Shining Deep Prologue 115, Age of Arcadia, Late Spring "You must know that what you propose is desperate, Sapphiro." The voice meant to be respectful, but was cold and tight with anger. "And yet, you will do it anyway." Here anger became disbelief. Sapphiro Azurefire, speaker in the Council of Arcadia for the western sapphire Elwens, smiled; it did not touch his eyes. "Of course. The uses which you propose for it are something only a madman would agree to, Kalurtum. Why do you think the Council turned you down?" "Azajir!" the snow Elwen facing him hissed. "My name is Azajir!" He closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, as if willing calm back. It didn't work; when he opened his eyes, they still regarded the somak balefully. "They didn't exactly agree to what you had in mind, either. And yet-" "Yes. I will do it anyway. We've been over this. Aren't you getting a little tired of repeating yourself?" "Explain it to me one more time." The voice dripped sarcasm. Sapphiro sighed. "If you insist." His gaze wandered briefly over to a small table in the corner of the room that contained the object of their discussion. Against the rich sapphire walls of his room in the Council building, the rough wooden table appeared shockingly drab, and the white cloth that covered what was on it only slightly less so. Yet the prize they shielded from casual or unobservant visitors- and Azajir Kalurtum was neither- was beyond price. It was something that could have redeemed Arcadia in the difficult days after the bloody battle of the Sublimation, if- If anyone had been willing to pay the price that would inevitably come with it. "I do not think I need to recite its history again," Sapphiro stated, his eyes swinging back to Azajir. "You have heard it enough." The atagarn's pale face flushed an unbecoming silver, and his equally silver eyes glittered. "Of course. I was among the Council members who found the damn thing." Momentarily forgetting himself, he clenched his left hand into a fist and pounded it on the arm of his sapphire chair. "And I tell you, Sapphiro, I need it now! My home has been desolate for sixty-five years. If we had this-" "If you had this," Sapphiro cut in, his sapphire gaze flashing with contempt, "you would not be yourself in a year. Now calm down!" Azajir stared at his host for a moment, as if he might argue, then pulled an unpleasant smile and sat back again. Sapphiro continued to hold his stare, silently reminding the snow Elwen that he had been in the Council for only fifty of the sixty-five years he spoke of, while Sapphiro had been speaker of the western sapphire Elwens for more than five centuries. At length the silver eyes lowered, and the snow Elwen murmured something helpless-sounding in the language of his race, holding his empty palms up before him. Sapphiro's hard stare faded, but he was satisfied. He continued to speak expressionlessly. "You also know full well what it does, and that only one of those I have in mind can counter its unbelievable power." "Yes! A race who did not even have a representative a century ago!" Again Azajir seemed on the brink of forgetting himself; his eyes blazed with inner fires of hatred that the loss of the forces of good in the Third Good And Evil War had done nothing to quell. Catching Sapphiro's warning eye, however, he subsided and spoke the rest of his objections in a calm voice. "A race that held you prisoner not so long ago. Or have you forgotten?" "I have not." Despite his efforts to control his features, Sapphiro knew that a heartfelt look of pain overcame them for a few breaths. "But that does not mean they are not deserving of this, Azajir. I have traveled often among them, and I have found one whom- it- might accept as its holder." "Holder," Azajir murmured disdainfully. "Not wielder." Sapphiro ignored him, continuing the argument they's both heard so many times before. Even Azajir's interruptions were practically traditional. "You know as well as I that it will take a truly good person to control this stars-cursed thing. Yet it must also be a person with the power to do so. I repeat, I have found one." "One of them is good?" Azajir sneered, as he had so many times before. Sapphiro broke the steps of the dance by doing something he had not done before. Turning to the wall nearest them, he spoke a few soft words and gestured with his hand. Azajir tensed, doubtless cursing himself for coming unarmed into the private chambers of a fellow Council member, but the panel that slid aside with the efficient soundlessness only magic can provide did not reveal a weapon. Instead, it was a giant map of Fhevu, Arcadia's province farthest in the northwest, beautifully colored and meticulously detailed. Azajir glanced in astonishment at Sapphiro, who smiled thinly and tipped a hand. One corner of the map- a gray corner that not even the cartographers had been able to make lovely- began to radiate light as gray as itself, highlighting both the plains that made it up and the five cities that crouched there like lurking beasts. "She is in Holin," Sapphiro declared softly, his lips twitching as he observed Azajir trying vainly to wipe an impressed expression off his face. "Farthest out of their cities, so that she will be able to leave easily. And she is a member of the clan-" Azajir looked up alertly. "I thought you told me they were called Klainae." "Klaina, then- that is considered youngest and strangest by the others. Darkhand." Sapphiro clenched his fist, beaming. "And though I met her when she was barely a girl, I will tell you this: there was something shining deep within her that will make the Lifesword accept her as its wielder. The situation couldn't be more ideal." Azajir studied him for a long moment. "Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose it couldn't." He clapped his hands and uttered a soft oath. "But still- to give the Lifesword to a death Elwen!" "I do not recall asking your opinion," Sapphiro said, and now his eyes were the eyes of the politician who had remained in the Council for five centuries, extracting more and more concessions for his somewhat rogue race during it. "Did I?" "No, Councilman Sapphiro," Azajir muttered. Sapphiro turned back to the map, well satisfied. "So it is settled, then. I ride out in five days for Fhevu. I will meet her there and give it to her personally- if she merits it." Azajir looked up like one of the many predators of his Frigid Waste home about to pounce on prey. "I thought you had decided she did." "Oh, yes." Sapphiro shrugged at the thing under the white cloth. "But it demands one more test. Thus, I'll pretend to be wounded. If she rescues me, that'll prove even to the stubborn thing that she is ready to hold it. If not, then-" He shrugged again. "You will bring it back here?" Azajir pursued. "Yes. But not to be used." Sapphiro gestured, and the panel slid over the map again. Standing, he opened the door and politely but with some firmness indicated Azajir could depart. The speaker for the Frigid Waste snow Elwens ducked his head and did so. Once outside, and off the spiral sapphire staircase that led to Sapphiro's quarters, Azajir paused. He looked up for a moment at the immense Council building, built mostly of vesperstone, and so glowing a warm purple now in the light of sunset. Then he called softly. The sound clicked and rasped like a death rattle. A moment later, something darker even than the usual run of unusual creatures that protected the members of the Council of Arcadia soared from a small tower and down to meet him. It hovered above him, infusing his nostrils with its rank stink. Azajir pinched his nose shut, but kept his eyes firmly on the creature's, reminding it who was master here. After the almost compulsory struggle of wills, the beast tilted its misshapen head and made a questioning sound in its own tongue. "Councilman Sapphiro Azurefire is going to pretend to be wounded in Fhevu," Azajir said, his eyes narrow. "I suggest you make pretense a bit permanent." Chapter 1 Meylona 115, Age of Arcadia, Early Summer "Ha! Can't do this, Milmindeth. Dia and I have been practicing for hours!" Meylona Darkhand rose to her feet on the broad back of her mount, both body and midnight-dark hair swaying a little in the strong wind. Yet she had practiced, as she bragged, and so was able to keep her balance with only a little trouble. ^Ready?^ she asked Dia, speaking telepathically to make the movement appear spontaneous. -When you are- the deathtrotter mare responded, words falling in precise cadence with her thundering hoofbeats. Meylona tensed, felt the mare begin her circle, and sprang off Dia's back into the air. She flipped over three times, then landed upright on Dia's back as the mare, red eyes flaming as triumphantly as her dark ones, came around again. Meylona had jumped across a semicircle- no special feat, except for the absolute trust it required between trotter and rider. One misjudgment in the time it took Dia to circle or herself to flip, Meylona knew, and she could have suffered a jarring fall to the clay of the Falchian Plains that stretched away around them, gray and desolate. "Good job," Meylona whispered, bending down to stroke Dia's white mane, which moved slowly and constantly, as if stirred by invisible winds. -Thank you- the mare replied wryly. -But the best gift you can give me right now is sitting down. It hurts when all your weight is on your feet- Laughing, Meylona did as Dia asked, sliding somewhat abruptly to a sidesaddle position- or what would have been one if the deathtrotter had worn any tack- and then facing forward again, looping her legs expertly over the mare's back just behind her withers. Dia slowed and then stopped, breathing hard, flecks of white foam standing out against her raven coat. "Impressive, Lady Meylona." The impeccable, expressionless voice came from just behind her. Meylona started, then turned. Somehow Milmindeth had even trained Skim to walk silently. Beside her sat a male death Elwen with hair and skin as dark as hers. His eyes, however, were a black background to silver spangles, as if his gaze mirrored some starry sky, and the reason he wore the uncomfortable white tunic and leggings he did. However, he sat his deathtrotter stallion with all the grace that the nobly born Meylona did, and his face was as closed. Milmindeth Deepen did not consider himself below anyone; instead, Meylona received the impression that he didn't think about anybody much except herself and Skim. "But not safe," Meylona finished for him. A hint of a rare smile touched his features, but he looked full into the sun just then, and it might have been no more than a passing shadow. "It is past noon. We should be returning to Holin soon." Meylona nodded casually, silently gathering Dia's mane in her fingers and wrapping it tightly. The mare, though she suspected what would come next, stood still and almost bored, switching her tail at the flies that lived wherever equine creatures did. She sprang forward before Meylona's heels could touch her sides, and her ecstatic whinny twined with her mistress's cry of, "Race you there!" Behind her she could hear Skim's outraged snort and the quick tattoo of his hoofbeats plunging