Prologue

The sun hung a hand's-span above the rugged peaks of the Irontooth Range, red and swollen—painful-look-ing, like a boil.

Yet still beautiful. Jevais Evenstar sighed, blinking the tears from his eyes. With an effort, he turned his back on the sinking sun, faced east out across the barren expanse of the Iron Plain. The distant Delaris Mountains were small, serrated teeth along the cloud-darkened eastern horizon, black on roiled black. Five days' walk to the southeast of those peaks, Jevais knew, lay the kingdom of Cara Fard.

How were the Carans faring? he wondered. Were their preparations complete?

He sighed again, a deep, heartfelt sound. Images of his visit to Cara Fard flooded back into his mind. . .How long ago had that been? Must be two decades, now. . .Such a vibrant culture it had been, so alive. How had those proud Carans faced up to the decisions they'd had to make? How did they feel, now that the consequences of those decisions were upon them? Did they look to the setting sun as Jevais did, and ache at the bitter symbolism?

Again he had to blink away the tears that blurred his vision. Foolish, he tried to tell himself. Stare into the sun long enough, and of course your eyes will water. . .

Wood and leather creaked behind him. Rubbing at his eyes with the back of a fist, he turned.

An ox-drawn wain was crawling across the hard ground of the Iron Plain. As Jevais watched, the drover shot a fearful glance toward the western horizon, then lashed the haunches of his ox with a whip. The shadows of wagon, ox, and drover reached toward Jevais like something in a nightmare, long and distorted out of normal shape. A soul-deep chill shook Jevais, a sudden aversion to being touched by the black fingers of the shadow. He knew that was pure foolishness, of course, but he stepped back just the same. He raised his hand in salute to the wain driver, a gesture of. . .Of what? he wondered suddenly. Some pitiful act of solidarity?

The wain rumbled on toward the looming shape of the kaer. One of the last wains, Jevais knew. Probably one of the crofters who'd lived south of the town of Moar. Stubborn souls, incredibly self-sufficient.

Well, they'd have to be, wouldn't they? Who else but stubborn, self-sufficient bastards could force the hard Iron Plain to vouchsafe them a living? Rather than following everyone else and splitting up the more fertile land to the west of the town, the crofters had decided that independence and seclusion were more important to them than ease of life.

How will they handle life within the kaer? The thought jolted Jevais slightly. He'd never really considered it before. He turned once more to follow the wain with his eyes. How many of the independent crofters were already in the kaer? And how many would never step within its walls? That was their right, of course. Even Theran law, otherwise so oppressive, didn't take away a freeman's right to choose the time and nature of his own death.. And how many of the crofters were still working their land? Certainly, they knew the storm was coming. They knew what were their chances of survival—slim and none. But maybe, to them, facing the coming Scourge huddled in the stone farmhouses their forefathers had built was a less weighty doom than locking themselves away from the open sky until they, their children, and their children's children were dust. . .

Heavy thoughts, he told himself glumly. But if this wasn't the day for such musings, then when?

A low hill, stubbled like an old man's chin with hardy shrubs and grasses, rose to the south, blocking his view of Moar. Only a brief walk would bring Jevais to the top of that rise, opening to his gaze the spectacle of Moar—its streets and houses, the placid Tethralias River meandering through its midst, the fields and orchards and vineyards spreading toward the distant Irontooth Range, and the scattered crofts south of the town. Only a brief walk, to look one last time upon the town that had given him birth, that had sheltered him through childhood, that had guided him toward his Calling. . .

No. He was glad of the hill. He wouldn't take that walk, no matter how short, no matter how Moar called to his heart. His soul couldn't take it, his control already stretched to the limit. There was no way—no way at all— it could survive even a single glance at the town nestled in its narrow valley.

And control was vital, on this of all days. The people of Moar looked to him, Jevais knew that. More than they should, perhaps. Certainly more than they did to the Council of Elders. It was understandable, of course. But understanding didn't lessen the pressure he felt; how could it? He was a troubadour, after all, and with that Calling came responsibilities. He could sense the mood of the townsfolk—those who'd already vanished into the waiting kaer and those who were taking this opportunity to walk free one last time under the sky. He could sense the. . .the fragility. . .of their resolve. For many, the decision to enter the kaer was balanced on a knife edge. Undeniably, all knew of the coming Scourge. They'd read the books and parchments, they'd listened to the songs and lays that Jevais and his fellows had recited to them. They could count the years, count the turning seasons, as well as any. They knew the signs.

Yet there was still the eternal mismatch between knowing and feeling, that gulf that must be crossed to achieve true conviction. The Scourge was approaching; the Horrors would soon be here. If the old words, the portents, were to be believed. But nobody had seen a Horror, not in Moar. Nobody had experienced the terror of the coming Scourge. Of course they'd heard the tales from elsewhere in the world, brought by traveling merchants and adventurers, and even by the occasional itinerant troubadour. Tales of dark wraiths hunting the streets of Majallan, of shriveled babies in Draoglin, of insectile creatures infesting southern Barsaive.

