Wolf In The Mists
                         Prologue
            4779, Age of Arcadia, Early Spring
    "Morna? Morna!"
    I could hear my name being called, but I did not take 
my eyes from the shifting mists in front of me. The 
shifting fog, the endless gray, the condensed cloud as 
pale and shadowy a color as my own skin, that roiled ever 
over the Misty Meadows. The gray grass of my people's home 
fell away before me down a glittering slope, and was lost 
in soft banks of white.
    Like my mood.
    I closed my eyes, and did not turn even when my 
brother skidded to a halt beside me and touched me on the 
arm.
    "Morna?" His voice was softer now. "Mother said I 
should tell you- there's news."
    I opened my eyes, but did not turn to face him, 
already knowing what I would see: shockingly brilliant red 
hair; dark gray eyes frowning at me, sharing the same 
grief but not to the same depth; a face that echoed my own 
but was nevertheless not the disappointment to my mother 
that mine was. Yet the ordinariness of what I saw and felt 
from him was eroded by the underlying excitement of 
whatever he had to tell me.
    "Morna?" he repeated at last, when I still did not 
turn or speak to him. "I am sorry, doble; I am sorry, my 
sister. But she said I had to tell you, that you should 
know."
    "Go away," I told him at last, still not turning to 
look at him. "There is no reason that would compel her to 
interrupt me now, is there?" But my whisper was more 
wistful than serious, and Jre knew it. He replied with 
compassion, but firmly.
    "Morna, really. I am sorry. But Father-" He paused a 
long moment, acknowledging the mistake. We do not call the 
dead by what they once were to us. "Gewyu is dead," he 
said, as softly as he could, and I heard the return of 
tears. "And you would want to know this, I think. He would 
want you to."
    I looked at him at last, and saw the face I had 
expected to see, with one difference. The excitement in 
his deep gray eyes, so much darker than my own silver 
ones, was not alone. There was also a blazing glory that 
stirred my curiosity for the first time since my father 
had died three hours ago.
    "What is it?"
    Jre smiled, gratified at my interest, and placed a 
hand on my arm, his eyes shining more brightly, turning  
the shade of mine. "Mother has named our new sister Syl."
    I blinked, still caught in the ends of my grief, not 
really understanding for a moment. Then I remembered, even 
as Jre voiced it impatiently.
    "Syl means-"
    "Promised," I whispered, turning to stare towards 
where Parseirai, my home, lay hidden behind the hill I had 
climbed. "That means-"
    "Yes, siable. Syl is the incarnation of the Goddess."
    I looked up bleakly into my mother's face. Amelouk, 
she is called, meaning feral and timid, and the name suits 
her. Her red hair does not blaze like Jre's, but lies on 
her head like sunset mist, as if trying to escape 
attention. Her blue eyes are too pale for such a brilliant 
hair and heritage, the heritage of the Godtouched line. 
Especially then, as she knelt beside me so that I might 
see the bundle she carried in her arms, she was timid. She 
had given birth to the child for whom we had waited 
uncounted years, but she could hardly dare to believe that 
such a thing had happened to her.
    Of course, perhaps it had not.
    But when I looked down into the baby's- Syl's- face, I 
lost my doubts. She had dark hair, so rare for one of our 
kind that it would have been the first thing I noticed 
about her if not for her eyes. They glowed molten gold, 
like my own blood when I am angry, but purer, brighter. 
The mist actually appeared to draw a little away from her, 
as if it were afraid it would be scattered by the beams of 
her sun.
    And even Mother's glory was only a pale echo of what 
burned in my sister's eyes.
    My sister. I nodded slowly, feeling something slip 
away from me. Relief tightened my stomach. Now, Mother had 
been vindicated. Perhaps she would forgive herself for 
having borne me, a Godtouched daughter with eyes and hair 
as ordinary as they could be, with not a trace of Goddess- 
glory in her face. Perhaps I would be allowed to forgive 
myself, at last.
    But not forget.
    I knew that when I looked up into Mother's eyes. 
Suddenly, their blue was clearer than I had ever seen 
them, and almost fierce. Her voice grated as she said, "I 
want you to swear to me, Morna."
    Her use of my name was a sign of how urgent she 
considered this. I inclined my head slowly, even as my 
heart beat faster with shock and confusion. "What do you 
want me to swear to, Mother?"
    Amelouk reached out and placed her hand on my 
forehead. Her other arm curved around the baby at an odd 
angle; not once was she in danger of dropping her, but she 
still managed to position Syl so that her other hand 
rested on her second daughter's brow. Syl beamed patiently 
up, nothing obscuring her brilliant golden eyes.
    "I want you to swear that you will never do anything 
to interfere with her happiness."
    I blinked. It was such an odd oath... I had never 
heard anything like it before. But while I was still 
thinking of that, my mother hissed at me like an angered 
snake. Her blood began to glow golden through her gray 
skin, and her eyes narrowed.
    "She is Jamalen, Morna!"
    That reminder, the speaking of the name under which I 
best knew the Lady of our people, calmed and reassured me. 
Even though I still did not really understand how I could 
interfere with the happiness of someone who was the 
reincarnation of a goddess, even though I was as faithful 
to Jamalen as anyone, I nodded and placed my own hand over 
the baby's heart. I had trouble finding it for a moment, 
until she smiled up at me. Then the beating of her heart 
seemed to echo in my ears, and I found my hand resting 
there, and my eyes meeting Hers, and my voice echoing in 
my ears as I spoke the words Mother asked of me.
    "I swear that I will never do anything to interfere 
with the happiness of She who is Jamalen reborn. This I 
swear, by the Three Symbols of the Goddess: the White 
Light, and the Morning Stars, and the Wolf."
    Mother drew a soft breath, and then let it go. She 
could not complain. I knew it was more than she would have 
asked of me. I smiled sadly at her as I watched her pull 
back and stand, her gaze already on Syl's eyes. Our mother 
had been waiting for this moment since the priests had 
warned her, over sixteen hundred years ago and before my 
birth, that they had seen the Wolf. That had meant, they 
had told her, that she might be the one to bear the 
daughter who would be the reincarnation of Jamalen. She 
had suffered through the birth of a useless daughter and a 
son who, although he would have been accepted in any other 
kusina, was only one more failure here. Now, her hopes had 
been fulfilled.
    I wished I could be happier than I was for her. But my 
happiness refused to become stronger than my grief for- 
for my father. I would not call him by his name yet, in 
the privacy of my mind. He was not yet dead to me.
    I watched as my mother limped back to bed with the 
Goddess in her arms. I would have offered her help, but 
she would not have heard me.
    Jre stirred at my side, and when I looked at him, I 
saw hope and worry reflected in his eyes. "Doble," he said 
carefully, "I am sorry to bring up this matter in such a 
time of grief, but I fear that I will not have the courage 
to ask you at a later time. Will you- well, you know of my 
ambition to become an abilisii."
    I nodded, and he went on, "Well, I do not know enough 
Primal yet to write a poem in it." He flushed. "Mother had 
to tell me what 'syl' meant. Will you teach me the 
language, since Gewyu is no longer around to do it?"
    I nodded, and my brother flashed me a smile before 
standing and running away in the direction of the kusina.
    I stood as well, and looked in that direction for a 
long moment. I could hear the singing as the clerics of 
the Lady of the Mist wound their way towards the tubiirna. 
They would welcome the Goddess on Her second birth into 
the world as per the instructions that had been laid down 
countless years before. It would be the one time in the 
world that that sight would be enacted, the one chance I 
would ever have to witness it.
    But I did not go up the hill. I turned and walked 
slowly down it, into the mists.
    They closed about me at my will; it is one of the very 
few powers of magic that my people, the menudi, possess. I 
walked until I reached a place I knew, where gray roses 
grew. It was appropriate, I thought as I knelt. The roses 
were a symbol of the Goddess, though a lesser one, and his 
soul was surely with Her now.
    I did not know why I was so anxious to avoid going 
into the tubiirna and joining in commending my father's 
soul to Jamalen before the second incarnation of the 
Goddess Herself. It would be a ceremony like no other, 
more real and beautiful. He had been the father of the 
Goddess, no matter that his heart had burst mere hours 
before Her birth. They would commend him.
    But, I thought suddenly as I stared down at the gray 
roses before me and the gray grass crushed by my knees, as 
they saw him. Not as I saw him.
    I reached out and took the gray rose between my 
fingers. It was the only time when I could have plucked 
one of the flowers, in my mourning for the dead. I held 
the flower to my lips and kissed the four perfectly 
arranged petals one by one. Then I closed my eyes and 
pictured my father as he had been before the star-flames 
took him, as they take all of our kind within minutes 
after death. Jamalen is our Goddess, but the stars created 
us, the mist Elwens, as they created all Elwens.
    Gray eyes, somewhere in the middle between my 
brother's and mine. Gray hair, like mine, soft as mist and 
tending to blend with it. His smile, sad and peaceful just 
before the end, as if he had known what was going to 
happen. His hands, once so clever on the harp and the 
controls of the scad'jii. His abiding faith in the 
Goddess, which he had taught to me when our mother 
retreated into a world of her own, born of grief and 
failure, and so nearly cursed Jamalen.
    I whispered the words of the simple prayer softly, but 
nearly crushed the flower in my fierce grip. "Gray roses 
grow for you, Father." One petal flew on the wind as I 
plucked it. "White light guard you, Father." Another petal 
followed the first. "Morning stars shine on you, Gewyu." I 
almost could not speak the name as I loosed the third 
petal. "The Wolf sing you home," I whispered, hesitating, 
my fingers on the fourth petal.    
    And at that moment, wonder of wonders, omen of omens, 
a wolf began to sing in the distance, and saved me from 
having to speak the name. I smiled, though tears blurred 
my eyes, and let the petal fly.
    Then I closed my eyes and wept silently for him, 
praying without words as I listened to the wolf sing him 
home.