after theirs. The stallion, at least, liked challenges like this, even if his master thought they took him an unseemly distance from Meylona's side. Meylona bent forward, face level with Dia's neck and body hiked up to spare her steed as much weight as possible. Speeding along like this, the wind flinging a stinging net of her own hair in her face only to rip it away a moment later, she felt her cares fly from her shoulders, leaving her with an unaccustomed lightness. Dia was running now faster than many unburdened trotters could have gone, save perhaps a colt in the first excess of joy. Meylona shared her mare's quiet yet soaring elation. Deathtrotters, however much they objected to being called horses, had a horse's love of speed. A challenging neigh burst from the side, and then Skim was upon them, sweeping contemptuously by to take the lead. The arrogant angle of his neck, the whip of his sable tail in the wind, even the drumming of his hoofs, all signaled his disdain for the silly little mare who had thought she could best a stallion. Dia and Meylona, whose years together had made them respond to such things like one creature with two minds, waited until he was a good distance ahead. Then Dia unleashed the reserves of speed she'd been saving. Skim came to them as if he were running backwards. His startled eyes flashed past them for a moment, and then they were in front again, running, running, running, letting the wind sweep through hair and mane and mind, blasting away whatever it found there. Meylona threw back her head, glorying in it, then looked back to see how far Skim and her akla'shoon had fallen behind. She saw them for just a moment; then they were eclipsed by a shape diving out of the sun, heading directly for her and screaming for all it was worth. Dia neighed more in startlement than in fear as she found the movements of her legs suddenly slowed. She turned, snapping at the thing that hovered near and reached out for Meylona with stick-thin arms, tipped with dirty claws. The seley- for that was what it was- dodged the deathtrotter's teeth as if they weren't there; the bubble of magical slowness it carried about it did not affect it. Cursing, Meylona struggled to draw her firmly sheathed sword, feeling as if she were in a bad dream and could not escape. As if in a dream she watched the claws and the battering wings come toward her... And be knocked away by the whirling, skillful descent of a dark, white-clothed shape who landed and turned, grace barely diminished by the bubble of slowness, to dispatch the broken-winged seley whom he had downed with his spectacular leap. Meylona sighed and drew a hand up to push back her dark hair, pleased that only a little sweat greeted her trembling palm. "My thanks, akla'shoon," she said formally, but the words had real meaning behind them. She had lost count of how many times Milmindeth had saved her life, and perhaps it was just as well. She knew only that there was usually at least one "thank you" a day. The akla'shoon nodded, but never took his eyes off the seley his kicks had dispatched until its heartbeat, audible to an Elwen's sensitive ears, ceased. Then his starry gaze looked up at her without a hint of emotion. "I was merely doing my duty, Lady Meylona," came the proper and correct response. Meylona just barely stopped herself from reaching over to clap him on the arm- just barely, for she knew he did not like it, but such exuberant gestures were second nature to her around Milmindeth, the only two-legged person with whom she was really comfortable. Looking back, she saw Skim standing with his legs planted, though already he was molting the uncomfortable stance and trotting to meet his rider. Milmindeth had stood on his back, Meylona guessed, and then leaped just as his mount jerked to a stop, the combined momentum helping to overcome the seley's slowness. However arrogant he might be, Skim was a trained akla'shoon mount, and invaluable to his rider. "I believe you said something about returning to Holin?" Meylona asked, when her protector was again aboard. Milmindeth nodded. The shadow-smile touched his face again. "This time, no races, lady, please." "Of course not. I wouldn't dream of it," said Meylona innocently, and then with a whoop sent Dia racing across the Plains. ---------------------------------------------------------- "What was that again?" asked Milmindeth when the black bulk of Holin came into sight. He and Skim had finally caught up, but only because Meylona had slowed an exhausted Dia to a walk. The mare was perfectly willing to go on, she insisted, but distended nostrils and the lather covering her mane were already going to earn Meylona scoldings from the Trottermaster. She preferred those not to be more severe than they had to. Meylona smiled, knowing his comment referred to her promise of no races and her immediate disclaiming action, and flipped her shoulders upward. "I lie." Milmindeth's only response to this was a soft snort that could have been his mount's. Meylona felt her smile grow wider, and it was an effort to dismiss it. Looking at the city- immense building, rather- that they approached helped. She could feel her face becoming as bland as the clay beneath the tapping hooves of the trotters; if she showed an expression at all, it was cool indifference tinged with a touch of condescension. It was the sort of mask that suggested anyone wanting to talk to her should probably have something damn interesting to say. Holin bulked beneath the sun like an immense monster that could at any moment reach up and devour the flaming orb, only didn't feel like it right now, thank you very much. Made of solidified death force, it was a ka'cheer, an immense communal home that wrapped around courtyards, exercise spaces for the deathtrotters, gardens, and a few other open places. Except for giving trotters a good run, no one ventured onto the bleak Falchian Plains, leaving that to their four-legged companions. Why would they want to leave, many would have asked, when they had everything they needed right here? Meylona was widely considered crazy for disappearing some mornings with only her trotter and akla'shoon for company, but nobody said so. She was cousin to the Lady of Darkhand, and nobles could do as they liked. Standing before the gate were two guards, looking at the sky to see if anything was happening up there. They transferred their gaze to Meylona and her companions only when they could no longer ignore the hoofbeats, and one of them stepped forward. Meylona knew him- Riis, with the noble pure black eyes of Darkhand but with enough youth, mischief, and cousins to get him assigned almost every day as gate guard. "Who comes to the gates of Holin, the ka'cheer of Lady Baalma?" the youth intoned. "Lady Meylona Darkhand, daughter of Elide and Tumerin, sister of Thaloth, rider of Dia, and her akla'shoon, Milmindeth Deepen, rider of Skim." As always, her insistence that Milmindeth be given as much respect as possible lifted Riis's eyebrows. "A daughter of Darkhand, you say. Yet do you know the ways of Darkhand?" Meylona just barely kept from rolling her eyes. "Yes. To be vigilant, always; to be honest, forever; to be strong, neverending." Riis nodded and stepped back. "Pass, Lady Meylona Darkhand..." Meylona shut her ears as he went off into her spiel of titles and urged Dia through the gate, Milmindeth following like the shadow he was named for. Dark as the walls encircling them were, and windless and therefore stifling as the air inside was, Meylona felt her spirits rise. Whatever the faults of her Klaina, she loved her home. They stood in a courtyard paved with death force flags, so perfectly fitted it was only possible to tell where the flags ended by the slightly darker lines that took the place of cracks. Compared to the clay of the Falchian Plains, the death force was as smooth as silk, and set up reverberations of Dia's and Skim's hoofbeats that set Meylona's teeth on edge. Such acoustic excellence had its place, however, in magnifying speeches and preventing stealthy invasions. The walls around them revealed numerous doors for those who knew how to see them. Prisoners did not find it so easy, of course, but then they weren't meant to get out. As sha'sheerini, wearing the same white clothes as Milmindeth but with muscles far less finely honed than his, hastened forward to claim the heads of the tired deathtrotters, Meylona swung down. As usual, Milmindeth was down beside her immediately, encouraging looks among the sha'sheerini, if not words. It was hinted slyly in whispers that the akla'shoon's devotion to his lady was a bit- excessive, even for one trained to protect her from birth. Meylona, unlike so many nobles of Darkhand who wore the mask of indifference because it was expected of them, truly did not care what people thought, and so spoke softly to Milmindeth as they headed toward the nearest door. "Do you think my father will want to see me?" The akla'shoon shrugged, his starry eyes lowered in the submission that was no more than a game to him. "I do not know, lady. I suggested returning because I thought you might be hungry, not because I thought your father would want to see you soon." Meylona smiled, thin-lipped. A sha'sheerin who personally attended her father, Tumerin, had found her that morning and asked her to come to an audience with him some time that day. It was typical of Tumerin not to specify a time. "Now that you mention it, I am hungry. Do you think we could-" -Meylona, help- came from behind her, Dia sounding hopeless. Meylona turned, already knowing what she would see. A churni who didn't stand higher than halfway to Dia's withers- about four feet- shot Meylona an accusing look. One hand rested on the mare's neck, the other on Skim's. The stallion looked less tired, but contrived to hang his head and look put upon. Still irritated about being beaten back to Holin, Meylona guessed, and gleeful about the scolding she was about to get. "Yes, Trottermaster?" Meylona asked. Though the man had said nothing, he expected a response from a glare. "What have you been doing to these trotters?" the Trottermaster fumed. "They haven't been cooled down properly, or rubbed; I'll bet you haven't even allowed them to graze, have you? Were going to leave the sha'sheerini to do it, eh?" Meylona tried to get a word in edgewise, but the male churni was off, and she had to lift her eyes to the hidden stars and wait for patience. Born deformed- he had been no larger at ten than he was now, and walked with a limp- the Trottermaster would have been consigned to the lowest ranks of the sha'sheerini servants if not for a fantastical ability to work with deathtrotters. He could tell at a glance whether an equine was sick or injured, had brought beloved mounts back from injuries that should have killed them, and in general knew everything about the beasts there was to know. He was the only person in Holin who could get away with treating them like horses, and the lectures of a person like that were just something that had to be put up with, like rain. "-and see to it that you walk them properly after a run, next time," the Trottermaster finished. "Yes, Trottermaster," Meylona said, answering