Yet. . .they were only travelers' tales, weren't they? Nothing had sucked the souls from Moar's children. No shadowy creatures had stalked the town's nighttime streets. No insect-creatures had torn the hearts from Moar's farmers. Travelers ahvays told wild tales, didn't they? How else would they impress the locals sufficiently that they wouldn't have to pay for their ale in the local taproom? In the absence of personal experience, how easy it was to doubt.

And doubt tore at him too, raking his soul every time he thought of the enclosing walls and ceilings of the waiting kaer. He'd lived with the old words. As a troubadour, they were his life, as much a part of him as his blood and bone and marrow. Yet, even so, he felt doubt. Maybe the words and the omens and the predictions are all wrong. Maybe there is no coming Scourge. Maybe we're burying ourselves alive.. .for what?

Jevais rubbed at his long face with his hands—hard, as if to bring the blood back to a cold-bitten extremity. No, he told himself firmly. The words speak truly. The Scourge is coming, and, with it, all our choices narrow down to two. Enter the kaer. . .or die. Slowly, with a crushing sense of finality, he turned his back on the town of his birth one last time.

The kaer—Kaer Moar—loomed before him, a huge shape against the pink-flushed sky. Stark and sheer its walls rose from the stony soil of the Iron Plain, towering hundreds of feet above his head. Surprisingly smoothsided it was, a shatter-topped cone formed of bleak, black basalt and granite. It just sat on the hardpan of the plains like a plaything set down by giants, or maybe by the Passions themselves when they had tired of it. It was easy to imagine its flat, circular base pressing down on the plain with the force of countless tons of hard rock.

Foolishness, of course. Anyone with even a scrap of education knew that the cone hadn't been dropped from above, but had risen from below. The sheer walls of rock plunged down into the earth, deeper—much deeper— than they towered above Jevais. How deep do they go? he wondered for the thousandth time. Hundreds of feet? Hundreds of yards? Deeper still? He knew that the artisans who'd fashioned Kaer Moar had constructed a dozen and a half circular levels within the mount—each larger than the one above, and many of them empty to make space for increasing population—but how far below the lowest level did the cone itself extend?

The rocky cone that had become Kaer Moar was a volcano, of course: a cone of lava, igneous and metamor-phic rock, built up over countless centuries, even millennia. Long dormant, everyone knew that. . .but not fully extinct. Certain springs and subterranean rivulets still ran scalding, implying that some activity still continued deep in the heart of the rock. There was a danger, obviously, that the volcano would wake and destroy the kaer from within before the Scourge had passed—or possibly even as a result of the Scourge—regardless of the wards and guards around it, but it was also a blessing. The earth itself would provide the heat to warm the inhabitants, to counteract the bitter, biting cold of winter.

Kaer Moar was a monument to the skills of Moar's artisans, a fact Jevais recognized even though he had little idea of the actual skills involved. Somehow, those artisans—stonemason-adepts, most of them, assisted by ele-mentalists—had opened the central chambers of the volcanic cone, dug it out, and then divided it into levels and concourses, rooms and chambers, galleries and stairways. (The work would have gone easier, Jevais knew, if more obsidimen had numbered among the workers. That Name-giver race had innate skills in the working of rock that would have been incredibly valuable. But it was the nature of this region, between the Irontooth Range and the Delaris Mountains, that obsidimen were seen only when "Rock-Brother" travelers passed through Moar.)

The natural structure of the cone had aided the workers more than it had hindered, but it was still an amazing undertaking. Finally, they'd sealed the accessways—natural caves and lava tubes, and several tunnels they'd driven themselves—through which they'd reached the heart of the rock, the knife-edged crater itself. Sealed all but one. Then the nethermancers and the elementalists and the wizards had worked their wards, sealing those accessways—and the entire massive structure of the cone—with true earth, binding it with dire and powerful magics. Now only a single access remained: a broad tunnel already named for the day when the kaer would open once more to the sun, generations in the future: the Dawngate.

The huge metal and stone doors stood open now.

Soon they would close, and Jevais would never see them open again in his lifetime. Once they'd closed, Moar's single surviving wizard would descend to the heart of the kaer, to the great "keystone" of the magical wards that would protect Jevais, his townsfolk, and their descendants for four centuries. The wizard would activate the mighty "charges" of blood magic his colleagues had given their lives to infusing into the living rock. Locked and sealed by mundane means, the Dawngate would be secured by magic as well, the same magic that permeated thee entire structure. The same magic that would—hope against hope!—keep the Horrors from penetrating the kaer.

When the time was right, centuries hence, when various provisions indicated that the Scourge had passed, the keystone would be deactivated, the magical fire of the wards banked for the last time. The locks and bars and gates would be set aside, and the Dawngate once more would open to the world. Open once more to the sky and (lie sun and the rain, and the free winds. . .

With a snort, Jevais forced that train of thought aside. As well to think about the day the sun burns out to a cinder, he told himself bitterly. I'm just as likely to see either.