                        Chapter 1
                      The Procession
            4829, Age of Arcadia, Late Spring
    "Things are always simpler than Elwen minds make 
them."
    -Glorlinda Karesh, High Priestess of the Seamaiden.

    I jumped as a hand came to rest on my shoulder, and at 
the words which followed it, though for a different 
reason. 
    "Morna, shouldn't you be outside? The procession is 
beginning now, and your presence will be missed if you are 
not with your family."
    I turned and smiled up at the one man in the Meadows 
who would have spoken so, the one man who saw nothing 
wrong with addressing me by my given name, and to whom I 
had granted that privilege not long after our first 
meeting. "Saldoran," I said, returning what was a courtesy 
among his people as I carefully closed the book I had been 
reading, "no one will miss me if I am not there, as you 
well know. Mother and my brother are with Syl, and this is 
her day. She's not going to notice anything but the 
adulation that is rightly hers."
    "I have wondered," said the dawn Elwen librarian, 
sitting down beside me. He is a sight in our pale land, 
his golden skin flaring like a burning flame against the 
mist, his equally golden hair like a lion's mane, his blue 
eyes brighter than he knows. Even the glass sunburst 
around his neck, which proclaims his allegiance to 
Sarastaa, Lord of the Dawn, more often shines crystalline 
than the gentle white of our world. "I have wondered why, 
if you revere your sister so, why you so often name her as 
if she were dead."
    I sighed, and lowered my eyes to the book I held, 
gently tracing one finger over the lettering that 
proclaimed, in Primal, Tan Karlino Lirarho Corrai. "I name 
her for the same reason that I name Jamalen," I said. "She 
is so far above me that she is- distant, somehow, like the 
dead, but not in the same way. Wolf, she is the White 
Goddess. I revere her, and that means that I cannot treat 
her as I would an ordinary person." It was the best 
explanation I knew how to give.
    Saldoran nodded, then frowned at the book I was 
reading, and gave me a sharp look. "'A History of Rowan's 
Wars?'" he echoed. "I find it hard to comprehend that you 
would be interested in such things."
    "I am always interested in tales of the outside world, 
you know that."
    "But Rowan is a world away, and inhabited by land 
Elwens, besides!" Saldoran sounded scandalized, and I 
smiled affectionately at him. Though he was different from 
anyone else I knew- no other alalori lived in the Misty 
Meadows- there were some things about him that were 
stereotypically dawn Elwen, and would never change. He 
bore all of his pacifistic people's prejudices towards the 
land Elwens, those pale-skinned people who have caused 
most of the world's wars.
    "I still might go there, someday," I pointed out. I 
was about to continue, to remind him that I was a 
historian and could not only study the history of my own 
people, but such a serious look came into his eyes that I 
stopped and waited for him to speak.
    "Would you really, Morna? Would you really leave this 
place that has been your only home?" He paused, studying 
me, and added: "I would miss you."
    I smiled sadly at him and shook my head. "That is very 
kind of you, Saldoran, really. But there is no need to 
dissemble with me."
    "I am not dissembling."
    I looked at him in puzzlement. "Then you are the only 
one who would," I said at last.
    "Tuvalle?"
    I shrugged. "Oh, I would take Cael with me, and then 
she wouldn't have to take care of him anymore. Apreble 
might miss the help I provide, but no more than that."
    I thought it puzzled him that I did not speak with 
self-pity, though why I should have was beyond me. I was 
Syl's sister, not Syl. She was the bright beacon of our 
kusina, Parseirai; she was the justification of the 
Godtouched family's existence. The world turned around 
her. Most people had forgotten that she had a sister; my 
mother forgot my name at times.
    That was the way it should be.
    I had never broken my oath to my mother and to Syl in 
the name of the Goddess. I went into the shadows. Rightly 
so. There was some resentment in the beginning, of course; 
I was menudi, Elwen, not Jamalen Herself. But that faded 
long ago, and by that time, fifty years after Syl's birth, 
it had been replaced by the proper reverence for the 
Goddess, and satisfaction that I was doing my small part 
in serving Her.
    "I had no idea," Saldoran said after a moment, and 
there was something in his voice and eyes that I had never 
seen before, or at least not seen directed at myself. He 
gazed at me for a long moment, while I tried to figure out 
what it was. Then he shook his head and made a small 
gesture of dismissal with his hand. "I suppose it does not 
matter. But do tell me when you plan to go. I might be 
able to tell you things that would increase your chances 
for survival in the outside."
    I smiled as I smoothed my hand over the cover of the 
book again. "It is no more than an idea as yet, not a 
plan. I know I have much to learn before I actually leave. 
But thank you for the offer."
    Saldoran continued to study me for a long moment, and 
then he shook his head. "What exactly is supposed to 
happen this year?" he asked, changing the subject.
    I nodded in gratitude for the reprieve and replied, 
"The priests aren't really sure. A miracle bigger than the 
others that Syl has performed, of course; but beyond that, 
no one knows." I glanced over my shoulder, to make sure no 
one else was in the library, but it seemed that everyone 
was outside for the Jamalen's Day procession. "There is 
some talk that Syl might find the Wolf this year."
    Saldoran's eyes widened appreciably. Even he, a 
stranger and a worshiper of another god, knew the 
significance of the appearance of the Wolf, Jamalen's 
Attendant, Her link with the heavenly world that had 
birthed Her. When he appeared, then Syl could truly be 
said to be the Goddess incarnate.
    "What happens if she does?" Saldoran asked, as if 
reading my thought.
    I shrugged. "Speculation. Rumor. In essence, no one 
knows. Some of the White Prophecies seem to suggest that 
Jamalen found the Wolf in Her fiftieth year, but others 
disagree."
    "I see," Saldoran said, meaning that he understood 
both the uncertainty of the statement and my need for 
caution. Some of the priests look on any belief about 
Jamalen that contradicts their own as blasphemous, and 
though the punishments for this are rarely severe, the 
shame the clerics are able to instill outmatches, for most 
mist Elwens, any physical pain that could be offered. "And 
yet, you don't want to see the procession."
    I shook my head, wondering in passing why he was so 
insistent. "Syl only performed her first twenty miracles 
on Jamalen's Day," I told him. "The last thirty years, 
it's been later in the year. Believe me, if the Wolf 
arrives, I'll know."
    Saldoran drummed his fingers on the table for a 
moment, a gesture so uncharacteristic of him that I 
stared. He noticed my stare and smiled sadly. "The truth, 
Morna, is that the God granted me a vision last night. It 
seemed to indicate that you should be there."
    I sighed. "I do not worship Sarastaa, Saldoran." It 
was the only bone of contention between us; he sometimes 
gave me instructions from his God, when I was only bound 
to obey instructions from the Goddess. "And I do not wish 
to attend the procession."
    "So now we come to the true reason." His blue eyes 
were level and serious, without a trace of the serenity 
that normally occupied them. "Why not? You love Jamalen, 
and your sister."
    Saldoran was hardly likely to tell my mother... I 
struggled against my astonishment and suspicion for a 
moment, wondering why he should want to know, and then 
spoke. "I do not love Syl." In a way, it was a relief to 
say it. "I told you that I revere her, and that is true. 
But I cannot make myself love her as I love Jamalen." I 
met his eyes and smiled, with all the wryness that I could 
muster. "I cannot, and I do not really know what holds me 
back from it, other than the feeling that she is not 
really a mist Elwen or my sister, but the Goddess. Are you 
going to tell anyone?"
    "Why would I?" He stretched out his hand, and for a 
moment his golden hand rested on my brow in a blessing. I 
endured it, as I had endured blessings from the less 
faithful priests. "That is not a breach of faith. That is 
simply the truth." He withdrew his hand and held my eyes 
again. "Why are you so afraid that I would tell someone? 
Don't you trust me?"
    I smiled. "Of course. It's not that." He would never 
understand, of course. He was not menudi. He could not 
understand how important it was that Jamalen's glory- and 
Syl's- be unclouded.
    "Then what?"
    I lifted my hand, and he nodded, slowly. He had 
learned to accept that there were things I would not talk 
about, even though he comprehended why I would not talk 
about them no better than I comprehended the concern he 
sometimes showed for me.
    "Listen." Saldoran changed the subject yet again, 
cocking his head and looking towards the window. "The 
singing of the Jamalen's Own?"
    I nodded, closing my eyes as I listened to the pure 
words. That is what I most love about that high holy day 
that marks the day when the Goddess found the Wolf: the 
Song of the Finding.

    "In mists he came to her,
     Under morning stars he came to her,
     Under white light he came to her,
     Amidst gray roses he came to her.

    "In mists he gave her name to her,
     Under morning stars that flamed for her,
     Under white light that came for her,
     Amidst gray roses that were the same for her.

    "In mists he came to her,
     Under morning stars that flamed for her.
     Under white light he came to her,
     Amidst gray roses gave her name to her..."

    "Morna." 
    I opened my eyes, startled, as Saldoran's hand closed 
gently on my shoulder. His blue gaze was compassionate, 
but there was that within it which told me he would brook 
no argument.
    "Go to the procession. You do want to; I see it in 
your eyes."
    I looked away from his eyes. "I should stay here..." 
My fingers caressed the book. "I was going to look into a 
link between our White Prophecies and the words of the 
Queen of Rowan..."
    "Commendable, but the books will still be there." 
Saldoran picked up the book, gently sliding it from 
beneath my hand when I refused to simply relinquish it. 
"Go now," he repeated, when I looked up at him 
uncertainly. "You've never missed a Jamalen's Day before. 
No reason for you to start now."
    There were reasons, but they seemed less important 
than they had before. With any luck, I reasoned as I 
stood, the very cloak of anonymity I had striven to 
maintain would protect me; no one would think to glance 
twice at me, or be able to accuse me of stealing Syl's 
glory.
    It should work. And I did want to see the procession. 
Mother had said last night that it would be especially 
beautiful this year.
    "Thank you," I said to Saldoran. 