for both herself and Milmindeth. An akla'shoon never spoke to anyone but her trotter and the one she was a shadow of except by special invitation. "Good," the Trottermaster snorted, and stumped off to the stables, "poor, innocent" stallion and mare in tow. Skim walked more jauntily already, but Dia, who took a fierce pride in looking beautiful and thought the grooms in the stables had a chronic case of mucking it up, dragged her hooves as much as possible. Milmindeth's shadow-smile was hovering on his lips- three times in one day. A probable record, Meylona thought. "Shall we feed, Lady Meylona, or would you rather see your esteemed father first?" Meylona sighed gustily as they reached the door at last, safe from lecturing Trottermasters. "I am hungry, as I said, but my esteemed father will doubtless forget to tell me something vital if I don't remind him that he made an appointment." "Indeed." Meylona sighed blissfully as they entered the main hall of the ka'cheer, and not just because they were again inside the place she knew best. Speaking to Milmindeth was like speaking to herself, with the apathy of indecision taken out of it. They walked as quietly as Elwenly possible through the corridor, as smooth as the courtyard outside and as bound to reflect every sound back at them. The walls, warm to the touch of a hand, occasionally flickered golden. Meylona paid no attention, so used to the flickers she accepted them as something natural, and Milmindeth watched only because he never relaxed his guardianship of her. Ka'cheeri had been breached before. Klaina Darkhand had received visitors before- it was inevitable, with churni slowly reaching out to the world for the first time in millennia- but one thing Meylona could never understand was their unchanging claim that the ka'cheer was a maze. She followed the corridors and avoided the deadly snares unthinking, for this was her home, the place where her confidence could not be challenged. Even Milmindeth could not match her there, though he surpassed her, she thought with affection, in everything else. Now and then they passed other churni, nobles or guards in the customary dress of wound strips of shapeless black leather, or sha'sheerini with their uncomfortable white clothes bright in the darkness, like the glimmer of ghosts. All nodded to Meylona, and those lower in rank- all servants and guards, and some of the nobles- paused to watch her and her akla'shoon go by. There was no conversation; conversation between two death Elwens was often a planned thing, not spontaneous. Another one of the reasons, Meylona thought with disgust at both the cause of the thought and the familiarity of its track, that I love my home rather than the people who live here. They came to the section of the ka'cheer where her father lived, a place even quieter than usual. It had been untenanted except for Tumerin Darkhand for nearly five centuries now, since the birth of his son Thaloth. Meylona glided to a stop at the appropriate door and knocked. There was a long moment of almost startled silence before an answer came. Tumerin opened the door and beamed at the two of them in his distracted manner, then stepped back, waving a hand. "Come in, come in," he said, voice as faded as the chamber into which they stepped. Meylona obeyed, experiencing the usual sense of wistful frustration that bubbled up inside her on her rare journeys here. The golden flickers in the walls, the only source of some kind of light- for windows were something that existed only in the ideas of outsiders- were obscured by dark tapestries no longer in style and now mantled with as much dust as delicate weaving. The death force floor, normally left uncovered, had been draped with a carpet that had been meant to represent the night sky. Meylona no longer knew, and suspected her father didn't either, how many of the specks on it were woven stars and how many food crumbs. Tumerin hadn't set foot outside this room in five centuries, but he was not familiar with it as Meylona was with the corridors; he dwelt in a room that no longer existed, filled with bright laughter he hadn't heard in all that time and had no hope of ever hearing again. Tumerin had been tall and strong once, Meylona knew. He was still tall, but now seemed transparent in a manner that had nothing to do with his gauntness. Even his black Darkhand eyes were mirrors, or prisms, shining with a collected light not his own. Meylona pitied him usually, but at other times felt nothing but irritation. This was one of those times, perhaps inspired by her hunger, perhaps not. She was beginning to wish she had let him forget about this appointment. "Yes, Father?" she urged with all the gentleness left to her, which wasn't much after the Trottermaster's lecture and his continuing vacant smile. "You wanted to see me?" Tumerin nodded slowly and gestured toward one of the two chairs in the room, his own. He never let anyone sit in the other. "Will you sit down?" Meylona's irritation faded into her usual exasperated pity, and she nodded, doing as he had asked. It wasn't that the seat, carved of some rare and expensive dark wood and cloaked with layers of black silk, wasn't comfortable; it simply kept her here longer, by delaying her with the gestures of politeness. Tumerin remained standing before the second chair, the twin of the first but carved of white wood, and thus the only pale thing in the room. "Now, Meylona..." he began, voice wandering like someone dizzied in the ka'cheer. She waited, and at last he got to the point. "You've had your sixtieth birthday, I know." "Six hundred," Meylona said with quiet restraint. Tumerin blinked, momentarily thrown off course. "What?" "Six hundred. I'm six hundred, father, not sixty." For the first time in a long time, some emotion besides vacant welcome or longing touched Tumerin's face: embarrassment. Meylona, keeping her face the same cool mask she always wore in here, nevertheless felt twin stabs of satisfaction and understanding. It was pleasing to think that she had forced him to consider something beyond his own grief. On the other hand, she really couldn't blame him. Sixty had been the birthday he made the biggest fuss over before... Before she was one hundred, and her brother Thaloth was born, and the next morning her mother Elide had simply vanished. "Of course, of course." Tumerin went so far as to lean over and pat her on the shoulder, though that brought him dangerously close to bumping into the white chair. "My apologies." Meylona closed her eyes, with which she was having some trouble, and nodded. When she opened her eyes again, she knew they were again as smooth and blankly inexpressive as the rest of her face. "That doesn't explain what you wanted to see me for, father." Tumerin mumbled something she didn't hear and stared at the star-carpet as if still mortified. "What, father?" Meylona asked with iron patience. Tumerin looked up at her, and abruptly assumed a manner she hadn't seen him take since before his wife vanished, when he had sometimes still been summoned to stand before the Lady of Darkhand, as her close cousin, and make a speech. "It has been brought to my attention that you spend all your time in the ka'cheer with Thaloth, and outside with Dia." He did not mention Milmindeth, and anger stirred in Meylona that she could not express, anymore than she could her perplexity. People took an akla'shoon so much for granted! "I do, father. Still, who would take an interest in my doings?" It was peculiar for any death Elwen to interfere in the life of another; it was only the deathtrotters, much more creatures of the herd, who had no such reservations. "Lady Baalma." Meylona couldn't help it; her jaw dropped open. She snapped it into place the next moment and worked to rebuild the pieces of her shattered mask. "Surely she couldn't think I'm ready to marry, father." Was that a quiver invading her voice? She fought it down, trying not to remember that it was traditional for females to be betrothed and married earlier when a Lady ruled the Klaina, and vice versa when a Lord did. "After all, I have not yet even had my Wanderfree." She knew as soon as she saw Tumerin's look of displeasure that she, usually able to run circles about her passive father, had made a mistake. She had brought up an ancient Elwen custom, a two-year trial of adulthood, that the churni had abandoned long ago and which had only recently been reinstated as a means of gaining contact with the outside world. Lady Baalma and several other nobles outwardly approved it, but inwardly weren't sure- just like about everything else, Meylona thought, with a sudden flare of wild resentment. In a low voice that nonetheless could have frozen boiling water- her father in his secluded apartments felt free to ignore Baalma's dictates about calm faces and voices- Tumerin said, "No. Even she recognizes that the passage of a few centuries does not mean a child is ready for marriage." Meylona accepted both things in that sentence, truth and blistering rebuke, with one silence. "But she does think we need to stretch out our hands to the world more. It is no more productive for you to see only those you are comfortable with than it was for us to huddle in our ka'cheeri." He curled his lip slightly, as though he didn't really believe his own words. Maybe he didn't. Meylona felt her heart lift with unaccustomed hope, and for the first time in years she spoke her opinion as an action, not a reaction. "Father, are we reaching out to the world because we want to, or because we feel we'll be trampled if we don't? Simply because-" She limped to a stop and turned her head away to compose face and eyes again. The expression on her father's features was one she could not face. "I will never remember you asked that question," her father said, voice as calm and cold as hers had been. "And you will never ask it again. Agreed?" Composed, the perfect little Klaina noble again, Meylona looked up at him. "But of course, father." Tumerin stared at her for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied, and turned away. Meylona subsided into herself, eyes focused on his back, burning inside, though she knew her face was like black ice without. "Lady Baalma does not think you close enough to the throne to warrant dii'a'foli, either," Tumerin tossed over his shoulder. Meylona hoped he didn't see her shiver of thankfulness. She was glad she wouldn't have a forced marriage. "But all Darkhand nobles must set examples for lesser churni who may be- reticent. I am sure you understand." Yes, I understand, Meylona answered. I always have. You're warning me not to be reticent again, father. The trouble is, I don't know whether you believe that or simply don't want me to get in trouble with the Lady. Aloud she uttered another calm, "But of course." "Will you talk to your brother about it?" Tumerin asked, turning back fully again. "I understand he cannot receive many visitors, but there are those who would take the time, and not make him feel inferior. He restricts those who would associate with him as much as you do." Worse, father. Meylona answered silently and in sadness. He cannot ride a deathtrotter, and has no need for an akla'shoon. But