Walking slowly back to the kaer, he saw that the group of people around the Dawngate had contracted. Not decreased in number—there were still a hundred, more, of his friends and neighbors braving the needle-sharp wind of evening to fill their senses one last time with the greater world. But contracted nonetheless, as though the inevitable moment's proximity impelled them to draw closer to one another, to shore up their crumbling resolve with contact, with sheer physical closeness.

There was little conversation, and what there was was kept to low whispers. Few of the townsfolk even looked at their fellows around them, instead turning their eyes to the sky and the land and the distant mountains. As if they're trying to pretend they're experiencing this alone.. .with-

out giving up the sense of proximity. Jevais smiled sadly. He could feel the mood, the emotions, like gentle currents and eddies around him. Instinctively, his training as a troubadour came into play, the ability to sense the weave of things while also maintaining the detachment necessary to observe accurately.

Deep in the kaer, the Great Horn sounded—the horn cast specifically for this purpose, to be winded only now, and again on the day the Dawngate would swing open. Low-pitched, rounded, mellow, it echoed sadly through the chambers and corridors of the kaer. Like a cry of despair, of tragedy, from some great beast, it pierced him to the heart with its ineffable sadness.

And not only him, Jevais saw. Many of those around him flinched away from the sound, as one would from news of a loved one's death. Slowly, the group began to move inside.

Jevais watched them as they did. My people. My charges. They seemed shrunken, drawn in on themselves—even Garrth the blacksmith looked diminished, his barrel-chest hollow. As though their cores had been ripped from them, and they'd fallen inward into the emptiness...

A shrill cry distracted him from his dark thoughts. A young child, maybe seven summers, was struggling with his mother, screaming something about a missing pet. Quickly Jevais looked around him, but the wayward creature was nowhere to be seen.

And there was no time to look. The Great Horn sounded a second time, the fog-call of a great ocean vessel following an unknown course. Already the Dawngate was beginning to close. The child's screams took on a hysterical note as his mother dragged him into the closing kaer. Once more, Jevais glanced quickly around. Still no sign of the beloved animal. Amazing, he thought bleakly. Even when you think your soul's full up with sadness, I here's still room for another draught. . .

Moments later, he was alone, the last inhabitant of Moar to seek the shelter of the great kaer. The massive doors of the Dawngate, marked with their runes and symbols of protective magic, were swinging ponderously closed. Hurriedly, he strode toward the narrowing open-ing.

What. . .? He turned suddenly, sharply. A cold breath—not wind—on the nape of his neck, a sharp sense of presence behind him, though he was alone. His skin crawled.

He snorted again. Foolishness. His imagination was running away with him. After all, he thought once more, what better day for dark and depressing fancies?

Jevais Evenstar stepped across the threshold, into the cool stillness of the kaer. Behind him, through the closing crack between the doors, he saw a final flash of the sun sinking red behind the Irontooth Range—the sun he would never see again as mortal man.

1

At the next broad landing, Delain Evenstar hesitated. What level was this?

He laughed softly, his musical voice echoing off the finely dressed basalt. It was so easy to lose track, particularly here on the Scytha Stair in the lesser-used parts of the kaer. He touched the smooth black lintel of a doorway. Granted, the artisans who'd fashioned Kaer Moar had had plenty to worry about; and granted, the Scytha Stair was nowhere near as important or well used as the Great Gyre. . .But how much more effort would it have taken, really, to mark the landings with some glyph or carved symbol? Or to subtly change the hue of the light quartz crystals to indicate the level?

He shook his head, brushing a wayward lock of fine blond hair back from his eyes. Best to keep those ideas close, he reminded himself, his amusement suddenly fading. Particularly now.

With a soft sigh, he put that train of thought aside. He was, after all, centuries too late to ask the kaer's artisans about their design decisions. And anyway, he had other things to think about at the moment.

Like where in the name of Death was he? He shook his head again and smiled gently. That's what came of let-img his fool mind wander. Some troubadour-apprentice I am, he chided himself. And to think when I was really young I wanted to be a map maker. . .

For a moment he closed his eyes and forced himself to remember. Five flights up. . .No, six. That meant this was the Level of Jaspree. Which meant, in turn, that he had another three flights to climb to reach the Level of Astendar. He patted the cold stone lintel once more and started climbing again, the click of his bootheels echoing through the deserted stairwell.

The air was chill and damp, here on the Scytha Stair, settling into Delain's lungs and bones like ancient despair. For a moment, he imagined how it must have been in the early years of the kaer—the Stair bustling with activity, even though it was only a secondary route, filled with echoing conversation and even laughter. It would have been warmer and drier in those days, too, he knew. The natural hot springs that were supposed to condition this region would still have been alive, supplemented by heat-slones set into the walls and ceilings.

Now, though? So many of the hot springs and steam vents had died over the centuries, their flow slowing gradually until nothing remained. As the Scytha Stair, and so many other regions of the large kaer, had fallen into disuse, the elementalists and other adepts tasked with maintaining the light quartz and heatstones had let their responsibility slip. Why waste effort recharging the magic in regions where few ventured anymore, they must have thought. Now even the light quartz crystals were dimming, their light starting to flicker. Delain sighed. I suppose I should be glad there's any light left at all. . .