    His only response as my body dissolved into mist and I 
drifted through the window was a smile.
----------------------------------------------------------
    I floated and curled over the street for a long moment 
in mistform. The world looked much the same as it always 
did, save a little clearer, and split into many parts that 
I had to assemble together, instead of presented in a 
single coherent picture.
    I slowly scanned the crowd, surprised by the number of 
outlander faces in it. The darker faces of obsia, or 
volcano Elwens, stood out like blots of ink on white pran 
paper, and elves crowded the higher tiers of stands away 
from the street, and here and there even a human was 
visible. Most of the spectators were mist Elwens, of 
course.
    At last, I saw a place and drifted towards it. It was 
closer to my brother and mother than I would have liked, 
but their eyes were fixed, along with everyone else's, to 
the marching Jamalen's Own. As soon as I solidified again, 
I drank up the sight with my eyes as well. 
    Less than priests, more than soldiers, the Jamalen's 
Own had been sworn to the Goddess for millions of years. 
They had trained for fighting and studied the Prophecies 
before my sister's birth with unmatched dedication, but 
since then, their fervor had blazed like Her stars. They 
sang Syl's praises day and night in the san'jii with 
neverending rounds of voices, so that someone somewhere 
was always praying, and had formed an honor guard from the 
moment she was born. Each and every one of them considered 
herself or himself undeservedly blessed to have been born 
in the time when she lived.
    I was not sure why I did not.
    Perhaps things would be different when the Wolf 
appeared.
    Praying to Jamalen that it would be so, I let my eyes 
play as the mist would have played, had it not been 
banished from Dernuris for the day, over the silver and 
deep blue uniforms of the Guard. Their voices still rose 
and fell; they were into the Song of Light now, which 
praises Jamalen for Her kindness in showing us the vision 
of the Misty Meadows that would become our home, in the 
days when we still lived in the far south. I settled a 
little on the tier, and prepared myself for a long vigil.
    Rank after rank after rank of Jamalen's Own went by, 
and then came the priests, their hands folded and eyes 
gentler than even Saldoran's, their bodies clad in the 
softest shades of white and gold and silver, depending on 
whether they chose to honor the Light, the Stars, or the 
Wolf. Their singing was pure and wordless. So it had been 
before Syl's birth, and so it continued to be; but to me, 
it seemed to have acquired more belief, just as the songs 
of the Jamalen's Own had, in the years since.
    Then came the children, all the children of the 
aprendilna- that is, the school-town- of Dernuris skipping 
and turning and dancing, some in formalized patterns, some 
in chaotic, self-chosen directions. Their laughter came 
very near to being as sweet as the singing. They, too, 
spoke no word. They were under the protection of Jamalen 
while the procession lasted, and they were enacting, as 
well, the Silent Passage to the Misty Meadows. Both 
demanded silence.
    Then came the ordinary citizens of Dernuris who had 
felt the Goddess's call in one way or another; either they 
would be joining the Jamalen's Own or the priesthood 
within the year, or they would be married within the same 
length of time. Those who were to be married walked arm in 
arm with their partners, beaming, their heads decorated 
with garlands of gray roses- not the real flowers, but 
replacements sculpted in pearls. Gray roses had become too 
rare in the Meadows in the last three Ages, and too 
sacred, as the symbol of the Goddess, to be worn by the 
betrothed as had once been done.
    And then came some of the teachers at the aprendil 
where I studied. Impatient, I leaned past them to look 
down the winding, cobblestone-paved street between the 
houses built of silver or gray stone or woven gray grass. 
Surely the ekwavad carrying my sister ought to be visible 
by now-
    And yes, there it was! It was only a distant gleam at 
first, but I have always had good eyes. The vehicle moved 
smoothly over the ground; it was as an open-sided carriage 
in form, but sculpted of silver, and driven along by a 
mixture of magic and technology rather than pulled by 
horses. I could see Syl's arm rising and falling as she 
waved to the madly cheering people who surrounded her, 
gazing down at the incarnation of the Goddess in our 
world.
    I seemed to have to remind myself of that more often 
of late. I hoped that I was not experiencing a resurgence 
of the resentment and jealousy that had struck me so 
strongly in the first years. I didn't think so-
    At that moment, I staggered and almost fell. I was 
experiencing a surge of something else, that was for sure 
and certain. My hands flew to my head. I closed my eyes, 
not wanting to miss the procession, conscious of the 
silence that rippled ahead of the ekwavad and the stares 
of my neighbors, but unable to deny the pain that was 
trying to cleave my brow.
    I did my best to keep from falling to my knees; there 
was no room on the tier for such a thing, even though the 
gesture would have been appropriate as an offering of 
homage to Jamalen. I fought, panting, for my feet, and for 
my sanity. The pain was so great that I could not cry out, 
and because of that I knew from the first that I was in 
danger of losing my mind.
    The silence and the ekwavad drew closer, and then the 
cheers began. They seemed to slice through my head and my 
mind like knives. I heard myself cry out then, finally, 
but it was nearly drowned in that clamor, louder than the 
sound when the obsia make the volcanoes explode. Louder 
than Syl's cry of triumph and welcome and acceptance of 
their adulation. Louder than...
    What?
    I opened my eyes, slowly, still dizzied and dazed by 
the retreating waves of pain. Syl was abreast of me now, 
right in front, standing up on the ekwavad's seat with her 
arm lifted and her dark hair flying down her back and her 
mouth open in glory. But she was not saying anything. It 
was the crowd who were calling her names, both of them. 
Why had I thought she was saying something?
    I started to shake my head, then thought better of it. 
The victim of such an unexpected and violent headache, 
such as I had never experienced before, might be excused a 
few confused perceptions, I supposed.
    Someone within the crowd, greatly daring, threw a real 
gray rose to Syl. There were gasps at the temerity of the 
gesture, but even more of approval; someone loved Syl so 
much that she would risk endangering herself to honor her. 
Syl caught the rose and held it to her face, inhaling the 
delicate scent and bowing her head in thanks. Then she 
opened her mouth as if she might really speak this time.
    She did not. She swayed sideways instead, and a hand 
flew to the side of her neck. Her mouth gaped in a gasp of 
shock, and her hand came free bearing a dart of some kind.
    A dart that had lodged in the side of her neck. 
    A dart that had to have flown from the crowd.
    At once, screams erupted. Even more quickly than that, 
though, the Jamalen's Own who were following Syl 
surrounded my sister, and lifted their bodies as shields 
against further assassination attempts. 
    An assassination attempt. Someone had actually tried 
to kill the Goddess.
    I felt faint and ill, and faded into mistform, as many 
about me were doing. At once, the sounds of the world 
faded, save for the small and scattered bursts of panicked 
thoughts that I heard whenever the parts of myself twined 
briefly with the misty edges of another of my people. I 
floated over to the ekwavad and hovered there, looking 
down between the Jamalen's Own and into my sister's face.
    She was unconscious. Until that day, I had not known 
that such a thing could happen to her. Her head lolled, 
and her tongue protruded from her face. It was an 
unhealthy orange color, instead of the pale gray that it 
should have been. Wolf alone knew what had been on that 
dart.
    Perhaps it was seeing her mortal like that which 
kindled a mortal concern for her. I floated down into the 
ekwavad, into a space left by a guard who seemed to be in 
shock and had fallen out of the vehicle, and formed into a 
mist Elwen again. "Is there anything I can do?" I asked, 
looking at the two women who supported my sister.
    They reacted at once, drawing their swords with their 
free hands and leveling them at me. I held up a hand and 
shook my head, trying to keep a calm expression instead of 
worry on my face. "I am Morna Godtouched, her sister. I 
have not come to harm her. I repeat, is there anything I 
can do to help her?"
    "Why would you think that-" began the woman on her 
left. Her blue eyes, as pale as my mother's, were already 
half-crazed with grief, and her hair, as dark as Syl's, 
writhed around her head in her agitation. The glow of 
golden blood through her skin only made her look the more 
like an apparition.
    "Calana!" snapped the other woman, in a tone that I 
had rarely heard from anyone. "Enough. Enough," she 
repeated, when Calana looked at her with wild eyes. She 
glanced over at me. "Your offer is much appreciated, 
hanable. No one else around me is calm enough to do 
anything." Her voice calmed the first vestiges of fear 
that I was beginning to feel as I watched Syl's breathing 
slow. "Will you help me get her to the brissonna? They 
might be able to do something for her there. And collect 
the dart, if you would," she added, as I moved in on Syl's 
other side, displacing the angry Calana. "The healers will 
want to know what kind of poison it was carrying." There 
was a tightness in her voice, echoing the shocked disgust 
that I felt myself. Why would anyone want to do such a 
thing? How could the assassin even bring herself to pick 
up the blowgun? How could she have looked in the mirror 
this morning, stared into the face of one who was going to 
attack the Lady of our people?
    It made me feel ill, and gave me a distraction. When 
the Jamalen's Own announced that we would need to take Syl 
to the brissonna in mistform, I did not hesitate to worry 
about any desecration or blasphemy that I might 
unwittingly commit. I simply did it, changing myself and 
the dart into mist, and changing half of Syl, as the 
Jamalen's Own changed the other half.
    We rose lightly into the air, linked together by our 
burden, the outer tendrils of our second forms brushing 
gently against each other. That was how I learned that her 
name was Keital, and that she served Syl as much out of 
personal liking for her as devotion to Jamalen, and that 
she was one of the few that my sister confided in.
    "She was worried about today," Keital told me as we 
coiled above the brissonna, and began to descend. "She 
couldn't tell me why. But it seems that her fears were 
borne out." Her worry surged. She was not as far gone as 
Calana, by any means, but she was getting there.
    I tried to calm her. "She seems to be getting no 
worse. The poison may not be very effective against an 
incarnation of the Goddess."
    "Or it may be held in limbo while we are in mistform, 
and she is," Keital replied grimly, not trying to 
contradict me deliberately, but merely wanting to point 
out all aspects of the situation.