aloud she offered her empty affirmative again. She didn't know if she would really do it, though she supposed she would. She was forced to care about the opinions of those above her in rank if she were to survive. "Good." Tumerin seemed distracted; he had fallen into a reverie again, staring at the white chair, and it was a long moment before he resumed the conversation. "There are many who would be your friends, Meylona, if you would only let them." "I am sure there are, father." Little sha'sheerini that have not the grace of my Milmindeth, or guards playing their little games of intrigue, or fellow nobles who deigned to acknowledge her existence only when she was directly there or it pleased them... "And there is the matter of Lady Baalma wanting to see you," Tumerin said, as casually as his sha'sheerin had delivered the news that he wanted an audience with her. "She wants to see if the reports she has heard about you are true." Meylona stared at him. He stared at the white chair. The silence went on for some moments; then he lifted his head. "You may go." "Thank you," Meylona said through numb lips, and stood to exit. ---------------------------------------------------------- Leaning against the smooth, warm wall of the ka'cheer, Meylona cursed softly and steadily, looking up between every filthy word to make sure no one was coming down the hall. Milmindeth waited by her side with stoic patience, speaking when her last word had died into silence. "Did you fear this? Or expect it?" "Both," Meylona answered hollowly. Her brain reeled and tumbled like one drunk on too much life-force. Those who went to the Lady Baalma, for whatever reason, either never emerged or did not emerge the same. The Lady was a ruler to fear in a long line of strong rulers. "Meylona." Milmindeth only ever spoke her name without the title when he was worried about her; she thought often that it was the only gesture of tenderness he would permit himself. "Snap out of it. If you have an audience with Lady Baalma, you must get there as soon as possible." No need to mention the fate of those few who hadn't. "Right. You're right." Meylona took a long breath and pulled her face firm again. "Let's go." They set off down the route Meylona knew, as she knew all the corridors of Darkhand, but had never dared take. When she was a child, and Lady Baalma's father, Lord Fulferin, had ruled, the children had sometimes crept giggling to see how close they could get to his door without being noticed by the guards. No one would have done that with Lady Baalma. The guards became visible almost at once: creatures summoned from the spirit-void, frosthounds and firehounds, and familiar allies that were almost worse, because Meylona knew they would kill her if she were an intruder: basalisks, cockatrices, and skelkins, the panthers with skulls in place of heads that fed, like death Elwens, on life-force. What was even more frightening was that they recognized her. The first frosthounds to appear before them, shining, silvery creatures with blank white eyes who exuded a feeling of pure cold, stared at them- or, more precisely, at her- only a moment before bowing their heads and melting back into the shadows. The halls were lit here with lamps of cold fire, blue and white and silver, ostensibly to accustom those who walked here, those churni who had to deal the most with the outside world, to light. Meylona smiled inwardly. She knew the truth, but the knowledge gave her no pleasure. The shadows those lamps provided were used by guardian creatures to hide in. Firehounds likewise gave way, and skelkins. It was reassuring, because she was expected- and frightening for the same reason. Lady Baalma had absolute confidence in her power; she knew that no one extended an invitation had ever refused it. At last they came to the door of the ruler of Darkhand, marked with the sigil of Darkhand- a grasping fist- in golden life-force. Meylona touched the soft warm disk, and it melted away. The doors opened with a soundlessness that further went to emphasize the power that breathed in the air here. Meylona had entered the throne room of Klaina Darkhand but two times in her life: once soon after birth to be presented to Lord Fulferin, and again after the Lord died to swear loyalty to the new Lady. The first visit she had been too young to remember, and the second she had been one face in a crowd. Now she would be facing the Lady of Darkhand with no one but her akla'shoon for support, and the Lady's attention would be focused solely on her. Though her face remained calm, never had she been so frightened. The room was outwardly much like many in the ka'cheer, except for its sumptuous size, the throne in the center, and the braziers of cold light in the corners. Lady Baalma believed in having only a few visible symbols of her authority; she did not have luxurious carpets, or hangings, or even furniture. The throne, observed the part of Meylona that never seemed to get surprised or upset, looked very uncomfortable, sculpted as it was like a wave, forcing its sitter to lay her or his head back. But she only became aware of those observations later. For the time being her whole being was focused on the Lady. Lady Baalma Darkhand did not sit on the throne as if it were boring, or enjoyable, or even as if she were going to look patient if it killed her, which some older churni whispered was how Lord Fulferin had sat. She sat in such a way that one observing her was not conscious of the throne at all, it seemed so much a part of her. It helped that she was beautiful, with the kind of high, regal beauty that came even among nobles perhaps once in a generation, and less often among the Heir to a Klaina throne. She had gained the best features of both her father and her mother, a minor noble of Klaina Deathwield. She had, of course, the dark eyes that were a prerequisite for nobility, but in her equally dark face they seemed luminous. Her hair was the blue of midnight frost, a delicate color on the rim of silver, and soft and wavy instead of either curly or straight. Yes, she was born to be a Lady. Meylona did not tremble with the knowledge of that beauty, however, nor even with envy. It was with the consciousness that every breath she drew in this chamber was only by the Lady's pleasure, that Lady Baalma could have her snuffed out like a candle in a moment, and think less about it. Meylona knelt in the manner of a minor noble to a great, one hand over her heart, one on her brow, one knee on the floor, pledging heart and mind to the defense of her Lady and through her, the Klaina. Beside her, Milmindeth stood- not because an akla'shoon was allowed any special dispensation in the presence of a ruler, or even to allow him to protect his charge better. No one cared enough about him or took enough note of his existence to make him kneel. "Rise." At the sound of the voice that had ended more lives than the seven rulers before her, Meylona did indeed rise, and more gracefully than she had performed the motion in her entire life. The Lady liked grace, and it was wise to please the Lady. Or else. Lady Baalma regarded her for a moment, unspeaking, as the echoes of her command died. Meylona, though she wanted either to stare or to run in terror, somehow kept her face coolly calm, kept her eyes focused on the Lady but not offensively so, both there and not there. "I have heard," Baalma said- even her voice was beautiful, the thin high ringing of a bell but with the silky warmth of death force- "that you have few friends." "That is true, Lady," Meylona said, promptly and unhesitatingly. Other things the Lady liked were truth and promptness. "That is a bad example, do you not think?" On receiving Meylona's murmured agreement, the Lady of Darkhand sat back in her chair, head tilted like that of a hawk poised to pounce on prey. "Tell me, then: Why have you maintained your isolation, when there are those who would be your friends if you let them?" The unexpected repetition of what Tumerin had said, uncertainty of the Lady's meaning, and the asking of a question Meylona herself had never known the answer to shocked her. The silence stretched long. Lady Baalma never moved. Her eyes remained equally still, drilling into Meylona like diamonds. No, the younger churni thought at last in misery. I do know the answer. But saying it will earn me death. Still, as I am probably dead anyway for refusing to answer, I might as well say it. "Because," she said stiffly, "I do not regard them as worthy of being my friends, Lady." This silence was even longer. Lady Baalma's eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. Meylona thought of herself as she must appear in them: small and dirty, inelegant and unlovely next to the Ruler of the Klaina, a feminine copy of her father. That was one thing Tumerin could never forgive her for, not preserving some shard of her mother's beauty- even though he wouldn't visit Thaloth for the opposite reason. "Such arrogance," Lady Baalma said crisply, making her start guiltily, which was perhaps precisely her intent, "would be appropriate for an Heir to a throne. No one else, I don't think." If she expected a response to that, Meylona could not give it. She was close to swooning with fear. It was well known that Lady Baalma was sensitive about the one child she had so far borne, and so the only Heir to the throne thus far. Her daughter Erla was as beautiful as her mother, as clever as her father, a noble of Klaina Deathbring- and as honest as the dawn. No matter how her mother drilled her, Erla seemed incapable of learning the subtle process of lies, intrigue, and half-truths that a ruler with less than absolute power would need to keep her on the throne. Because of this, she did not behave like a Klaina Heir, and it was known that any thought to be mocking her or usurping her privileges went to a swift death. Or perhaps one not so swift... All these things played through Meylona's mind in the blink of an eye, but her face never changed. Though she may have swayed a bit on her feet, she knew with a certain bitter pride that she still looked calm and gathered, even though stricken dumb by Baalma's insinuation. Well, she had had a lot of practice. The Lady abruptly changed the subject, obviously considering her warning well-planted. "Your brother Thaloth. How is he?" "Very well, Lady. Thanks to you for asking," Meylona responded at once, glad for the first time of the formalized courtesies Baalma had introduced on her ascension. It let her answer correctly without involving the part of her brain still gibbering away with fear. "He does not have many visitors either, does he? Or your father, Tumerin?" "No, Lady." "Sad, that. Very sad." There was a note in her voice that was causing Meylona some puzzlement: as if she wanted to say something but didn't dare. And what would the Lady of Darkhand not dare? "Yes, Lady." "Well." Lady Baalma clapped her hands abruptly, and a white-clothed sha'sheerin appeared beside Meylona. "If you will follow Gerfin to your brother's apartment?" There was no need for a guide to her brother's apartment, a place Meylona visited every day, but such a mark of favor from the Lady herself was not to be disdained. "The Lady does me too much honor," Meylona answered, dropping into the posture of minor noble's bow once more. Baalma nodded, eyes already distant, as if focused on something else. Meylona followed the servant quietly out of the door on the other side of the room, Milmindeth at her side making no more noise than the cold fires. Gerfin did not glance back at them as he threaded the corridors of the ka'cheer like a guardian ghost, his pace solemn as if leading the funeral march of a ruler. Of course, Meylona thought, seeking anything to distract herself after that terrifying and confusing audience, there was no reason for a sha'sheerin to glance at either a noble or her akla'shoon. Those born with eyes of mixed color- and thus without the power of bringing the dead back to life- were destined to be servants. