guards must sleep sometimes, Perishoon, if they are to be 
of any use."
    The warrior bowed and flowed off, matching Lenollrosta 
in grace but going in the opposite direction. Selkendal 
sighed, peace returning to him as the other guards 
followed their leader with barely a glance at him. For the 
first time in days, he was free of a watching, judgmental 
audience of eyes.
    He looked over his shoulder to see Tiela still 
lingering nearby, eyes bright and warm. He shook his head 
with an apologetic smile.
    "Sorry, but I have to get some real sleep tonight, or 
you'll be leading a zombie around by the wrist tomorrow."
    "Understood," Tiela said, and, after lifting her face 
for a quick kiss, slipped away into the darkness. 
Selkendal sent another smile and silent blessing after 
her. She understood both things, he knew: his weariness, 
and the real reason he did not want to spend the night 
with anyone else. Every Elwen required solitude at some 
point, and Selkendal's people had been known to die from 
the lack of it.
    He moved off with a light, sprightly pace, staying 
within the shadows cast by the moons and silver stars. 
Cloaked in the curalli shadow-blending magic, it would be 
difficult for even another of his own people to see him. 
And the few land Elwens still moving restlessly about the 
encampment turned a literally blind eye to his silent 
steps.
    At last, he found an area of grass that did not smell 
of black roses- curalli- or summer mornings and birdsong- 
land Elwens. With a luxuriant sigh, he dropped into the 
greenery and wriggled his shoulders into it, feeling the 
crushing of the sweet-smelling blades. Then he closed his 
eyes, shutting out the light that wheeled overhead. Stars 
knew it was lovely, but his eyes were not meant for long 
periods of staring into it.
    As his body relaxed, his mind continued its restless 
whirl, pursuing and planning the paths of tomorrow's 
battle. Actually, given the lateness of the hour, he 
supposed he should consider it a battle that would take 
place later today, but he was in no mood to be choosy.
    They had humans with them, or so said the scouts. 
Knowing the telltale stink of the creatures, Selkendal did 
not doubt them. He had no humans in his own army- those 
few who lived in the Forbge were terrified at the thought 
of defying Rowan- and so the vats of concoction boiling 
over the fires could be used without remorse.
    What a surprise that was going to give them! he 
thought with a mental chuckle. 
    "And then there are the elves," he murmured sleepily. 
"With Duana's help, it shouldn't be too hard to convince 
them that the Elfmother herself is on the field, and 
ordering them to go home."
    He smiled, and then laughed again, this time aloud. He 
seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
    But, in this case, he had reasons. Who would ever have 
believed that the curalli serving girl he had rescued from 
the land Elwens some months ago would have proven so adept 
at illusions? Once the mages found out, they wouldn't let 
her alone, and had excitedly informed Selkendal that she 
could create visions with the necessary components of 
sight, sound, and smell. Selkendal had seen, heard, and 
smelled them himself, and had been hard-pressed not to 
accept them as the real thing.
    And force of belief strengthened illusions, to the 
point that the more well-crafted ones could kill. And with 
the famous religious fervor of the elves boosting what was 
going to be a convincing appearance of a goddess...
    Selkendal would have laughed again, but it turned into 
a yawn. Obedient to such unsubtle signals, he turned over 
onto his side and closed his eyes. He had learned long ago 
how to fall asleep on demand.
    Soon, the song of his soft breathing wafted towards 
the sky, mingling with a thousand others.
----------------------------------------------------------
    It was without doubt the strangest waking he had ever 
experienced. One moment he ran through the shimmering 
silver fields of dreamland, playfully swatting at 
moonflowers; the next, he was fully awake and alert, both 
swords drawn.
    Selkendal blinked in some distress when he saw that 
the east was barely touched with the first hints of 
cerulean. Sighing loudly in annoyance, and softly cursing 
his body's inability to react to anything but imagined 
threats, he lay down again.
    And then he heard a low growl, and thought perhaps his 
body was wiser than he knew.
    He rolled over again, and saw a pair of eyes as green 
as his own shining in the distance. Then the world went 
all to starhell.
    Something exploded toward him, so swiftly that only a 
swordmaster could even have gotten the blade up in time to 
strike it, much less survived. Selkendal rolled to the 
side and felt a bitter, searing pain as something very 
like a talon laid his tunic and side open. The cut was not 
as deep as it felt, however, and when he scrambled to his 
feet, he found he could go on fighting.
    The strange creature now stood on the other side of 
him, head uplifted, deep eyes studying him as if trying to 
figure out why it had missed. There was a cut in the left 
flank, but it was clean and bloodless. Selkendal found 
meeting its gaze unnerving, so he studied the rest of it.
    The talons, the muscled silver body, even the revealed 
quickness seemed nothing more than lurked in other 
creatures, nothing he couldn't handle. But then his gaze 
fell on the fang-lined jaws, and the air shivered as it 
had on the two occasions he had seen Grukkar. Something 
within him screamed a warning, and he flinched.