    I acknowledged the point, with a surge of 
understanding before we landed and with a nod after we  
were solid again. Syl hung between us, and her breathing 
increased in shallowness and rapidity the moment her body 
reformed. "Let's move her," I said, and together we began 
to carry her through the cool golden and gray halls of the 
brissonna.
    The healers were already waiting, of course. Our kind 
does possess telepathy, that magic common to all Elwens, 
and this was the Goddess. The most skilled and devout of 
them might have felt her fall. They swarmed about her in a 
moment, taking her from us and carrying her so fast and 
far away that I could not have followed them to save my 
life.
    Or hers.
    I was still gazing after them in distress when I 
realized that one of the healers had stopped beside me and 
was patiently waiting to be noticed. The sensation of 
having someone else wait on me was so unusual that I 
started guiltily as I turned to him.
    "Your pardon," I murmured. "I did not see you standing 
there."
    "No harm done," he said, with a nod. He was an 
ordinary mist Elwen, the kind no one would look at twice, 
with butter-yellow eyes and gray hair. There was a 
kindness in his face, however, that made a second look 
worthwhile. It softened the somewhat sharp angles, making 
them as gentle as the color of his white robe. "I 
understand that the Lady was poisoned?"
    "Yes."
    "Then, if you will, come with me, and tell me what you 
can of the poison."
    I glanced down the corridor where the healers had 
taken Syl, and felt anxiety stir. "With your pardon, 
hanable, I have the dart here," I said, holding it up. 
There was a violent orange stain on the end of it, the 
color Syl's tongue had been. The smell was so strong and 
sweet that I had to hold it away from my face to keep from 
choking or coughing. "I should go after the Lady and make 
sure that she does not want me for anything when she 
wakes." I looked again for Keital, but she was gone. Of 
course, she would have followed Syl at once. I felt a 
stirring of shame that a stranger should have more care 
for my sister than I did.
    The healer took the dart from me, and winced as he 
looked at the poison. "I do not know this kind," he said, 
voice low and troubled. "Never have I heard of any that 
looked or smelled like this."
    "I am sorry," I said, torn between answering the 
despair on his face and going after my sister. "But I 
should go."
    "What is your name, hanable?"
    I blinked, wondering why he wanted it. Of course, he 
might want to make sure that I would not be a danger to 
Syl. I had been carrying the dart, after all. "Morna 
Godtouched," I said.
    His breath caught, and he looked at me more closely. 
"Sister to the Lady?"
    I bowed. "I have that honor, though I fear that most 
of the time I do not deserve it."
    He did not answer that, but stood raptly gazing at my 
face for a moment. His hand rose and began to toy with the 
unusual pendant, sculpted like a gray rose but red and 
most likely made of rubies, that hung around his neck. I 
met his eyes, waiting for both his name- if he chose to 
give it to me- and the inevitable request. Everyone who 
learned that I was Syl's sister asked, at one time or 
another, to be introduced to the Lady through me, or at 
least commended to her. This was especially true of young 
men. No one knew who the Lady's consort was to be, and 
every one of them hoped that it might be him.
    "I understand that," he said at last, though he did 
not say what he understood. His hand stilled, but did not 
leave the rose at his neck, as if he were holding it to 
give him courage. "Well. My name is Ishaian." He bowed 
from the waist, not giving his kusina. "I hope that I may 
make some progress on the poison, and thus save our Lady's 
life. I will let you go to her now. I have delayed you too 
long already."
    He bowed again, and departed. Puzzled, but relieved, I 
began hurrying in the direction that I had seen them take 
Syl.
    It proved surprisingly easy to find her. There was 
really only one corridor, lined with windows for the 
rooms, and I only had to look through the windows to see 
if Syl was in any of the chambers. I reached the right one 
after several tries, and opened the door as softly as I 
could, so as not to disturb the gaggle of people around 
the bed.
    Most of them were healers, in their white robes 
looking like worried priests of the Light, but several 
Jamalen's Own had followed or found us, and hovered over 
Syl as if they thought they could breathe the air for her. 
They drew back at my coming, though more because of 
Keital's imperious glance than anything else. No one 
recognized me, for which I was profoundly grateful.
    I looked closely at my sister. She was breathing more 
regularly now, but her pulse was thready and extremely 
loud; I could hear it from where I stood. Her tongue 
flowed over her jaws like a blotch of sunset light 
trailing from her mouth, and her head still lolled limply. 
The disconcerting thing was that those brilliant golden 
eyes were open, but utterly devoid of glory and wisdom, 
for the first time since her birth. I found that more 
frightening than I could have imagined, and in a way, I 
was as grateful for my fear as for the space that Keital 
had granted me. It seemed that I really did care for her, 
after all.
    No one knew what to do. The healers had tried to wake 
Syl, I heard as I listened to the frantic questions of the 
Jamalen's Own and the scarcely calmer replies of the 
white-robes. They had tried to give her water, to warm 
her, to cool her when she began to sweat, to close her 
mouth and push the tongue back inside. The only thing that 
all this had changed was that her breathing had steadied 
and her heart had faltered. They could do nothing more 
until they heard what had poisoned her.
    My hand tightened on the elaborately carved bedframe- 
even unconscious, they had made sure they put her in the 
best bed- at that. "There is a chance that they will not 
learn in time," I warned them.
    "What do you mean?" It was Calana, the young Jamalen's 
Own so devoted that she had overcome her own fear of 
blasphemy and was clutching Syl's hand.
    "I met a healer who seems to know something about 
poisons," I explained. "He did not recognize the poison on 
the dart by either sight or smell."
    Even though the news had been necessary, I found 
myself wishing that I had not spoken the words. They cast 
a pall of despair over the room. The healers turned ashen, 
and several of the Jamalen's Own burst into tears. Others 
gnashed their teeth, and their golden blood blazed through 
their skin as they vowed to find and kill the assassin, no 
matter how long it took them.
    I said nothing after that, but kept my gaze on my 
sister's still face. She looked fragile, from the blank 
stare of her eyes to her limp tongue. I found myself 
thinking there had to be something I could do, though I 
had not the slightest idea what.
    I reached out a hand and laid it gently on her 
shoulder, the only part of her I could reach. I winced a 
little, instinctively, but no punishing fire lashed me; no 
Wolf leaped out of nowhere to devour me. It did not feel 
like the flesh of a goddess, but of a young and fragile 
mist Elwen maiden on the verge of dying.
    Perhaps.
    Could a Goddess die? I asked myself as I gazed 
steadily into Syl's eyes, which did not look back. I had 
never even thought of the question before. If Syl's mortal 
body died, what happened to the spirit of Jamalen that she 
carried within her? Did it seek the starhalls, as an 
ordinary Elwen spirit would, or would it take to the 
heavens and wait to be reborn again, as Jamalen had the 
first time?
    I thought the second was the more likely to happen, 
but it terrified me, all the same. Wolf, if Jamalen died- 
if Syl died- then it would be years before She could 
return to the world again. And then there would be another 
endless period of waiting, and the menudi might well be 
destroyed in the interval. There must have been a reason 
that Syl was born in this generation, some task that she 
had come to perform. Without Her to perform it, what would 
happen when the time came? Would we be destroyed by an 
enemy that only a Goddess could face?
    Even if we were not, we could not afford to lose her. 
She was too important. I tightened the clutch of my hand 
on her shoulder, as if I could do something to pull her 
back from the darkness where she floated. I whispered her 
names, both of them, and when she did not respond, I 
prayed in the name of the Wolf.
    In the middle of the prayer, I felt her stir. I opened 
my eyes in disbelief and gazed at her. She was gazing back 
at me, shock still in the golden eyes, but increasingly 
mingled with a returning intelligence. She worked her 
jaws, and pulled her tongue back into her mouth. 
Swallowing, shuddering, she lifted her hand and touched 
mine where it lay on her shoulder.
    The others noticed, of course, and reacted with 
screams of joy and prayers of thanks that swept her eyes 
away from mine. But for a moment, she looked up at me in 
wonder, and her voice whispered words that I did not think 
the others heard.
    "Thank you," she whispered. "You prayed for me. I 
heard you, Morna."
    The memory of those words held me there even after her 
eyes had turned elsewhere. I would have left, ordinarily, 
as the healers had done after offering their thanks. This 
was a moment for the Goddess and those sworn to Her. But 
those words, and Keital's sharp and thoughtful glance, 
held me there.
    A moment later, I was glad that they had.
    Syl sat up, slowly and uncertainly testing the 
boundaries of her strength, but moving. "I would like to 
speak to my sister alone," she said in a voice that 
carried, and stilled the others' words almost at once. 
Their eyes focused on her in continuing, devouring wonder, 
but puzzlement as well.
    "Who would that be?" asked a young woman whose face 
was streaked with tears and stained with glory.
    "Morna. Morna Godtouched." Syl turned her head, golden 
eyes shining, and gave me a smile of such tender, almost 
mortal affection that the hurt that had been hiding within 
me all those years uncurled a little. "My sister," she 
added, a touch of defiance in her voice, as her eyes swung 
back to the Jamalen's Own, "whose prayers brought me back 
to this world."
    They might have protested, but not against that voice, 
not against those words. They bowed their heads and 
murmured prayers of thanksgiving and prayers for 
forgiveness, and then they left.
    The moment the door closed, the strange spell that had 
kept me from feeling any fear snapped. For the first time 
since her birth, I was alone with Syl. I did not know what 
to feel, or if there was anything that I should feel. I 
held her eyes, uncertainly, and waited.
    "That," said Syl at last, when she had cocked her head 
and listened with more than mist Elwen senses to make sure 
we were truly alone, "was a very brave thing to have done. 
What, exactly, were the words of your prayer?" Her eyes 
shone, I was discomfited to note, with admiration. I 
looked away.
    "I cannot remember them now," I mumbled beneath my 
breath. "I prayed to the Wolf."