Again he stopped, leaning against the chill stone wall, suddenly tired beyond his twenty-three years. For a moment, despair sang its siren song in the depths of his mind. So easy to give in to that call, as so many had already done.

No. With an effort, he shook off the mood that threatened to engulf him. He rubbed at the milk-pale skin of his slender face. No, he told himself again, more firmly this time. Despair is not for me. And he began to climb again.

He'd miscounted the flights of stairs again, Delain realized at once as he pushed open the door and stepped through from the stairwell. This wasn't the Level of Astendar, but the Level of Vestrial. Distracted, he'd climbed one flight too many.

It would take only moments to return to the Scytha Stair, to descend the one flight to his destination. But suddenly he felt a strong aversion to the emptiness of the deserted Stair. Loneliness wasn't—shouldn't be—a common experience in the closed confines of the kaer, but that was the sensation spreading through Delain's soul. Instead of returning to the Stair, he followed the narrow corridor forward, toward the center of the kaer. He would cut through the High Concourse, he decided, then down the Great Gyre. It would add a few minutes to his journey, but at the moment that mattered less than his desire for contact: the feeling of others around him. The feeling of not being alone.

Dust gritted underfoot as he strode through the residential area, his long legs and quick stride eating up the distance. Doors gaped on both sides of the corridor, opening onto blackness. These were private quarters, once filled with the friendly hustle and bustle of family life; deserted now. He quickened his pace even further, suddenly aching to get out into the crowded Concourse. He pushed open the door at the end of the corridor, hearing the rust creak in the hinges.

The light was almost painful after the pinky red dimness of the Stair and the deserted hallway. The crystals of light quartz were well tended here—thank the Passions— freshly recharged and burning with the friendly yellow glow that mimicked the noonday sun. Or, at least, the way he imagined it from the descriptions in the old tales and lays.

The high-ceilinged Concourse was alive with traffic, echoing with the scuff of shoes on the stone floor, the murmur of conversation. Delain felt his face twist into a smile of relief as he stepped around a pair of women engrossed in conversation, discussing the minutiae of day-to-day life. He breathed deeply, taking in the familiar smells of the populace: the musk of sweat, the tang of smoke from cookfires, the sharp bite of spices. Much better than the dry, desolate odor of dust. Delain stepped out into the flow of passersby, letting it carry him along like a river.

"As the night follows the day, and rest labor, so Death comes as a balm to the sore at heart. .

He stopped in his tracks, frozen by the ringing voice that echoed through the Concourse from behind him. The dull tolling of an iron bell punctuated the recitation, silencing all conversation around him. He turned.

The funerary procession was twenty paces away, passing slowly through the crowds that opened before it. At its head was an aged man, his unrelieved gray robes identifying him as a questor of Dis, the Passion of Order and Community In his withered hands he held aloft a forked staff atop which hung the iron bell that tolled echoingly with each step. A step behind him, one to each side, were the fire-bearers dressed in simple white robes, each carrying a wrist-thick candle. The flames burned sullenly, guttering slightly in the air currents.

Another step back was the troubadour whose voice he'd heard. Delain recognized her, of course. Marta, her name was, attractive in a rather severe way, straight black hair pulled back from a high forehead, blue eyes glinting in the light of the fire-bearers' candles. In slender hands she held a lute. Its strings w⁷ere silent, as if she had decided its clear notes would be inappropriate to* the moment.

And behind her came the bier itself, carried by four bearers. The body was draped neck-high with the traditional shroud of cotton—once white, now the color of old bone. A family heirloom? Delain wondered. How many generations did that shroud date back? Almost involuntarily, he took a step forward, to get a better look at the body.

A dwarven woman, he saw, in her middle years as that race measured things. . .

No, he corrected instantly, younger than that. Forty-five at the latest. It was the sunken, care-worn face that had deceived him, seeming to add three decades to the dead woman's appearance. Even in death, her face was drawn in.. .what? Exhaustion? Despair? He couldn't tell.

A respectful step behind the bier strode another dwarf—male this time, and this time definitely in his middle years. His dark eyes were downcast, fixed on the small earthenware bowl he carried before him. A bowl of dust, Delain knew, the eternal symbol of loss and death. The dwarf's grief hung about him, like a heavy winter cloak about his shoulders. The dead woman's husband, of course. And behind the dwarf. . .

Nobody. The procession ended there. No friends, no family members sharing his grief. Why not?

"As we go to our eternal rest, we do so in the knowledge that we follow the Cycle of the seasons, of day and night." Marta's voice rang out clear and true—not loud, but carrying nonetheless. "Why strive against the dying of the light, the setting of the sun?"

For a moment, Delain closed his eyes, concentrating on the other troubadour's voice. Her technique was excellent, her diction almost perfect, handling the complex scansion of the ancient dwarven dialect without flaw, turning the internal scansion and multiple stresses into music. Grais would approve, he decided, thinking of his uncle and master in the High Art. Now he let his attention shift, from voice and technique to the words the young woman was reciting.