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more. And yet, she didn't feel that way about Milmindeth. There was something she had to speak to him about, but now was not the time to do it. The sha'sheerini who served the Lady were widely known and accepted as her spies, but just because everyone knew it didn't mean they spilled their secrets on purpose. They came to her brother's door, and the sha'sheerin knocked for her, before she could do it. As Meylona had expected, he stood aside while Thaloth's high, young voice called out for them to come in, then followed them in. Her talk with Milmindeth was being pushed farther and farther into the future. The room they entered was comfortable, neither overly luxurious as Tumerin's nor austere as the throne room. The golden flickers flashing in the walls were almost obscured by the light of a fire crackling cheerfully in a hearth made of ice that did not melt. The light and shadows reached out to stroke the neat ranks of pictures that marched around the room, pictures of all four moons in all their phases. The furniture consisted of a small table and a wide bed draped with dark red cloth, because it was Thaloth's favorite color, and because Thaloth never left that bed. The young death Elwen looked up as they came in, eyes and smile bright. Meylona had never seen them otherwise; it was as if he willed himself to be cheerful. Poor child, Meylona thought with the pity that she sometimes told herself was love, with a father that won't see him and no hope of ever leading a normal life, I suppose he does have to force himself to be happy. "Come in, come in!" Thaloth motioned eagerly, dark eyes shining. His eyes were his father's, but his soft green hair, his clean, sharp, fragile face, his voice low and rich with music- all those were relics of his mother, Elide. "I was about to cast a seeing, but it can wait. Tell me what you've been doing all day!" Meylona came to him, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took his hand. That, at least, was as a death Elwen's should be, dark and smooth except where a swirling pool of black liquid, such as dotted churni all over their bodies, broke it. Indeed, above the point where his body vanished under the covers, he looked normal. Underneath it, Meylona knew, were a pair of legs crippled and twisted as if a deathtrotter had fallen on them. He had slipped like that from the womb, and would be like that until his dying day. "Hello," Thaloth said again, still shining like a jewel that knows it's going to be shattered. "And who's this stranger?" He nodded to Gerfin, who allowed a shiver of surprise to disturb the cold calm of his features. Nobles were not required to acknowledge sha'sheerini, and therefore few of them did. Apparently the servant did not realize that Thaloth saw few enough people to acknowledge every one, except Milmindeth. An akla'shoon was lower than a sha'sheerin, and the peculiar freedom of invisibility brought its price as well. "Gerfin, a sha'sheerin serving the Lady," Meylona said, without any special inflection in her voice. Let the spy make of that what he would and take it back to Baalma. "And, Thaloth, I've been out for a gallop on Dia. I've learned- finally- to do that jumping trick I told you about. And..." As she continued, detailing the day- all except her audiences with her father and the Lady- Thaloth's face softened, changing from determinedly cheerful to wistful. Meylona saw that and felt an ache of envy, as she always did. Freedom of expression was the one and only thing she would have given up her health for. Unfortunately, people cared what she did, as had been proved with startling suddenness today, while Thaloth, though a noble, stayed away from everyone but her. The expression, however, also reminded her how much she had that Thaloth didn't. The boy spent all his days sleeping, eating the food Meylona brought him, listening to the news, or casting his "seeings" on the fire- shaping flames into the visions of the outside world he wanted so much to join. There was nothing else for a crippled noble of Darkhand; he couldn't ride a deathtrotter, and he didn't have an akla'shoon because his life wasn't considered worth preserving. At last, when Meylona's throat and news ran dry, she turned to the matter Lady Baalma had wanted her to bring up. "Thaloth, the Lady is concerned that you don't get enough visitors in here." Thaloth's face didn't light up with astonishment; he didn't ask who would want to visit Tumerin's lame son. He said instead, "If the Lady wishes it done, it will be done." Gerfin gave a tiny, satisfied nod. It was all a game, of course. letting them believe that was all he would report back to the Lady. They knew it wasn't, and he knew they knew. The sick, twisted games of intrigue occasionally made Meylona long for a breath of clean air, but when her brother's life was very probably at stake, the games had to be played. Gerfin left then, his footsteps rebounding from the death force even as he tried to walk silently. Meylona looked up at Milmindeth, but the akla'shoon was already ghosting after the sha'sheerin, to make sure he went back to the Lady and nowhere else. Meylona felt a brief, warm glow of gratitude for such a friend who knew her so well. She didn't even have to ask him. She and Thaloth spoke of small things then: Dia's vanity, the general thickheadedness of the Trottermaster, whether he wanted a small or large chunk of the food Meylona would soon depart to get. At last her brother turned to cast the dust that would permit a seeing on the fire, and Meylona left, walking softly. Their visits never lasted long, however hungry Thaloth was for news; they were death Elwens still, and solitary. Meylona met Milmindeth in the hall; he wouldn't stray too far from her side even on a mission for her. His telepathic thoughts answered her at once. ^The sha'sheerin entered the throne room at once. Whatever the Lady's interest in you, my lady, it must be somewhat important.^ Meylona smiled bitterly, then turned toward the part of the ka'cheer where the fleg'ruth were kept. ^Yes. But I don't know why she seems so concerned that I busy myself with others. She must know I am-^ ^I do not know, my lady, but must I remind you that it is dangerous to talk about it?^ Meylona lapsed into silence. Milmindeth didn't have to tell her twice; there were things in the ka'cheer that could listen even to mental conversations, and those not serving the Lady would at the least report what they heard to her if she asked them. Most would report it voluntarily. "Serve the Lady, serve the Klaina," as the command went (or Lord, in the time of a Lord). Meylona wished there were some way to serve her home and family without actually serving the people or Lady therein. She squashed the thought immediately. First, it was impossible; second, she must do as the Lady commanded if she were to survive. Tomorrow she might search out some of the less boring nobles, or maybe even one of the guards- churni with eye colors that were pure but not Darkhand black- and see if they were truly anxious, as both Tumerin and Baalma insisted, to be her friends. But now she was hungry. She didn't have to speak a word; the red film was there in her eyes for anyone to see, including Milmindeth. They moved silently down the dark halls. ---------------------------------------------------------- They came to the partition that separated fleg'ruth from churni. Meylona had heard that one or two of the other Klainae made the section where their fleg'ruth dwelt as prison-like as possible, wanting to force home the impression that there was no escape. Meylona had never personally liked eating from depressed people, and it appeared most of the other death Elwens in the ka'cheer had the same idea. There was a barrier between prison and living space, yes, but it was no forbidding wall of bars, only a soft curtain of blue light that any churni could pass through with ease. Meylona did so, her akla'shoon on her heels, not relaxing even here; he never relaxed anywhere. The corridors they paced through were outwardly no different from the others, except for the light. Soft globes of magical light, beaming white and blue and a yellow that the fleg'ruth seemed to find especially cheerful, sat in ornate stands fastened to the walls. Making the globes was something for churni children to do and ridiculously reassured the fleg'ruth, so Baalma had ordered the practice continued after she became Lady. Meylona privately liked it as well as the prisoners; it gave a sense of the clean air she had so desired, a wide, open sweep under the sunshine, removing the sense of walls and closed-in spaces. Something moved ahead, and Milmindeth tensed, but it was only a Darkhand noble and his akla'shoon, apparently on the way out from feeding. The noble nodded at Meylona and would have moved on, but recognizing him as Polian, one of the less boring nobles she had considered earlier, she stopped and hailed him. The other noble turned languidly toward her, eyebrow lifted in question. "Yes, my dear Meylona?" he drawled. Meylona ignored what could be taken as a snub- after all, she was of lower rank- and inclined her head in the most respect she could convincingly fake. "Lord Polian, Lady Baalma has told me that she is concerned I am not associating more." Better to put it that way than to tell him baldly the Lady of Darkhand wanted her to have more companions. "She claims that I spend most of my time alone. Would you honor me with your company the next time you ride out on Flash?" She expected either acceptance or a scornful refusal. What she didn't expect was what happened next. Polian, like herself, had always been one of the most successful about obeying Baalma's dictate that showing as little emotion as possible was noble. Even at the mention of the Lady's name he had exhibited only a certain bored interest, and though Meylona had observed him a time or two when he thought he was alone, she had never seen anything that could pass as true sorrow, joy, or anger. Thus she was understandably puzzled to see his eyes soften, from onyx to gleaming dark pools. He gave the most minute shake of his head. "No, Meylona," he said softly. His voice would have fooled most people into thinking he was only being himself, but she had seen his eyes. "I don't think I'd be interested in accompanying you. Not that way," he added