    "Ah." Suddenly Syl laughed, that sound like crystal 
and ringing bells and floating mist that captured all the 
laughter of a menudi should be, and leaned forward to 
clasp my hands. "Doble, you need not be afraid or ashamed. 
You did no wrong in laying hands on me and praying. You 
did exactly right."
    Stunned by her use of the intimate title, I looked 
into her face again. "Why?" I whispered. 
    "I could not have answered the prayers they were 
proffering, could I?" Syl asked, her eyebrows rising. "I 
am Jamalen, and I was lost far from this world, in deep 
and nameless darkness." For a moment fear passed across 
her face, but it was gone quickly. She was alive again, 
after all, as she had always been. "The Wolf was the only 
one who might have been able to save me, and you were the 
only one who thought to call upon him."
    "But why was that brave?"
    Syl gazed at me wisely, the glamour of the Goddess 
falling across her eyes again suddenly. "Perhaps that was 
not the best choice of words. But rest assured, that was 
what was meant. It was brave, even if it was in a way that 
you cannot understand as yet."
    With that, she released my hands, and I stood. I knew 
what it meant. She was the Goddess again, and she spoke in 
riddles that only those most devoted to her could 
understand without effort.
    Besides, I realized as I heard the door open behind 
me, she had visitors.
    I glanced over my shoulder, and met my brother's 
startled gaze. A moment later, though, his eyes went past 
me to Syl, and he beamed in relief, coming over to fall to 
his knees before her.
    "Lady sister." His voice was deep with wonder and joy. 
"You do live."
    Syl let her hand rest on his forehead in blessing, and 
Jre shivered as if he found the contact more powerful than 
I had. He probably did. Already I could feel the light 
that had briefly bound me together with my sister 
receding, and myself retreating into the shadows again. I 
looked down at my hands, to avoid the piercing stab of any 
curiosity that Jre might have about me.
    And Amelouk's gaze.
    She fell to her knees before her daughter, of course, 
and received her blessing, and inquired about her health. 
But when she had been reassured as to that, she left Syl 
talking with Jre, and turned to me with her blood already 
beginning to glow.
    "What are you doing here?" Her voice was a grating 
whisper, not because she especially wanted to keep Syl and 
my brother from overhearing what she was about to say, 
but, seemingly, because her anger would not allow her to 
raise her voice any further.
    "I helped to bring Syl to the brissonna, and then I 
prayed to help her return to the world," I answered, my 
eyes on the floor. It was no good meeting her gaze and 
provoking her further.
    "The Lady! Call her the Lady, or Jamalen." Even beyond 
the Jamalen's Own, my mother was a fanatic in making sure 
that Syl received the proper respect.
    "The Lady, then- she said that my prayers helped her." 
My gaze did rise then to meet my mother's. I could 
remember the feel of the light even though I was no longer 
standing in it, and I would not let her take this one 
triumph, the one cause for pride I had had in years, away 
from me. "She said that she heard my voice, because I 
prayed to the Wolf and not to her, and she was pulled back 
to the world by it."
    My mother hesitated, and then, unexpectedly, her eyes 
left mine filled with shame.
    I stared, then shrugged. Her inner feelings were not 
mine to puzzle out. I had learned that long since. I 
turned to slide past her, making for the door, but paused 
when Syl called after me. I turned, offering a bow for 
good measure. "Yes, Lady?"
    Her gaze was steady, strong. "If you could," she said, 
"would you look in the books in the library, and try to 
identify the poison for me?"
    I blinked, startled by the unexpected task. But then, 
we must all serve the Goddess as best we can, and no one 
else was half so well-suited as I was to picking through 
the books of the library and learning what was needful to 
know. I had not recognized the poison on the dart, but I 
knew where to look to find information on it. Perhaps not 
even Saldoran could have said that. More than half of the 
world of shadows that was my home since Syl's birth was 
the library of Dernuris.
    "Of course," I assured her, with another bow. "I will 
do that at once."
    "Oh, do not trouble yourself so quickly," Syl said, 
her voice oddly soft and without inflection, but her eyes 
compassionate. "I would not want you to feel rushed. Take 
as much time as you need. You still need to ride Cael 
today, don't you?"
    It startled me that she was so aware of my habits; I 
would not have thought it of her. "Yes," I acknowledged, 
with a bow of my head. 
    "Then do that, Morna." She smiled, and real warmth lay 
behind the smile- not the concern of a goddess for a 
servant, even a specially favored servant, but the concern 
of a sister for a sister. "It pleases me when you are 
happy."
    Reeling inwardly, I bowed and left the room.
----------------------------------------------------------
    I knocked on the door I had been told was the right 
one, and waited. Instead of a voice calling for me to come 
in, though, footsteps came, crossing the floor, and then 
the door opened to reveal Ishaian, gazing at me with pale 
yellow eyes.
    "Morna." He smiled. "An unexpected honor, my lady. 
What can I do for you?"
    I shook my head. "Please, hanable, you honor me too 
much. I do not deserve such things. I am only the sister 
of the Goddess, not the Goddess herself."
    His smile did not fade, though his eyes grew a little 
more intense. "I remember," he said, and again his fingers 
touched the red rose pendant at his throat. "What can I do 
for you?" He repeated that with a touch more courtesy than 
before, if anything. I gave up on my efforts to convince 
him and told him what I had come for.
    "The Lady has assigned me the task of identifying the 
poison. I would appreciate it if I might have the dart 
back, to study."
    Ishaian's eyebrows rose. "That is an unusual task for 
one such as yourself."
    I nodded in agreement. "She thinks such information is 
in the library, though, and that I might be the only one 
who can find it."
    "That is not-" said Ishaian, and then shrugged as if 
dismissing something that had once been important but now 
did not matter. "Ah, well. I have the dart here." He drew 
it from a pocket within his robe. I took it gingerly, 
though the poison was long dry, and put it in a pocket of 
my own jana.
    "Thank you."
    "My honor." His eyes still had not left my face. A 
little amused, I wondered if he was studying me for some 
resemblance to the Goddess. He would find none. Syl is 
immortal, and though we are supposedly the children of the 
same parents, we look nothing alike. "If there is anything 
that I might do to aid the investigation, then let me 
know. I may not know the poison that so nearly felled the 
Lady, but I may be able to tell you what it most 
definitely is not."
    "Thank you," I said again, and then added, as it was 
my duty to do: "The Goddess is well, as I am sure you have 
heard, and she would accept a visit from you, if you chose 
to make it."
    Ishaian smiled. "Thank you for telling me, my lady, 
but it would be a little much, wouldn't it?"
    I frowned. "I am afraid that I do not understand what 
you mean."
    "I have already met one goddess today. Meeting two 
would be a little overwhelming." He bowed to me while I 
stood staring at him. "Let me know if I can aid you in any 
way," he said calmly, straightening, looking at me as if 
he had not just said what he had. Only a smile in the 
corners of his eyes told me that he had.
    And meant it.
    I stared at him for another long moment, wondering 
what he could have meant by it, why he did not simply go 
to Syl and approach her directly that way instead of doing 
it indirectly by flattering me. Perhaps he was one of 
those to whom such games were life itself. I had never 
liked such people, but I could understand them.
    All I said was, "I will not begin the research until 
tomorrow, as the Goddess has graciously granted me the 
rest of the day for my own use. Thank you for your offer 
of help once more, and you may send a message by the 
sonortaken if you find something tonight."
    Ishaian watched me with what seemed to be puzzlement 
as I walked away. Well he might. It was strange not to 
react to a compliment, especially among our people, where 
such talk is rare save between courting couples.
    But not everyone is a sister of the Goddess.
----------------------------------------------------------
    Luckily, I did not have a long wait for the scad. I 
could have drifted in mistform, of course, but that would 
have taken a long time, and I was anxious. The sun was 
waning on Jamalen's Day, and though Cael's sight was 
better in the dark then that of most of the other horses, 
he had only recently come into that magical gift. I did 
not want to test him overmuch.
    Besides, Tuvalle would want the news of what had 
happened in Dernuris this day.
    With a soft whine, the great, disc-shaped craft 
settled to the ground. I climbed aboard with the several 
other waiting passengers, finding a seat near the back. 
There are no windows on a scad, no way to see the ground 
dancing past outside, but sitting near the back had always 
comforted me, for some obscure reason.
    I settled into my place and proceeded to ignore and be 
ignored by the others who had likewise taken their places. 
The controller sat near the front, of course, his eyes 
closed and his mind attuned to the delicate mixture of 
magic and technology that drives a scad. The scad'jii are 
the most restless of our inventions, and the balance the 
most easily upset within them. There is some risk, always, 
in flying them.
    Then he found the right balance. I knew, although I 
had never flown a scad, that he had locked his mind into 
where he wanted to go, and set the machine on a straight 
course for it. The course was important. Once the scad was 
set in flight, nothing short of the Goddess Herself would 
be able to stop it.
    The craft lifted from the ground, and that was the 
last movement I felt for some moments. This was a good 
thing. Feeling movement on a scad tells you something is 
wrong.
    I closed my eyes, trying to think of nothing for the 
moment. There would be plenty of time for introspection on 
Cael's back, where I had always done my best thinking 
anyway. The strange things that had happened to me today 
could wait.
    I heard the other passengers speaking softly of what 
had happened in Dernuris, and how lucky the Goddess had 
been to escape unharmed. I nodded to myself. She had been. 
The poison might easily have killed her...
    I stopped, surprised at the turn my thoughts were 
taking. Syl was more than mortal, or at least the part of 
her that was Jamalen was. Why should I think that she had 
only survived because of luck? Far more likely that she 
would not have died unless she had willed herself to die.
    Although, remembering the orange tongue and the still 
eyes, I was suddenly unsure.
    The scad jolted suddenly as the controller's 
concentration faltered. I gripped the arms of my seat, 
feeling the first hint of the sickening spinning motion 
that is really the way the craft travels through the air. 