"Hearth and home, all shall pass, until nothing remains. What shall we hold to, then? Strife and struggle, all mine to naught. There is no victory, no defeat, as the Cycle turns. Set them aside, as we set aside the striving itself."

Delain recognized the words, of course. The Canon of the Cycle, that was what Marta was reciting. Or—now he frowned—a version of the Canon of the Cycle, at least. The version he'd learned from Grais, the version he'd committed to memory almost a decade ago, was different. Subtly so, but significantly so, he thought. Mentally, he cataloged the differences. Only a word here, a short phrase there, no more than a slight change of emphasis, but to his trained ear and mind it made all the difference in the world. The Canon of the Cycle offers comfort, he told himself, comfort to the bereaved, reassurance to those left behind. Or, it should...

But this version, the one ringing from Marta's lips? Was il comfort that the words carried, or fatalism? Acceptance, or abnegation—abdication of responsibility? Silently, he reframed the stanza Marta had just recited, repeating it in the words he'd taken to heart. Strife and struggle, all results come to naught. There is no victory, no defeat, as the Cycle turns. Set them aside, knowing that the struggle itself is all. Didn't that encapsulate the flow of life better? When we die, success and failure are meaningless. . .except as the struggle itself had ennobled us. That was the core sentiment of the version Delain knew. A message of hope, not one of despair.

Opening his eyes, he shook his head. He knew Marta. Kaer Moar was small, after all, and there weren't that many troubadours in the community. And even fewer now than once there were, but he pushed aside that painful thought. What Delain hadn't known was that she was one of the "doomsayers"—the name he and his uncle had given to members of a different "school" of the High Art. At some time in the past, some point in the history of Kaer Moar, there'd been a schism of some kind—so long ago that none alive remembered how it had happened, or what had caused it. From that time forward, the two "schools" seemed to have recalled the old words differently. The Canon of the Cycle, for example. The "doomsayers" now learned, recited, and taught different—darker— versions of the old lays and sagas and songs, while Grais, Delain, and the others held to the true words.. .

Delain chuckled softly at that last thought. Of course we think we're holding to the true words, he told himself. Just as Marta and the others think they're holding to the truth, and it's we who've lost our way. He shook his head. How could one ever tell which was the truth, and which a corruption of the meaning? Come to think of it, if both schools were teaching corruptions of the ancient ways, how could one ever know that for sure? The troubadours were the guardians of knowledge, of truth. That was their duty, their responsibility. It was the troubadours who conserved knowledge of the past. They were the memory of the society, its soul. Such was their burden, and their reward.

So what was the result when two groups of troubadours remembered the past differently? Where did the truth lie?

The funerary procession had passed by, wending its slow way toward the Great Gyre. The questor would lead the procession down into the depths of the kaer, down to the Level of Dis, six turns of the great stairway below. There, in the Chamber of Passage, the body would be prepared for its final journey. Ritually cleansed and wrapped in simple cloth, it would then be taken to the Necropolis—the City of the Dead—that countless generations had extended into the living rock surrounding the Level of Dis. There it would be interred, with great and solemn dwarven ritual, in one of the Sleeping Chambers set into the stone walls. The woman's closest kin—probably the husband who followed her so sadly, Delain thought—would then close the Chamber, installing the "death window" of quartz that would allow future generations to view the face of their dead ancestor. Finally, a wizard or nethermancer would seal the Chamber for eternity weaving into the rock magical patterns to guarantee that the body would remain undisturbed—by mortal, or by Horror—forever more.

Delain felt a presence beside him, felt someone brush against his hip. He turned.

The dwarf who'd come up alongside him was old and weathered. Well past his century, Delain realized, old even by the standards of his race. The dwarf's deep-set eyes were rimmed with red, tears tracing down his cheeks, following the lines graven deep into his face like rain following the course of rivers toward the sea. Grief seemed to emanate from him in palpable waves.

"Do you know her?" Delain asked gently.

The old dwarf started, looking up sharply as though he hadn't been aware of the young human's presence. His leathery face twisted into a scowl, but then his eyes touched on the small harp hanging on its worn strap over Delain's shoulder. The dwarf's expression softened. "Aye," he admitted, his voice rough as the rattle of rocks in a helmet. "Aye, I knew her. Tevra Neden, her name is. Tevra Neden Rockharrow. My daughter's daughter-in-law."

Delain felt his eyebrows arch in surprise. He glanced at the husband following, hunch-shouldered, behind the bier. "Your grandson?" he asked, confused. "Then why. . .?" With an effort, he stilled the question he wanted to ask.

Even in his sadness, the old dwarf's lips quirked upward in a bitter smile. "Then why do I not join my grandson in his grief?" His momentary smile faded. "It would not be meet to do so," he said quietly.

"But why?"

For an instant the dwarf's dark eyes turned hard as sharpened flint. With a thick forefinger he reached out and gently touched Delain's harp. "Troubadours often ask more than others are willing to tell," he’ said. But then expression and voice softened once more. "But I'll tell ye. . .because I need to tell someone." He squared his broad shoulders, dropping his gaze to the receding procession.