cryptically. Meylona, puzzled but knowing he couldn't say more for fear of revealing himself to a spy, dropped briefly into the full bow of minor noble to greater. "So be it. Thank you, Lord Polian." The other noble smiled wryly at her with his eyes before going on. They both knew she wasn't thanking him for his rejection of the request. They came to an intersection. Meylona debated momentarily over taking the left fork, toward where the insane fleg'ruth slept, or the right, where more hardy and better-tasting meals were. Then she sighed and went left. As usual. The insane ones at least didn't look at you with that quiet, helpless misery when you fed on them. Another corner. Three more corners, separated by three identical short lengths of straight hall. Then she was opening a door that, like so many in the ka'cheer, would open only to the touch of a churni hand. The fleg'ruth thought they moved at will through the dark death force that bounded the prisoners' lives. That wasn't so- or at least not for the death Elwens of Darkhand. The doors were simply invisible and held shut for everyone else. The room they entered was the one exception to making the fleg'ruth feel at home. Even Baalma, anxious to please the outside world, had to agree that insane people could hardly care less about their surroundings. Thus, the room was bare and dark, with no lights and none of the false windows showing false outside scenes that Darkhand illusionists created for those who behaved well. Meylona, seeing, like all Elwens, the auras cast by the force of existence, swept her eyes over it. The fleg'ruth sat chained or roped to the walls, some staring off into the distance, others singing quietly and looking quite normal until you peered into their eyes, and others plucking steadily at either themselves or their clothing or blankets that had been given them to pluck on. Not even those who scratched themselves until they bled suffered too badly, however; their chains were of solidified life- force, bought secretly and at a great price from one of the few life Elwen traders who did not disdain the churni. Meylona's eyes- she could barely see now through the richness of the red film- settled firmly on a woman chained to the wall and staring at the ceiling. She was a land Elwen of indeterminate age, with the typical pale skin and fine features of her race, but a vacant look in her blue eyes and no gloss at all in her silver hair. Someone looking at her would have thought her already drained- by a vampire, perhaps- and likely to die. But to Meylona's death Elwen senses she flamed brightly. The more often someone had been close to death, the stronger their life-force. This woman had been a warrior before she was captured, and each feeding done on her since then increased the store of food that was left. Meylona strode quietly to the woman, stepping over a body lying motionless on a pallet. She shook her head in quiet disgust. One of the main benefits of driving prisoners insane was that it was the only way Elwens could be kept. Otherwise, they had a habit of stopping their hearts the moment the situation became hopeless. This one had obviously come to some semblance of sanity and departed only a moment before; the expression on his face was one of rapturous joy. Kneeling in front of the land Elwen, the young death Elwen hesitated, then relaxed as she saw that Milmindeth, who had fed while she slept earlier, had already taken up guard at the door. Facing the fleg'ruth, the churni spoke in Aril, the tongue of the woman's people and the common language of Elwenkind. "Well met, stranger. What is your name?" The stranger lifted her head. Calling what came into her eyes sanity was too strong, but it was at least interest. "Alura Winterhair. What's yours?" Meylona knew for a fact that she wasn't telling the truth; both the lie-detecting buzz in her ears and her previous knowledge of the woman's identity told her so. But trying to force knowledge of who she had been on a shattered mind would either kill her or restore her to remembrance. Meylona had no wish to do either. "Meylona Darkhand," she said gently. "A churni. Do you remember now?" Alura's eyes clouded over for a moment, and she nodded, once and quickly. A mere mention of a death Elwen tended to send her mind into a protective trance- perhaps the only way she had survived feedings so long. Either herself or her torturer did not allow her to perceive them. Meylona stretched out her hands and concentrated on them, releasing the usual inner controls that kept her power locked up. Death Elwens could either feed or kill with a touch of their hands, but unless they kept both somewhat locked up, they would be doing one of the two all the time- one reason they were trained to use swords and other conventional weapons. But now she was intending to feed, and so could safely release it. Barely pausing, she reached out and placed her hands gently on the front of Alura's tunic. Her fingers sank in through cloth, simply creating holes, and then through skin. She drew on the golden source of the life-force that powered the spirit and kept life going, drew out the precious liquid, and replaced what she stole with her own dark chill. It was that chill that eventually killed all fleg'ruth, even the hardiest, even the strongest. The golden liquid hit her frigid hands and froze immediately, becoming two palms' worth of what looked like solidified honey. Meylona lifted it to her mouth- not worrying about the hole in Alura, for no blood, life- force, or anything else escaped- and bit into it. The sound she made was a soft crunch, but the taste was indescribable. Meylona trembled at what was more than sweetness, at what for her people was the taste of life itself. She ate every bit, and felt the red film on her eyes and the burning in her belly die away, leaving her hunger satisfied. Still, she drew out a second handful, then stroked the hole gently and watched it vanish. Bringing away food like this was the only way Thaloth got to eat. Standing, Meylona bowed to Alura, who was returning from her trance. "Thank you," she said, softly and a bit sadly. There were times she wished they could simply survive on animals from the forests, but it is the curse of the churni that they must feed on intelligent life. She made her way toward where Milmindeth waited, cradling her precious frozen burden in her hands. "Let's go," she murmured, face turned away from the chamber of horrors. She visited it, but she didn't have to like it. Milmindeth glided forward without a word to take the lead. Meylona followed, bent over the life-force as if it were a child. ---------------------------------------------------------- Meylona stepped from Thaloth's room, closing the door behind her, and flipped a weary salute to her akla'shoon, who had again been standing watch. It was only a sensible precaution to take, with the Lady's spies potentially watching one's every move. "Mission accomplished. My brother ate and is currently sleeping." She had said the words every evening for most of her life, but suddenly they took on a new and significant meaning. They were one more thing she had done that hadn't landed her in the Lady's torture chambers. Milmindeth nodded and started to lead the way toward her chambers, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I need to talk to you privately," she whispered. The akla'shoon's starry eyes showed no hint of any emotion, either curiosity or concern. He set off, leading the way toward the place they usually went when they wanted to speak without ears pricked to every word. Meylona followed him into a little-used hall, usually reserved for visitors when the Klaina had any, and out into the garden the churni had created for those same visitors. The death Elwens found the presence of such life revolting unless they wanted to feed, and as they could not feed on plants, they rarely went into the garden. It was therefore perfect for Meylona's purposes. As she stepped into the real fresh air, and not just the parody the lamps in the fleg'ruth quarters managed to suggest, Meylona drew in a grateful breath, throwing her head back and filling her lungs. She looked back at Milmindeth, who watched her with no emotion any more visible than before, and yet whom she knew was amused- and understood. Then, as always, her eyes were drawn away from the akla'shoon to the garden. The trees that shaded the ground here from the light of the high-riding stars and moons were mostly not eveningsong trees and midnight elms, the trees churni preferred when they had to have trees at all, but regular oaks, beeches, and birches pale as Milmindeth's clothing. They flourished among grass that was ordinary grass, and not the darkness-loving dobluth her people used to feed the cattle they slaughtered for the guests' tables. Paths wound through grass and trees alike, paths of crushed stone and seashell, and Meylona was careful to stay on them. The touch of a death Elwen is death to any ordinary vegetation, no matter how firmly the powers are held in check, because a death aura hovers around every churni from birth. This garden, however ordinary it seemed, had been created with the aid of magic. Milmindeth followed, his head uplifted to the moonlight. Takon, the blue-green summer moon, was riding high, followed at a somewhat slower pace by Lureth the golden and Salsi the red-white, signals of the autumn and winter to come. The night sky was beautiful, backed as the moons were by both silver stars and the black stars that churni heritage allowed the two to see, and Meylona hated to call her akla'shoon's attention from it. But this needed to be spoken of. "Milmindeth," she said softly, and saw his head turn toward her at once. "My lady?" "I felt you tense when the Lady Baalma was speaking to me." Meylona hoped no more would be necessary, but after a period of consideration, Milmindeth only inclined his head minutely, forcing her to elaborate. "You made me fear you would have sprung on her if she had killed me, perhaps even tried to hurt her." "You have no need to fear, my lady. You might as well know. Yes, I would have." Meylona was so stunned that she halted and stared at him. The akla'shoon looked back, star-spangled eyes attentive and waiting for her signal, seemingly finding nothing wrong with his outrageous proclamation. "Milmindeth..." Meylona expelled a breath. How could she explain to him? He was devoted to her with the devotion of a true akla'shoon, which called on its possessor to have no care for her own life. "You don't understand. You would die if you did that." "I know, my lady." "Then why-" He interrupted her, an offense punishable by a severe whipping. "With you dead, I would have no wish to live." He said it quite simply. Meylona stared at him, stunned to hear what she had always half-suspected put so baldly, waiting for him to explain that with her gone his life would be worth nothing, so he might as well commit suicide in a crazed attempt to avenge her... He said nothing of the sort. He only waited for her next command, looking at her as if this were a normal, sane conversation. Meylona looked down at the ground and made a sharp slashing motion with her hand, indicating they