If it became much worse, it could disorient me to the 
point of becoming sick, or the magic could interfere with 
my own and kill me. Even feeling this tiny bit of motion 
made me uneasy, and fluid seemed to slosh back and forth 
in my head.
    A moment later, though, the scad steadied and began to 
sink. I opened my eyes with a quiet gasp of relief and 
understanding. It had been nothing more than an uneasy 
landing; the controller was probably new.
    I let the other passengers precede me off the great 
silver craft, recovering my balance, until I was sure I 
would be able to walk without sliding from side to side as 
if I were on a ship. As I passed the controller, he 
glanced casually at me, then looked again, a little more 
sharply.
    "I saw you today," he said. "You were one of those who 
took the Goddess to the brissonna, weren't you?"
    "I was, yes," I said warily, wondering what had 
happened to the cloak of unobtrusiveness that I had so 
carefully cultivated. Perhaps it had been torn, at least 
for today, when I had chosen to help Syl to the brissonna. 
Not that I minded, of course; saving her life was more 
important than not competing with her. Still, it unsettled 
me. It was a change from the way things had been for fifty 
years, and even before that.
    The controller looked up into my face with keen 
interest. "Then you must be blessed as much as anyone not 
a Jamalen's Own can be blessed," he said, with what 
sounded like envy in his voice. He bowed his head. "Will 
you bless me, hanable?"
    I sighed and touched his forehead; it was easier than 
trying to explain. "White light, morning stars, and Wolf," 
I half-chanted. "May you be blessed."
    The controller made a little choked sound, and then 
lifted his head, eyes shining. "Thank you," he whispered. 
"I can almost feel it taking hold." He closed his eyes as 
if lost in a world of his own, and I departed the scad as 
quietly as I could.
    I stood at what was essentially a crossroads, less 
than a hundred yards from Tuvalle's horse-farm. We had 
crossed three hundred miles of the Misty Meadows in less 
than ten minutes.
    I smiled a little, though a sharp pain seemed to 
strike me as I did so. Riding in a scad always reminded me 
of my father- who, even now, I could not name as I should 
have named the dead.
    I walked quietly to the horse-farm, not even listening 
to the sparking of the sonortaken and its messages around 
me, more thoughtful than I had been in some while.
    A whinny awakened me while I was still some distance 
away from Cael's corral. I lifted my head, smiling once 
more, and whistled softly. The whinny came again, and then 
the drum of hooves. Cael dashed up to me and bowed his 
head to press his muzzle softly against my shoulder, in a 
form of greeting peculiar to him.
    He is a magnificent horse- at least in form. Of 
course, he is really one of the tuv'jii, the magically 
bred horses in which Tuvalle specializes. No horse can 
stay long in the Misty Meadows without acquiring some of 
the magic that spills from us and into everything around 
us. Cael, whom I named "star-lord" because of his deep 
blue coat covered with silver streaks and spots, stood six 
feet at the withers, and had been with me for sixty years. 
Longer than Syl, I thought as I rubbed his neck, though 
why the thought should have meant so much to me I did not 
know.
    "Morna!"
    I turned, a little startled, but so calm in Cael's 
presence that I was not really frightened. Tuvalle stood 
there, her dark eyes flicking back and forth from me to 
Cael, who snorted at her with polite recognition. She 
clutched the reins of a young horse, barely more than a 
colt, who danced restlessly as I looked at him. Rangy, he 
was, and bay, or almost so. The color of his coat was so 
dark that he might have almost been called black. I looked 
into his large, dark eyes, and frowned.
    "I don't remember that horse," I told Tuvalle, before 
she could ask how Cael had come to be out of his corral. 
"I don't like the look of him."
    "Really?" Tuvalle looked thoughtfully at me, then back 
at the horse. He snorted and lowered his head, his laid- 
back ears rising as she stroked his mane. His eyes 
remained on me, with something that might have been called 
enmity in a more intelligent being. "Ranalth is his name. 
I acquired him recently from traders. I had thought him a 
good horse."
    I shrugged, and pushed the feeling of dislike away. 
Sometimes a tuv and a mist Elwen simply do not get along. 
One of the facts of life, and usually unchangeable. "He 
probably is. I have not been here in a while to judge." I 
held up a hand before Tuvalle could tongue-lash me, and 
added, "Forgive me, if you will, in the name of the Wolf."
    "Of course." My formal asking dissipated Tuvalle's 
anger. She relaxed, and leaned back against Ranalth's 
flank, smoothing his coat with one hand. "I had heard that 
something happened in Dernuris today, but not what. Will 
you tell me?"
    "Someone tried to assassinate Syl."
    Tuvalle's eyes widened, and for a moment she stood 
still. A variety of emotions flickered over her face, too 
quickly for me to catch them. I had never been good at 
reading her, which was perhaps one of the reasons that we 
were not really friends.
    "I see," she said at last. There was a lack of horror 
in her voice that would have been shocking from anyone 
else, but then, Tuvalle had never been the most religious 
sort of person. "Do they know who did it?"
    "No. Though most of the Jamalen's Own are now sworn to 
hunt her down."
    "Of course." I could read the expression that came 
into her eyes this time, a kind of dark irony. "Of course 
they are," she repeated, almost beneath her breath, 
staring into the distance with a bleak expression on her 
face.
    "Of course," I echoed, trying to diminish the sense of 
near-blasphemy that hung in the air.
    Tuvalle's eyes focused on me again, and she smiled 
sharply. "I'm sorry. I'm setting you on your heels again, 
and I didn't want to do that. Now I must ask you to 
forgive me, in turn." She did not mention the name of the 
Wolf, but she wouldn't.
    I nodded, and swung onto Cael's back. I had the 
feeling that she would ask me no more, that what I had 
told her was more than enough to warrant her consideration 
for some hours. And it seemed that I was right; she 
watched me ride away in silence.
    Cael ran easily beneath me, in a flowing canter that 
was as effortless as the flow of water in the stream that 
bordered Tuvalle's property, and which we came to shortly. 
I let him drink there, a little, running my fingers 
through his mane as he did so. That thick mane, as dark as 
Syl's hair, was all the reins I needed.
    Once he had finished drinking, he twisted his head 
back, on a neck more agile than an ordinary horse's, and 
looked up at me pleadingly.
    I looked into his eyes, then sighed and glanced at the 
west. The sun was little more than a sullen smolder among 
the clouds and mist now- not that its light ever really 
pierces the protective curtain that shrouds the Meadows. 
There was little light. Twilight wrapped all the hills and 
small valleys, valleys that contained holes and stones on 
which he could too easily break a leg.
    Then I remembered his improved night-vision, and 
looked into his eager eyes, and sighed again.
    "Go," I told him.
    He plunged forward, jumping completely over the stream 
like a soaring bird and shimmering into the darkness in a 
gallop faster than anything an unaltered horse could have 
managed.
    I found myself holding on as he ran, not thinking. It 
took more than enough thinking to adjust my body to his 
running, for his gallop was not straight. He swerved and 
dodged like a hind in flight from a wolf, leaping 
obstacles that I did not even see, and he leaped several 
times, straight in the air, for sheer joy. I had to move 
with him, and struggle to anticipate his next move before 
he made it. There was no time for the thinking I had 
planned to do about my headache, about the task that Syl 
had given me, about Ishaian, about the new hopes that 
might have taken root today, about the assassination 
attempt, about what it meant that the controller had 
recognized me or that my prayers had called a Goddess back 
to the world. For thinking about anything.
    Cael settled into a steady gallop at last, and I 
closed my eyes and rode, letting the wind sweep my mind 
free. My thoughts and worries would most likely come into 
my mind later that night, when I lay in bed. For the 
moment, I didn't need them.
    It was a long time before I became aware that Cael was 
not simply running for the joy of it anymore. His gallop 
had a strength, a jarring, frightened rhythm that I 
recognized as the one he used when he had determined that 
some wild animal had come near enough to be a threat.
    I clutched his mane and looked around. We rode through 
one of the areas of wildmist, though, the rare but large 
pockets that do not take kindly to any attempt to command 
them magically. White and gray, stained silver in some 
places by the stars riding overhead, danced all around us, 
and I could not see anything further than three feet away 
from me. Even the tips of Cael's long, dark tail vanished 
behind me.
    The world was dark enough now for me to try and use 
the nightsight of my kind, the Elwen magical gift that 
allows us to see the pallid auras most everything sheds by 
the sheer force of existence. It didn't work. There were 
too many shadows, which are not considered by the magic as 
having existence, and too much real light, which disrupts 
the auras. The world remained stubbornly misty and unreal 
around me.
    Cael had slowed to a trot by then, his flanks heaving 
in exhaustion, his mane glowing with diamond flecks of 
foam that shone with a peculiar life of their own in the 
starlight. I patted his neck and looked behind us, still 
seeing nothing.
    Then a shape did take form, out of the mist and the 
dark. A large, four-legged shape, bent low to the ground 
as it paced us.
    Cael let out a whinny and tried to speed his pace 
again, but I twined my fingers through the outer strands 
of his mane in a signal that he had learned not to ignore. 
He continued to trot, even though his ears were nearly on 
a level with his skull by then, and his neck and mane were 
both wet and slick beneath my fingers. I patted him, and 
did my best to ignore the predator so close to us. Most of 
the Meadows' hunters will track potential prey out of 
curiosity as well as hunger, and if that prey shows no 
fear, then the hunter will depart after a time.
    This was only a single creature, not a pack. There was 
no reason to be afraid.
    Cael, of course, could not understand that, and 
continued to sweat and shiver, even though I caressed and 
crooned to him until my throat was hoarse.
    It was an odd experience, riding through that enclosed 
silver world with the unknown hunter pacing us, now 
gliding abreast of us, now almost ahead, now dropping 
behind as if it wanted to look at the light hoofprints 
Cael left in the crushed gray grass behind him. Cael's 
flanks heaved beneath me, wet as the wildmist, but warm 
where it was cold. Drops of moisture gathered on my skin. 