"A stillbirth," he said quietly, his voice as bleak as a breeze from the empty depths of the kaer. "Another stillbirth. Her third. Three more than any woman should have to face. Three more than any woman could face."

Delain nodded slowly in saddened understanding. "She took her own life. . ."

"Aye." The dwarf nodded once and smiled bitterly. "Perhaps she wanted to ask Dis in person why she should be so afflicted."

Again his smile faded as if it had never been, and he shook his large head. "Kolban says there's no shame in taking your own life. Some of the troubadours echo him." He shrugged. "But I hold to the old ways. In this, at least."

"I understand," Delain said softly. It was an old belief among traditional dwarven families—and clan Rockharrow was one of those—that to take one's own life was one of the greatest shames a dwarf could bring to his name. Spurning the gift of life, that was how the old dwarven teaching-poems described it. Delain looked one last time at the retreating back of the husband—the grandson of the dwarf beside him. He shook his head sadly, sharing the grief of the couple's three stillbirths. Three children, but all born dead.

When he turned back, the dour old dwarf had already vanished into the crowds.

"Kept you waiting, have I?"

Delain looked up at the booming voice, quickly closing the small stone-bound book and returning it to his shoulder-pouch. With a smile, he pushed himself up from the cold stone bench where he'd been waiting. "Not that I noticed," he replied lightly.

Grais Evenstar looked down at him from his six-foot-three height. Here, outside the Council chamber, the corridors of the kaer had been built closer to dwarven proportions, and his bald head—like old leather, wrinkled then stretched once more over his domed skull—almost brushed the ceiling. His green eyes glittered, and beneath a thick mustache his mouth twisted into a familiar grin. He nodded at his nephew's shoulder-pouch, indicating the book he'd just put away. "Getting in some more time on the journeyman-piece?"

Delain just smiled.

"Sometimes I don't know why. . ." Grais began, then cut off the thought with a rueful shake of his head. "Never mind," he said. "We can go around about that again later."

Delain chuckled. "I know we will." He settled harp and shoulder-pouch more comfortably as he fell into step beside his uncle. Delain usually had to rush to keep up with him, but this time the big man was walking slower than was his wont. "Hard day?" he asked quietly.

Grais snorted. "No harder than any other." Then he added, "But that's not saying much, not these days."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, wending then-way through the administrative "heart" of the kaer, toward the Great Gyre that would take them down to their quarters on the Level of Lochost. The corridors and hallways were nowhere near as crowded as the High Concourse had been, one level above, and the dull hum of conversation—the "music of the kaer", Grais called it—was much softer. Soft enough that Delain had no trouble hearing his uncle's sigh.

"The Council?" the young man asked carefully.

The older troubadour's brows creased. "The Council is paralyzed," he said flatly, his powerful voice hushed to keep his words between the two of them.

"Disagreements?"

Grais shook his head in disgust. "Everyone can see the dangers. They see how bad things are going. On that point, there's no shortage of agreement.

"But when it comes to deciding what to do?" He snorted again violently, blowing his mustache out as a visual punctuation to his words. "Sometimes I think that if the Council table itself were to catch fire, we'd not see a majority voting for putting it out." His smile—usually an expression of a kind of fierce joy—turned bitter. "They'd refer it to committee, and take it under advisement. And in two weeks, maybe they'd install a Subcommittee for Flammable Substances to kick through the ashes."

Delain couldn't help but smile, despite the seriousness of his uncle's words. "But at least they do recognize there's a problem," he pointed out. "They wouldn't have seen even that much, if not for you."

"Nonsense. All I did was hasten the inevitable."

Delain nodded silently, but he knew Grais appreciated the vote of confidence.

At the next cross-corridor, they turned right, into a lesser-used region of the Level of Astendar—a shortcut to the Great Gyre that would take them past the usually packed Hall of Princes. For the second time in under an hour, Delain felt gritty dust under his bootsoles. Scowling, Grais reached out and tapped one of the light quartz crystals mounted in the walls. It burned with a flickering, red-tinged light, not the normal bright yellow. Then Delain saw that all the light quartz crystals were the same along this stretch of corridor.

"Who's responsible for maintenance these days?" he asked.

"Voth." Grais named one of the older members of the Council, his voice turning the name into a curse. "He took on the responsibility at year-turn. All the maintenance committees report to him.

"Maintenance committees. Pah! More damned committees! More people talking about doing work and nobody doing it." Grais paused. "What are the people saying?" he asked his nephew. Then he snorted yet again. "I remember when I didn't have to ask, when I knew for myself." His brow and bald head wrinkled as his scowl deepened. "Maybe I'm turning into what I despise. I spend more time talking to committees"—again the word became a curse—"than I do anything else."

"I saw a funerary procession today," Delain said after a moment. "Tevra Neden Rockharrow. Did you know her?"

"I know the Rockharrows," Grais said. "An old line. Good blood. 'The true blood of Throal flows in their veins'," he added, quoting an ancient dwarven phrase of tribute. "What happened to her?"

"Stillbirths. Three of them. After the last, she took her own life."