    He must not let it bite him. He didn't know why, just 
as he didn't know what the animal was, but he must not let 
it bite him.
    The dog flattened itself to the earth and then inched 
forward, snarling. Selkendal, prepared at any moment for 
another of those lightning leaps, circled to the side, 
both blades ready. If he could just get into a position to 
throw the swords, a common swordmaster's trick-
    The creature would not let him. It whirled to its feet 
like a top and sprang toward him. 
    It knocked him to the ground, and he nearly gagged as 
foul breath washed over his face. He could feel the 
taloned hind feet sliding, trying to get into 
disemboweling position, while the front feet held him down 
and the maw plunged for his neck. In some ways, the 
creature fought more like a cat than a dog.
    Selkendal had no time to think about that, however. He 
crossed Starslayer and Lightcleaver just above his face, 
and the teeth clanged off the enchanted steel. A moment 
later, it had leaped off and again stood watching him. 
Selkendal scanned it hopefully as he stood again, then 
sighed. No, there were no teeth missing.
    Could nothing he did even wound the thing?
    "Only one way to make sure," he muttered under his 
breath, and then stalked forward again, this time carrying 
the offensive. His swords wove a steel wall in front of 
him, a barrier that would slice apart at crucial points 
anyone who tried to reach him through it.
    The hound backed, snarling warningly, and then jumped 
over the swords, jaws aiming for Selkendal's face as if he 
were a wounded deer it intended to drag down.
    But that was what the curalli had been waiting for. 
His swords dipped for a moment, then straightened up, 
impaling the hound through the belly.
    The thing jerked for a moment, but no rush of blood 
soaked Selkendal's hands and face. After a moment, the 
creature floated over his head and crashed to the ground, 
unmoving.
    Selkendal sighed and lowered his blades. He never 
wanted to have another battle like that one again. Had he 
been a little slower in awakening, or his streetrunner's 
instincts not so finely honed-
    He froze as the hound rose to its feet and turned its 
head toward him. The cuts in flank and belly had closed 
cleanly, simply thinning and fading into scars that were 
gone even as he watched. Looking as fresh as ever, the 
hunter moved forward again. The green eyes were perhaps a 
little more wary, a little more watchful.
    That was all.
    "By all the dark stars, who sent you?" cried 
Selkendal, his voice a mixture of terror and rage. He 
backed up, holding the slender swords that should have 
killed it before him. "Who desires my death so much that 
he would summon something like you, with my eyes, and set 
it on my trail?"
    The creature paused, then sat back on its haunches. 
Selkendal watched in silent bewilderment while it seemed 
to nod several times. Then its head snapped up, and 
perfect, flawless Melli, the curalli speech, flowed 
sweetly from its jaws.
    "I am a servant of the silver stars, Selkendal 
Shadowgift, and they have lent me to Grukkar Goatleap as a 
way of expressing their will. I am a starhound, created to 
destroy anyone who threatens my masters. Your insanity and 
determination to destroy the world they built does. Now. 
Your surrender, and I will give you a quick death."
    Selkendal lifted his head and shook his white hair 
back from his face. It was soaked with sweat, the first 
time in years that he had ever perspired with so little 
exercise. "I suspect you will kill me, but I won't let you 
humble me first."
    The starhound gave a snarl that sounded almost 
sarcastic, and sprang. Not toward him, though- away from 
him. It moved so quickly that it was almost lost in 
shadows, and only the curalli's night-vision let him see 
the charge back again.
    He dropped to one knee and rammed Lightcleaver through 
the creature's throat, while at the same time slicing 
deeply into its side with Starslayer. The starhound 
brayed, a choked, strangled sound, and the clawed feet 
scrabbled over dead leaves and other debris. But the 
murderous eyes never left him, and it continued straining 
forward.
    Selkendal made a slight motion with battle-trained 
muscles, and sent them both into a roll. The starhound 
went flying away from him in the next few moments, in a 
controlled leap.
    Selkendal continued rolling, swords flying wide of his 
body and weaving a tight defense around his compact shape. 
Nevertheless, he felt punishing claws briefly rake his 
back, adding to the white blood dripping down his sides.
    At last, he came back to his feet, and dropped his 
blades. Steel had proven no good against the thing. It was 
time to see what curalli magic could do.
    The starhound stared at him, pointed ears coming up. 
"You are ready to surrender?"
    "Hardly." Selkendal smirked, then began to sing.
    The siren song of the curalli, his own only because 
pure shadowed Elwen blood flowed in his veins, rose and 
danced from his lips. It opened like a flower, each bud 
shyly quivering with dew- the next note, pure in beauty, 
dark and rich and mysterious. The starhound stood still 
for a moment, listening.
    Then it shook its head and laughed. At least, 
Selkendal guessed it to be laughter. It was a noise as if 
someone were strangling, uglier than any sound he had ever 
heard from a curalli's throat. The green eyes flashed as 
it spoke. "I am a servant of the true lords and ladies of 
the heavens! Do you think black star magic affects me?"