My hair drifted around me, touched both by the natural 
breeze and by the magical wind that stirs my people's hair 
when our agitation rises. I was a little worried, though 
for Cael and not myself. Mistform allows a menudi to avoid 
any physical blow. But Cael could not evade the hunter 
nearly so easily.
    At least, if the wildmist were to lift, we could see 
what it was, and perhaps make a run for it.
    Then, suddenly and abruptly, the mist did lift. I 
turned Cael at the edge of that drifting curtain and 
glared back, my blood beginning to glow a little as relief 
turned fear into anger.
    The mist blew back, stirred by the neverending wind, 
and then I saw it. I nearly choked, and bowed my head in 
awe as I did so- awe not a little unmixed by the suddenly 
returned fear.
    It was a wolf, such as have haunted the Meadows since 
the day we arrived here, all of them, it is said, 
descendants of Jamalen's Attendant. But this was a vision 
of lupine perfection. Fur silver as starlight, deep dark 
eyes, rippling and perfectly balanced muscles, a head that 
was uplifted with what might have been called pride.
    What was pride. I had no doubt in my mind that I was 
being granted a vision of the Wolf himself. There could 
not be two wolves in the world so perfect. And this one 
had appeared out of the mists as if it had not been there 
before I entered them.
    I bowed my head, feeling my eyes fill to overflowing 
with tears, knowing that I was sobbing, but hardly able to 
care. I had seen something that had caused more than one 
menudi to enter the priesthood or the Jamalen's Own. I was 
seeing an extraordinarily beautiful vision that changed, 
somehow, the lives of all who saw it. I was seeing the 
Wolf at the end of Jamalen's Day, as he had appeared to 
Jamalen Herself, lost amid the mists, gazing at Her with 
dark eyes. Did not the Prophecies say that the Wolf's eyes 
were as dark as a starry night?
    Not that I would have a chance to make sure that his 
eyes really were black, streaked with silver or white 
flecks. He would be gone when I glanced up. That was the 
way it always was.
    Save that, when I glanced up, he was still there.
    I felt a shiver creep down my spine as I stared at 
him, something quite apart from the fact that he was a 
divinely granted manifestation of beauty and fortune so 
great that I had trouble comprehending just what it meant 
to see him. His eyes were solemn, dark, deep, and they 
looked into my soul. I tried to move, and found that I 
could not. Not while those eyes were on my face. Perhaps 
not ever again, I thought, looking back as steadily as I 
could. Would I be allowed to live after this? Perhaps the 
Wolf had come to bring me home to Jamalen, after all.
    The Wolf lifted his head and uttered a soft sound. It 
was a howl, but a howl so sweet and pure as to truly be 
the song that the howling of wolves has been named in our 
legends from the oldest times. It was pure as Syl's 
laughter, and indeed seemed to echo it. By the sound, I 
knew myself blessed and honored.
    And beyond that, greeted in a way that I could not 
even begin to understand.
    Then the mists closed in about the Wolf again. He did 
not turn and walk away; he merely faded into the fog, 
until I could not tell which dark patch was his body and 
which was one of the few scattered trees that often endure 
in patches of wildmist.
    I bowed my head, breathing nearly as hoarsely and 
quickly as Cael. Actually, though, I realized in some 
surprise, Cael was not breathing so quickly anymore. I 
touched his neck, and realized it was not shuddering, 
either. He stood still, his eyes fastened to the place 
where the Wolf had been. He snorted, two times, and then 
turned his head to look at me as he had when he begged to 
run. There was a different look in his dark eyes this 
time.
    I smiled, shakily, and touched his ear. "All right," I 
murmured. "I'll walk you back, and then you can get 
something to eat, since that seems to matter so much to 
you." I slipped off his back, and walked across the 
Meadows, back towards Tuvalle's farm. He followed with his 
nose at my shoulder, not needing a bridle or reins or even 
my hold on his mane. He was too well-trained, and too 
loyal.
    I found myself unable to think about the Wolf 
coherently. Every time I tried, wonder broke my thoughts 
into shining fragments, and I would shake my head, smiling 
and weeping, coming as close as I had to joy since my 
father, the only one in my family who had understood me, 
had died.
    The night closed in about the sound of our footsteps.
----------------------------------------------------------
    Tuvalle was about when I brought Cael in, but on the 
other side of the corral. She leaned against Ranalth's 
flank, gazing at something in her hands so intently that 
she did not look up even when the bad-tempered bay snorted 
at me. I did not disturb her. I was not sure, I thought as 
I rubbed Cael down with handfuls of straw and offered him 
sips of water to drink at a time, that I wanted to tell 
anyone about the Wolf. The memory was wonderful, special, 
private, mine alone. There was little that was mine alone, 
and I treasured what was.
    Besides, I thought as a little of the ecstasy finally 
faded, they might not believe me. I was nothing special, 
and I was not even considering swearing to Jamalen or 
entering the priesthood. Why should a vision of the Wolf 
have been granted to me? There was no reason. My mother 
would argue with me about it, and my brother would be too 
curious. They would destroy the beauty of the memory.
    And Syl...
    I did not know what Syl would say. It was even 
possible that she had sent the vision to me, in thanks for 
what I had done that day, and the last thing I thought I 
could face was her knowing smile, if that was so.
    No, I would leave well enough alone, and not tell 
anyone, I thought as I finished rubbing Cael down and 
began combing out his mane and tail, while he munched 
grain from whatever hand happened to be free at the 
moment. The vision of the Wolf would stay my secret, and 
whatever it meant, whatever happened because of it, would 
seem to have some other cause. I thought that was the way 
I wanted it.
    At last, Cael stopped eating and stood there, drowsy, 
while I finished combing him. That done, I checked him one 
more time for any kind of scratch or cut, any kind of tiny 
stone in his hoof or insect bite, and then released him 
back into the corral. He trotted a few lazy steps and then 
stood there, head bowed, mane sweeping the ground, his 
coat almost blending with the deepening color of the sky. 
I smiled, and picked up the shovel I would need to clean 
up after him.
    On the way to put it away, I had to pass close to 
Tuvalle, and I slowed, glancing at her. She still had not 
looked up from whatever it was that she held in her hands, 
and that worried me. There are a few plants in the 
Meadows, though not very many, that can hypnotize the 
viewer and hold her still while they devour her.
    I moved up behind her. Ranalth stamped and snorted. 
Tuvalle never moved, her head bobbing slowly up and down 
as if in time to music that only she could hear. My worry 
increasing, I reached out to touch her shoulder.
    She started and whirled around, her hands closing 
convulsively over the small object that had held her 
attention so ferociously. It was a pendant, I saw, in the 
shape of a rose, and it was red. It was the twin of the 
pendant that the healer at the brissonna had worn, in 
fact.
    "I didn't-" Tuvalle began, and then some veil seemed 
to fall in the back of her eyes. "I didn't expect you back 
quite so soon," she said, leaning against Ranalth's flank 
again. One hand stroked his mane; her other closed around 
the rose pendant so tightly that I winced to think of how 
its jewels must be cutting into her palm.
    "I can see that," I said. "I was worried about you, 
though, apreble. You were so still that I thought 
something was wrong."
    She shook her head. "Not wrong." The hand closed about 
the rose pendant even more tightly, and she gave me a 
bright smile.
    Well, whatever the pendant might mean or might not 
mean, it was obvious that she didn't want to be troubled 
about it. I shrugged. "Cael is cared for, and I am going 
home. Stars shine this night for you."
    "And for you, Morna."
    Twice in one day that she had used my name, I thought 
idly as I turned away. She seemed to be worried about 
something, though I could not tell what it was, and it was 
none of my business, anyway.
    I walked to the crossroads and waited a few minutes 
for the next scad controller to sense my need and arrive. 
Mist coiled about me, and I amused myself with it, 
stretching it with my magic, playing with it, curving and 
coiling it into new shapes.
    Briefly, something I had not created took form, and 
dark eyes gazed at me. I heard a wolf singing in the 
distance just before the scad arrived.
    I turned towards the craft and let the mist go.




                        Chapter 2
                        Vitintiel
    "Fight poison with poison."
    -Shadowed Elwen Proverb.

    I shook my head. "Hardly, diible. It's 'sha'irrlou.' 
Not 'irrlou'sha.'"
    My brother folded his arms and glared at me. "I'm 
beginning not to care," he said, almost sulkily. "Why do I 
need to learn these twenty-eight tenses of verbs anyway? 
What's the point of having them?"
    "I didn't design the language," I reminded him gently. 
"And you have to know how to use the different tenses in 
order to say whatever you need to say when writing a poem. 
What if one of your teachers asks you-"
    Jre shook his head and turned away from me.
    I shrugged and turned to lift the book I had been 
studying before he had interrupted me for lessons from my 
knees. It was a very old book, and Saldoran would probably 
not have released it from the library for anyone besides 
me. The binding, made of the golden skin of some unknown 
creature, creaked and cracked warningly as I shifted the 
book to gaze at the drawing of a flower on pran paper so 
old it had turned nearly black around the edges. For a few 
moments, silence endured as I studied the mometh flower 
and Jre stared moodily out the window.
    I had just reluctantly concluded that the poison on 
the dart could not have been brewed from the mometh- the 
poison that came from that plant was mild, and could not 
kill save in ridiculous amounts, more than had been 
smeared on the head of the dart- when my brother suddenly 
stiffened. "What's that?" His voice was tight with a 
strange mixture of things- jealousy, anger, and a quick, 
kindling interest.
    "What is what?" I looked up from my studies only 
reluctantly. I had been trying for three days to find some 
hint of the poison's identity, days in which Syl had had 
to remain in the brissonna under guard instead of making 
her usual benevolent rounds of the Meadows. So far, there 
had not been a single clue.
    My brother glanced at me, speculation running all over 
his face. "A message just arrived by sonortaken."