The cadence of Grais's step faltered, but he didn't speak, so Delain left it at that. They walked on in a shared, disconsolate silence.

At least the light quartz stones on the Great Gyre are still bright, Delain thought. Winding the full height of the kaer, the great, wide, sweeping spiral stairway rang with conversation and the sound of countless footfalls. Oil lanterns burned in sconces on the wall, their smokeless flames kept alive more out of tradition than because of the need for additional light. Flickering lantern-light cast shifting shadows on the faces of those he passed.

Grais had taken up his usual purposeful stride, and now the younger man had to hurry to keep up. Around the great spiral they wound, four times, finally reaching the broad landing that opened out onto the Level of Astendar.

"What of that fool Kolban?" Delain asked suddenly.

Grais stopped in his tracks, fixing his nephew with a sharp glare. Then he glanced around him—nervously, almost, Delain thought—at the people passing by. He took his nephew's upper arm in a firm grip. 'There are certain things you don't repeat. Certain tilings you don't say of Kolban," Grais hissed sharply, then added, "Even if they are true." He shrugged. "Kolban is being Kolban," he allowed guardedly after a moment. "And that's all I want to say about it."

Again they walked on, down the main radial passageway toward their private quarters.

"I'm for a rest," Grais said at last, as they approached the door of the four rooms they shared. "I feel like I need to stare at the inside of my eyelids for a while.

"And you?" His grin was back. "Work on the jour-neyman-piece?"

Delain shrugged, matching the older man's smile. "I'm for a walk," he announced, mimicking his uncle's tone.

"No work, then?"

"I can think just as well when I'm walking. Better, maybe." Delain chuckled lightly. "Who knows, maybe I'll overhear something I can use."

"Overhear, yes." Grais's face set into somber lines again, and he lowered his voice. "What tales have you heard in the corridors?"

Delain hesitated. Then, "There are some things I don't like to repeat," he murmured. He watched as his uncle nodded agreement.

"I'll meet you back here after evenfeast and we can talk about it then," he said after a moment, then let his lips quirk into a smile. "If you're not still asleep, that is."

"'Still asleep,' is it?" Grais demanded mock-sternly. "What kind of master would I be if I slept through my apprentice's clumsy attempts to learn the High Art?" Then his manner changed, and something like true concern showed in his eyes. "Mind yourself, Delain," he said softly, and he patted his nephew gently on the shoulder. "May you touch the hand of Astendar."

"May you also." Delain echoed back the ancient invocation, meaning it. He watched silently as his uncle vanished into their shared quarters, shutting the carved stone door behind him.

2

It was quiet this deep in the kaer. Quiet, and calming. Although she'd never feel comfortable admitting it to anyone, Karena Hearthrock relished that stillness sometimes. It gave her space to think. Space to let feelings run their course, unhindered by other people. Space to come to terms with thoughts that, under other circumstances, might disturb or anger her. It was important to the dwarf to do that.

Down here in the Unnamed Levels—the floors of the kaer below the Level of Raggok—she could walk, sometimes for hours, without seeing another living person. Which was convenient. It meant she needn't go down to the Closed Levels, the areas beneath the Unnamed Levels, when she needed time alone. By all the Hells, she ivould have gone if she'd had to, injunctions and taboos and curses be damned. Horrors take the consequences, she'd have gone. It simply turned out that she didn't have to.

Karena paused for a moment to adjust the wick on her oil lamp, to turn down the guttering flame. She didn't need that much light—her eyes were sharp, like those of all dwarfs, after all—and a large flame would burn oil too fast. When she was satisfied, she settled the carry-stick back on her shoulder, so the chain-suspended lantern hung behind and slightly above her head. That way it gave maximum light to what was ahead, without dazzling her.

The first time Karena had come down here to the Unnamed Levels, she hadn't bothered with a lantern at all. She'd simply depended on her own dwarven vision, confident that it would serve her as well in the bowels of the kaer as it did in the occupied areas. Arrogance, of course. She hadn't realized what it was like down here.

Cold, for one thing. Not too cold for her comfort; Karena was hardy like all of her kind—and not one to admit discomfort, even to herself. But too cold to see clearly. Like hulking trolls, a dwarf's enhanced vision depended on differences in temperature. . .

And down in the Unnamed Levels, there were no differences in temperature. Everything was the biting cold of old stone. She'd been as blind as a miserable human would have been in the same situation.

Still, she hadn't turned round immediately and gone back for a light. No, by the Passions she'd been down there, and she wasn't going to give in to something as trivial as not being able to see. Not immediately, at any rate. Tentatively, she'd walked away from the open door of the staircase into the darkness, mentally keeping careful track of exactly how far she'd gone and in which direction.

And she'd tripped over something. A Passions-be-damned cradle, by Upandal! She'd fallen flat on her fool face, and she'd broken her nose! Almost her toe, too, she remembered with a bark of laughter, when she'd tried to kick that thrice-damned cradle through the nearest wall. Only then had she turned around, cursing her way back to the stairway in the cold darkness, holding a rag to her bleeding nose, and fixing with a killing glare anyone who looked as if he were even considering making some remark.