should cut short this line of conversation. She still had to think about what he had just revealed to her, about what it might mean. "Milmindeth." Her voice sounded oddly small, as if it were wandering and lost beneath the trees. "My lady?" "You used to sing a song to me once, long ago. I- I haven't thought of it in a long time. It was about some sort of hero, I think, and it was inspiring, and-" Becoming aware she was babbling, she cut off. How could she expect him to remember a song he had sung six centuries ago, anyway? Milmindeth showed neither surprise nor any effort to recall what she was talking about. "The Song of Maruss, lady," he supplied, as if it had been in his mind all the time. "By Kerlyon Deerfriend." "That's the one. Sing it for me, please." The akla'shoon's quiet voice welled up, singing more musically than Meylona had ever heard any churni sing- not that she had heard many, Looking up at the stars, she relaxed and lost herself in the dream the ancient poet's words could so readily spin. Better than thinking that Milmindeth's devotion to her might be more than just devotion. Better than thinking that... But even now she wouldn't allow herself to name it. Chapter 2 The Wounded One -Something's wrong- said Dia crisply. -You never give me this much of a workout when something's not wrong- "Know something?" Meylona asked sourly. "You're right. Know something else? I don't care." She tugged on the white mane and tapped her heels to the sable sides, turning the mare back toward where Milmindeth and Skim waited. Dia pranced and stepped in protest, blowing white vapor in the air, and not just from the gallop they had taken, but made no further queries about the source of her mistress's ire. That was just as well, because Meylona wouldn't have answered them. There had been times the young death Elwen had been grateful for Dia's love and worry for her, but this wasn't one of them. She herself didn't know what to call her worries over what Milmindeth had told her last night, so why should she share them with another? Milmindeth said nothing when she returned to his side, but she could see the slightly brighter glow in the starry eyes and the faint touch of the shadow-smile to his lips. He understood she needed time alone, but he was always grateful when she came back to him, where he could more easily watch her. Skim stepped about in excitement that not even a rider capable of treating him like a dumb animal could have quelled. -A run, yes? May we have a run? May we- Milmindeth responded by giving the stallion his head. He had never been one to waste words when actions would say what he meant just as well. Dia, of course, took that as a signal to follow Skim, and she kept gamely on his heels, tired as she was, ignoring the gouts of clay the stallion's hooves sometimes tore loose and flung upon her. Meylona hunched automatically over Dia's neck, but the wind did not sweep freely through her mind as it had yesterday. Now it was blocked in its path by brooding, formless speculations, and a fear like no other she had ever felt before in her life. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Milmindeth, who was seemingly paying attention to nothing but keeping Skim steady as the exuberant stallion raced and occasionally jumped for the sheer joy of it. She knew better. That pretense of not caring had fooled more creatures than Meylona could count, luring them into thinking the akla'shoon was a helpless target, or that she was. Milmindeth, more skilled in swordmastery and fighting with his bare hands and feet than anyone she had ever seen, taught them better very quickly. She had always known that he was loyal to her, but that was no more than akla'shooni were expected to be. A treacherous akla'shoon was a contradiction in terms, like a free sha'sheerin. No one ever spoke of it, but it was common knowledge also that an akla'shoon was expected to take her own life when her charge died. What had shaken her was not so much his saying that he would not have a reason to live without her as... As what? Meylona asked herself angrily. As the manner in which he had said it? As the look in his eyes? But that was precisely the rock her thoughts stumbled on. He had said it without any unusual inflection or tone, and the look in his eyes had been the calm with which an akla'shoon awaits an expected command, not the passion required of one who makes a lifeshattering pronouncement. But why? Why should an open statement of what she had always known trouble her so deeply? The deathtrotters pulled up, not abruptly, but running in a wide arc that led them away from the dark spot that had appeared on the horizon. It was a Circle, a sacred deathtrotter center that no trotters entered unless running in herds. The treasure that lay there- water- was too precious to be shared, at least in the minds of the social equines, by one or two alone. Meylona found herself sorry that trotters did not wear reins. That at least would have given her something to tug moodily on. She couldn't pull too hard on Dia's mane for fear of hurting her. She dismissed the thought almost immediately, shocked at herself, and forced a smile in Milmindeth's direction as the deathtrotters slowed and shuddered to a trot, bringing her abreast of him. "I don't feel like returning to Holin yet," she said suddenly, obviously eclipsing the words he had been about to speak. "What say we take a gallop toward the River? We've never been there." "For a good reason, my lady," said Milmindeth in his quiet voice. There was no need for him to ask what River she was talking about; there was only one in any reasonable distance. "It is the boundary of our land-" Meylona tossed her head impatiently. "So what if it is? Why can people come to visit us from outside, and yet we can't go to them? We won't go anywhere near the Forest, I promise," she wheedled, naming Inviolate Forest, on the banks of the River Eluvorwave, the fanatically defended home of the forest Elwens. Milmindeth regarded her in silence for a long moment. He would not oppose her; he never did. He had mastered this silence as a more potent weapon than open and outright disapproval. "All right," he said at last, and set Skim's hooves south, leading the way, as always. Meylona, feeling a little giddy that that silence had not spilled over into discussion of last night, as it could have, followed. ---------------------------------------------------------- They rode for a long time across the seamed, cracked plains of gray clay, across scenery as unchanging as that of the sea, for there was no palpable direction here. Even up and down ceased to have meaning after a time; the bright blue summer sky hid behind brooding gray clouds that were not quite the purple of stormclouds nor yet the white ones of good weather, and thus became much the same color as the ground. The only things that were different at all were the bumping hoofbeats of the deathtrotters as they shifted gaits. Trotters did not run like ordinary horses; indeed, they often claimed that was one more sign of their superiority over the unintelligent equines. Outsiders watching them often openly gawked, for they seemed to float in midair- until their hooves came down, and jarring bumps broke the float. Thus, they seemed to move slowly and incredibly fast, both at the same time. Meylona knew speed was the truth of it; deathtrotters could run a hundred and ten miles an hour, faster even than churni, one reason the death Elwens rode them. Consequently, the period of peace and timelessness did not last nearly long enough, in Meylona's viewpoint. Soon enough, the gray clay gave way to green grass, as suddenly as if some giant knife had long ago laid the boundary between Falchian Plains and outside world. Beyond the grass rushed the River Eluvorwave, the eastern boundary, as Milmindeth said, of the lands where death Elwens were ordinarily permitted to tread. The trotters sped across the grass, blackening it behind them with the same death aura as their masters carried. Meylona did not watch it crisp and die, concentrating instead on the River Eluvorwave. The river's waters were a deep green, rich green of emeralds, of life, as they had been since time immemorial, and thus were sacred to forest Elwens. They were holy to deathtrotters, too, but for a different reason: the trotters revered any place with water. Thus, Dia and Skim both came to a halt on the riverbank and bowed on one knee to the water, offering a perfect opportunity for their riders to slide off. Meylona sat down on the bank, ignoring the grass dying beneath her, trailing her hand in the bright green water that not even her aura could affect. After a moment, she bent and drank. The water in her mouth was cool, but without the stony coolness of the water they sometimes drank in the ka'cheer; this was a sweet, smooth, wild coolness. Meylona thought that, had she been born blind and never understood color, she could have understood what green meant by drinking of this river. It was that kind of taste. The deathtrotters, meanwhile, had recovered from their kneeling and were performing their deathdances, that fifth of their gaits that they did better without riders than with. They sprang in the air, spinning like the tops the traders brought for children, and came down for only a moment, legs splayed wide, before springing again. Their motion was beautiful, hypnotic, and Meylona, lying on the bank now with one hand still in the water, watched in enjoyment. She did not want to think, and the best way not to think was to get lost in wordless admiration of a deathdancing deathtrotter. Milmindeth did not watch Skim as she did Dia, but kept up a silent, vigilant watch across the ten-mile-wide River. Even his presence, like a dark blot on the edge of awareness, ceased to disturb her at the last, however. Lying back fully, dark hair splaying around her like Dia's legs did when she landed, Meylona looked up into the sky. She could look in the direction of the sun, now free of clouds, for only a few moments before being forced to turn her head, but even that minor victory pleased her. She was in the world of air and light, where the dark ghosts of the ka'cheer could not hurt her. She closed her eyes, feeling the sun's heat beat on her black skin, and the pools in her cheek, palms, shoulders, knees, and elsewhere turn faster in pleasure. Something flew across the sun, and she opened her eyes in lazy irritation. Idly, she watched the creature that wheeled there, wondering what it was. She had thought at first it was an eagle or condor, simply because of the wingspan, but now she could see that it flew upright, swiveling its head in various directions, instead of with legs tucked along its tail in the manner of a normal bird. It hovered directly in front of the sun, and she gave up trying to see it as any more than a dark silhouette with an inner laugh. What did it matter what it was? All that mattered was that she was free. Milmindeth was watching it, of course, but Milmindeth watched everything. She closed her eyes again, feeling herself floating free of her body into a kind of warm haze. No, it had nothing to do with her... nothing at all... Something splashed out in the