    I stood up and came to join him at the window. Sure 
enough, the trail of silver light that ran into the middle 
of Parseirai's main courtyard, normally barely visible, 
now glowed so brightly that sparks appeared to be flinging 
themselves from it to ground harmlessly in the grass. I 
shook my head and changed into mist, flowing out the 
window, instead of replying. Jre was right behind me, and 
we arrived at the sonortaken at about the same time.
    The sonortaken, or silver road, is the fastest method 
of sending messages that any race possesses, faster even 
than telepathy, and far less detectable. We prefer it 
because of that speed, and because then we need not pierce 
our privacy by opening our minds. Still, use of it is 
mainly confined to the san'jii and aprendilnai, not to the 
isolated kusinai. 
    I could not imagine who would want to contact us, but 
thought it must be some far-distant worshiper who did not 
know of Syl's present location, pleading for intercession 
in the matter of a deathly sick loved one or the like. I 
reached out and touched the silver strand, adjusting my 
mind to receive the message.
    It was there, in my mind, at once. Not words, but 
information, simply transferred. Ishaian thought he might 
have identified the poison, and he would like to speak 
with me in Dernuris.
    "Morna?" Jre's hand was on my arm, and he was gazing 
up into my face, worriedly. "Who is it? Mother? Is 
something wrong with the Lady?"
    I shook my head, struggling mentally to remember the 
last time I had received a message by the sonortaken. Not 
for centuries, I was certain. "No," I said at last. 
"Something that might have some bearing on Syl, though. 
One of the healers at the brissonna thinks that he might 
have identified the poison on the dart."
    My brother made a small noise, and I turned to find 
him gazing up at me reproachfully. "Of course that has 
bearing!" he snapped. "And why do you call her Syl, 
anyway? Don't you love her?"
    "For the same reason you call me by my name," I said, 
and then felt sorry for the stricken look that crossed his 
face. He hadn't really deserved that. Still, I did not  
know how to apologize, and I had no time for the involved 
explanation that it would take. I touched his shoulder, 
and said simply, "I am going."
    I spoke the words to the sonortaken as much as to my 
brother, and felt the sparks fly in response. Then the 
message soared away along the intangible net of silver 
threads that link every kusina, san, aprendilna, or kethe 
in the Meadows, heading towards the menudi I had had in 
mind when I spoke.
    "How?" Jre asked me, following me as I went back into 
the house to gather up a vespermeal; I suspected that I 
would be gone past the time when our family would normally 
eat together. "By scad?"
    I nodded. "It's too urgent to do otherwise."
    My brother seemed a little mollified by the fact that 
I took this seriously, and said, "Give my regards to 
Mother and the Lady," before he disappeared back in the 
direction of his room and his Primal lessons. I smiled at 
his back, recognizing the apology for what it was, his own 
tacit effort to make peace.
    I gathered up part of a wheel of cheese, the end of a 
loaf of bread, and some of the dried meat that my mother 
had prepared over the winter and that we had never eaten- 
things that wouldn't be missed. The wide pockets of the 
jana held them all, and moments later I was walking 
briskly towards the crossroads near our home that forms 
the scad landing.
    It was unusually late- unusually, because the need in 
my mind had to do with the Goddess and was so urgent. I 
toyed with the brooch of my ja while I waited, then 
realized what I was doing and stopped. That brooch was one 
that my father had given me, an intricately wound and 
endless knot of copper twined with bronze and gold. I did 
not like to dirty it, nor to touch it very often. It 
reminded me too much of him.
    At last, the scad came humming softly down. I sighed 
with relief and stepped in, telling the controller, 
"Dernuris."
    He nodded, his eyes already closed, his mind reaching 
out towards the aprendilna to link with one of the scad 
landing sites there. I settled myself in the back, as 
usual, and prepared to enjoy the swift smoothness of the 
ride.
    The dart pricked me through the cloth of the pocket, 
as always. I had positioned it so that it would. Whenever 
I grew too complacent, or too certain that I would never 
find whatever poison was on the dart, then the dart would 
prick me, and goad me on to new efforts.
    Someone had tried to kill the Goddess.
    I opened my eyes and stared at the blank, curved 
silver wall of the scad, shivering a little as I thought 
about that. Someone had tried to kill She who was Lady of 
us all. If that could happen, anything could happen. We 
had to be vigilant, or something would.
    Abruptly, I became aware that the sickness churning in 
my belly was the result of more than the thought of 
someone trying to kill the Goddess. I gripped the edges of 
my seat and sent a prayer to the Wolf.
    The scad was shaking all over, and plunging towards 
the ground like a bucking horse.
    I heard the controller's shout, in a voice so panicked 
that it was almost not recognizable as menudi. I saw him 
turn into mist. I did not copy him. The sides of a scad 
are sealed against the penetration of mist, of anything 
magical, because it might interfere with the magic of the 
flyer itself if allowed to enter. Changing into mist might 
soften the impact a little, but it would not allow one to 
leave the craft.
    Fear beat in my throat like a second heart. I closed 
my eyes again, even though there was nothing to see, even 
though the Meadows we were spinning down towards were 
invisible beyond those curved silver walls. I prayed 
desperately, my fingers writhing on the edges of the seat. 
My head sloshed, my stomach churned, and I lost my 
dawnmeal with a suddenness that terrified me the more.
    Then the scad stilled, and the sickening, spinning 
dive we had settled into stopped. I opened my eyes, 
slowly, gasping, wondering if we had had the good fortune 
to fall into a patch of wildmist, which might have cradled 
the craft.
    We had not. The controller was in solid form again, 
and he was in his seat, staring at the simple handles of 
the craft with his mouth open. Then he turned to me, 
incredulous, his eyes telling me the truth even before he 
spoke it.
    "It's- we're flying." His voice was nearly a whisper. 
"We never touched the ground."
    For a long moment, there was no sound but our very 
nearly twinned gasps. Then I caught my breath and my 
scattered wits. "That's impossible," I said. "Everyone 
knows that's impossible. When a scad wavers, the mourning 
begins." The saying came to my tongue easily. It is one of 
the most common ones in the Meadows.
    The controller shot me a swift, contemptuous glance. 
"Take it up with the Goddess, hanable," he said shortly. 
"I plan to give thanks, myself."
    I opened my mouth to reply, but just then the craft 
began to fall again and we both tensed. It was only the 
landing, however. More smoothly than I could ever remember 
experiencing, the scad settled to the ground, and the 
hatch opened as if propelled by an invisible wind. Late 
sunlight reached in to stroke the silver walls.
    It was a long moment before I moved, and by then the 
controller was speaking in a small, frightened voice. "I 
didn't do that. I didn't fly it, or open it, or command it 
to land." He shot me a wild glance as I stepped past him, 
and it seemed that he was on the verge of gripping my arm, 
which was usually a high breach of courtesy. "Hanable," he 
said softly, "do you know what happened?" Fear gleamed in 
his eyes, and then he was looking trustingly up at me. He 
was probably younger than I was.
    Not knowing what had happened myself, the best I could 
offer him was another saying. "The Goddess holds Her own."
    "Yes," said the controller, bowing his head and 
staring at his hands where they rested on the handles. "I- 
She does. I-" He cut off, shaking his head, and I smiled 
as calmly as I could at him.
    "She does," I agreed, and then I stepped off the scad 
and hurried towards the brissonna that rose not far away, 
golden walls seeming to catch and solidify instead of 
merely reflect the sunlight. I wanted to put as much 
distance as I could between myself and that strange craft. 
I thought to look over my shoulder after a few dozen 
steps, wanting to memorize the look of it so that I might 
never have to ride in it again, but it was gone already, 
the controller flying in response to some other 
passenger's unvoiced need.
    It probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. One of my 
father's favorite sayings had been that all scad'jii 
looked alike, and all of them handled alike, except the 
ones that he had flown.
    I bowed my head and shivered a little as the memory of 
grief mingled with the memory of fear, and took time to 
give thanks to the Wolf and the Goddess before I 
mistformed and drifted through a window into the 
brissonna.
    A few of the healers who passed gave me curious 
glances, but no one tried to stop me as I glided through 
the halls towards the door of Ishaian's room. I solidified 
again only before it, as it is the height of discourtesy 
to enter a room in mistform without knocking. I knocked 
once, and waited.
    The door opened at once, as if the healer had been 
standing there awaiting the knock. He was smiling when he 
opened the door, but it quickly faded as he stared at me. 
He caught my arm and pulled me inside before I could say 
anything.
    "Hanable." His voice was low and soft with shock. 
"What happened to you?"
    "Very nearly a scad-crash," I said. "Only, by the 
grace of the Goddess, the craft steadied and was able to 
land." I decided to say no more than that. The magic that 
had obviously been at work was mine in the same way that 
the vision of the Wolf was, though the memory was not 
nearly as pleasant.
    "Thank the Wolf!" Ishaian touched the rose pendant 
that hung at his neck and spoke a prayer that I could not 
hear under his breath, very likely one of the standard 
prayers of thanksgiving that are scattered throughout the 
books of the White Prophecies. "I am deeply sorry, my 
lady. We do not have to speak about the poison if you do 
not wish to. Perhaps you would like to rest, and then to 
return home?"
    I stared at him. "Hanable, I am fine. The fall was 
only frightening, and upsetting to my stomach. It did not 
kill me."
    "Still..." His face was so pale that someone else 
might have been excused for thinking that he had nearly 
crashed himself. "Such a shock... Surely you deserve a 
little time to rest?"
    I shook my head. "I came here to speak about the 
poison, and I intend to do it." I regretted the 
snappishness of my voice as I had earlier regretted my 
words to Jre, but I did not know what else to say. His 
behavior was strange, and profoundly unsettling. It 
indicated that my cloak of anonymity had not been repaired 
as of yet. "If you will tell me what you have discovered, 
hanable?"
    Ishaian's yellow eyes did not leave me as he went over 
to the desk in the far corner of the room and pulled out a 
sheaf of papers. "You are sure you want to do this?" he 
asked, pausing in unwinding the thong that held the sheaf, 
his eyes still searingly anxious.