River, and she opened her eyes again and sat up to look. It sounded like something fairly large, and while rumor said sharks and other big fish occasionally wandered up from the sea, it wasn't a common occurrence. She had never seen a shark in the flesh, anyway. It might be interesting. So great was her detachment that it took a long moment for the sight to register as more than a diversion. Splashing out in the River was something big, with four legs and a shining chestnut coat, struggling against the relatively placid but still present current. It raised its head, nostrils distended and eyes showing their whites, and astonishment finally crystallized as she recognized it as a horse. Why a horse, in this place where everyone either rode deathtrotters or, more common, never traveled at all? She leaned closer, expecting to see a broken halter or lead rope dangling from the horse's neck. Something dark was slumped across its withers... yes... Bloodscent touched her nostrils, and her brows drew together in a delicate frown. It wasn't a halter. It was a rider, and very probably badly wounded. It was that which was making the horse flounder and kick like a hooked fish. He was probably strapped onto the horse's back, or the obviously terrified beast would have abandoned him some time ago. The deathtrotters had stopped their dancing and were watching the horse with both amusement and concern. Dia swung her head toward Meylona with a complacently satisfied look in her red eyes. -I told you we were better than horses. Look at the stupid thing. Not even sense enough to stay out of the river in the first place- -He has a rider- Skim informed her. His eyes at a distance were better than the mare's. -He may not have had a choice- -Still- Dia insisted -a stupid creature. Has it even heard of the word swim- Meylona had been watching the stupid creature in question with growing anxiety. The way the rider's arms flopped and his head lolled, he appeared unconscious. "I'm going to help him," she announced, striding toward the water. She had never learned formally to swim, but all Elwens could hold their breaths for an hour. If nothing else, she could sink to the bottom of the river and walk. Milmindeth's hand fell on her shoulder. "Wait, my lady. This may be a plan designed to draw you away from safety and into the river, where you will be an easy target for an assassin." Meylona shook off the hand angrily. "You always see everything in terms of assassination!" she snapped. A moment later, she flushed, though it was barely noticeable under her dark skin. "I'm sorry," she added quietly. "But I really think I should do something to help him. At the least, he will be another fleg'ruth. And that horse is tiring fast." As if to make the point, the horse struck out with shoed feet, gave a desperate whinny, and slid a little further under the surface. "All right," Milmindeth said, stepping back and withdrawing the silence as well. Meylona flashed him a grateful smile. She was about to dive when a hoarse scream shattered the air. It sounded like a cry of triumph, but from the throat of no intelligent creature the death Elwen knew. She looked up, gaze drawn like iron to a magnet, somehow knowing what she would see. The strange flying creature had been joined by three other similar ones, and the whole weird flock was plunging downwards. There could be little doubt what their target was, or what had caused the wounds that must be providing the rider's bloodscent. Meylona glanced appealingly at Milmindeth, who was watching the diving creatures appraisingly. "Come, Milmindeth, we have to help him!" Her akla'shoon shook his head. "Lady, we would never reach him in time. Look at how fast they are going." Indeed, the birds or whatever they were dove with a speed that rivaled a falcon's. "They will reach him long before we can." "We can at least try!" Meylona snapped, and plunged into the river before he could stop her. The smack of the cool green water took her breath away for a moment, and she almost swallowed water before being able to tell herself that this cold was nothing to her, less than her own chill. Still, gooseflesh prickled her dark arms as she started to swim forward, cautiously testing the current, trying to find a place where it wouldn't swirl her downstream and away from the helpless pair. Then the diving creatures reached the unconscious rider, and she had no more time for caution. Even from here, she could smell the rank scent of them. The wounds they had given him were probably already diseased; she couldn't leave him alone much longer if he were to survive. The harsh rasping and cackling of the birds as they circled the rider, tearing at him, rang in her ears as she struck out toward the horse, moving awkwardly against the current. Her body already seemed to be getting the trick of it, however, and she gained ground- or water- steadily. As it turned out, she did have something to be grateful to that horse about. Its kicking, splashing, and frenzied neighing were so loud that the creatures never noticed her coming until she was upon them. She had no time to release her killing power, and didn't think she could bring herself to touch the clumped feathers anyway, so instead she drew her sword and plunged it into the spine of the nearest. The creature shrieked and whirled to face her, even though it was already dying. In sick fascination she stared at a face that only resembled a bird's in the great, curved beak and the scant clumps of matted feathers that clung to it. The rest of the head was naked, like a vulture's, but instead of red, it was the brown of diseased flesh. The eyes were two monstrous white things, horrifying because they should have stared blindly and yet saw her. The great wings that beat to either side of the head were not feathered but leathery, like a bat's, and tipped with claws. It had arms- withered, desiccated limbs, like those of a decaying human corpse, but the hands were slender and clever, tipped with filthy, curving claws. Its hind legs were the powerful, muscled limbs of an ostrich, but the feet were again clawed, rather than made for running. All this she noted in a flash of a second as she brought her sword up to parry the thing's dying claw- strokes. She knew immediately those claws, likely dung- coated, could not be allowed to touch her. Luckily, the beast made only a few passes before dropping limply into the water. A foul stain spread outward from the body. One of the others turned to deal with her, while the others went on worrying at the horse's rider. They were trying, Meylona saw with surprise, not to wound him further, but to cut the straps that bound him to the horse, as if they wanted him free. She didn't like that; it showed too much evidence of intelligence, and creatures this fearsome would be too formidable with intelligence. As she traded blows with the creature in front of her, she worried about what she would do if it tried any overtly intelligent moves, such as a feint. Luckily, she had nothing to worry about. Almost instantly her sword lopped off one withered limb. The gush of dark fluid, looking more like oil than blood, that poured forth ceased almost instantly, and the creature joined its dead brother in the water. Again one turned to deal with her, but this time it was cut down by a sword thrown like a spear from behind her. Transfixed like a bug on a pin, the creature hissed, wriggled a little, and died. The last remaining bird-thing glanced at her in irritation, flexing its wings, then with a screech rocketed overhead and away. Meylona breathed a sigh of relief and turned to see the help coming from behind, leaning against the horse as she did so. Milmindeth had managed to near more quickly than she had because of the deathtrotters, whom he floated between, with one arm across each back. The trotters, with four legs closer together, were able to swim strongly, and breast and break the current, as their riders could not. "My thanks, akla'shoon," Meylona whispered as he neared, all her irritation at him flying away. He did not bother to give her his ritual answer, only a shadow-smile that vanished as he bent over the rider. "He looks to be unconscious, lady." Meylona nodded, and swam a little closer to better examine their unexpected guest. He was a sapphire Elwen, with the typical heavy, blue, gem-like skin of his race. Nevertheless, that natural armor had been pierced, and bright blue blood foamed forth in some places, steaming and hissing where it touched the water. Meylona shivered, further glad she had not felt the claws of the creatures. Normally, the skin of a sapphire Elwen or any gem Elwen held firm, or at the most chipped. Only the sharpest weapons could cut it. The somak breathed only shallowly, and even that had a bubbling sound that Meylona did not like. He did not respond even to faint raps on the side of his head or water splashed in his face. He was out good and cold. Milmindeth placed a hand on the stranger's brow and looked concerned, though Meylona knew it was probably for her. "He has a fever, my lady. From the claws of his attackers, I would guess. Good it is that you were not hit by them," he murmured, confirming her earlier suspicion. Meylona nodded briskly. "Well, I wasn't, and what's done is done. We must help this poor man." "Why?" Milmindeth asked bluntly. "Forgive me, my lady, but I doubt he would survive the trip to Holin. And we have no means of getting him there, anyway." He didn't even mention the deathtrotters; only a few honored outsiders had ever ridden one, and then only with the equines' express consent. -His horse cannot go much farther- Skim agreed. -And he is afraid of us- Indeed, the beast was quiet now, but Meylona suspected that was only because of exhaustion, not because he was calm about those who surrounded him. Meylona bit her lip, looking more closely at the somak, hoping to find the clue she needed. Overall, he was unremarkable. His sapphire hair, lank now and wet with blue blood, was ordinary and held no decoration. He wore no armor of any kind, only a usual pale blue tunic and leggings, now rent in many places. Strapped at his side in a scabbard was a sword, but only its hilt could be seen. That was jeweled, and gaudy, marking it as a useless toy. It shed no smell of blood, so had not been drawn in the fight against the creatures that had hurt him. Her breath expelled suddenly in a noisy rush. She touched her hand gently but respectfully to his throat, careful to get no closer than that to what she had found. "Look, Milmindeth." The akla'shoon did so. He stared for a long moment, and then lifted his eyes to Meylona's. They showed consternation to match her triumph. He stated the obvious. "Lady Baalma will certainly be displeased if we do not help him. As would- others- be." Meylona laughed aloud, feeling giddy. "Don't want to say it, Milmindeth? Then I will." Her fingers again tapped near what she had found, a pendant glowing with a soft blue light. While obviously carved of sapphire, it had been magically altered to form a white background for the symbol on it- a crimson dragon coiling about a circle of swords and spears, and in that circle a snake who held a diamond in its coils.