"Well, I was yonng then, by the Passions," she growled aloud, fighting back a smile, and angered by the effort it required. “Scourge it, that was ten years ago. I was only twenty."

Karena had learned from the experience. Not only to bring her own light, but also that there was a big difference between the Unnamed Levels and the Closed Levels beneath them. She had dared the curses or whatever—on two occasions—to step over the discharged wards in the stairway, and to descend deeper into the bowels of the kaer. The Unnamed Levels had once been occupied. Indeed, Karena thought, they must have once had names too. In the early years of Kaer Moar, people had lived there. Leaving cradles behind them, she grumped to herself. And not too long ago, judging by other domestic items she'd found strewn around the deserted corridors and chambers. A century, maybe a century and a half. No more than that.

And the Closed Levels? Very different, those. They'd never been occupied, not since the kaer had been created. Apart from occasional—and illicit—visitors like herself, the last people to occupy the Closed Levels had been the artisans who'd constructed them out of the cold, hard rock of the kaer. Four centuries ago, give or take.

She'd felt those years when she'd walked the echoing halls of the Closed Levels, too. Felt them like a weight on her mind. Like a mental analogue of the mass of rock hanging above her head. Disturbing, in a deep-seated way. It would be too easy to let the imagination run away down there, in the Closed Levels. Too easy to hear the echoes of her own footfalls, out of phase with her steps, and interpret them as the stealthy movements of.. .something.

Foolishness! She set her broad jaw, and stuck out her lower lip pugnaciously. The only thing she was likely to meet down there was some officious bastard of a gray-beard questor, keen to bring someone up before the Council. And not even that, she corrected sarcastically. Everybody's too caught up with the taboo to have the liver to go down there. Again she spoke aloud, her sneering tone echoing from the basalt above. "The Closed Levels, oooh..She laughed harshly.

How in the Hells had those taboos come about anyway? All the talk about curses—where had that come from? The lowest reaches of the kaer—now called the Closed Levels—hadn't been considered cursed at the start, they couldn't have been. Probably they'd been more a symbol of hope than anything else. Extra space—more space than the original population of the kaer needed. Room for the new children and new families, as the kaer's population grew. Promise for the future.

But the population hadn't grown, had it? Just the opposite. When the kaer was new, the Unnamed Levels— whatever they'd been called back then—had been in use. There'd been people living there. Not now. There was no need for those levels anymore. And even the occupied levels—the twelve circular stories named after the Passions, plus the four, smaller "element" levels that made up the peak of the kaer—weren't full.

Karena stopped, frowning. Was that why the Closed Levels were closed? Was that all there was to it? Just that they reminded people of something they'd rather not think about? Reminded people of a painful truth? She fought back the urge to spit with scorn. Could people really be that stupid?

Maybe Delain zvould know. The thought surprised her faintly. She hadn't thought of the troubadour-appren-tice—hadn't let herself think of him—for several weeks now. Not since their last conversation, when...

No! Scourge it, no! She forced the memory away, back into the dark reaches of her mind where it belonged. He hadn't even realized...

Horrors take it. She settled her carry-stick more comfortably on her broad shoulder. If she saw the young trou-badour-apprentice—if she happened to run into him— maybe she'd ask him. Why not? What good would it do to spite herself, to deny herself something she wanted to know, to punish him for something he didn't even know he'd done? Yes, if she saw him she'd ask him. But she certainly wouldn't seek him out. Never that.

Whatever the reasons, the Closed Levels were considered taboo, cursed. And—if her speculations were right— eventually the Unnamed Levels would suffer the same fate, gain the same reputation. Stupid. Stupid to succumb to fuddle-minded superstition. By all the Hells, there were things of value down here in the deeps. She hadn't realized it when she'd first started her wanderings, but she'd quickly learned.

Things of value. Not gems or gold or antique weapons. Nothing like that. Value in a different sense. Some of the finest architecture in the whole of Kaer Moar, for example. In the guttering light of her lantern, she'd seen arches and portals and groined ceilings and embellishments that were classic examples of the High Dwarven style. In the occupied portions of the kaer, that elaborate kind of workmanship was limited to the "important" areas—specifically, where the self-aggrandizing Councilmembers lived and worked. Only the high muckamucks could enjoy the finest artistry on a day-to-day basis. In the olden days, though, the inhabitants of the Unnamed Levels had enjoyed it as a kind of birthright. Why would that be? Karena wondered idly. Because the kaer was constructed from the top down, and by the time they'd reached these levels the artisans had perfected their skills? She shrugged. Another one of those questions she'd never see answered.

But the complex architecture wasn't the only value from which the kaer's inhabitants had cut themselves off through superstition. There was the Hall of the Passions. A broad, high-ceilinged corridor flanked by statues— shrines, almost—dedicated to the twelve Passions. A wonderful place for thought and introspection, Karena had found. When she walked slowly between the finely wrought statues, she could almost feel the peace and the wisdom of the Passions themselves settling on her soul. And now irrational idiots like Kolban write off this kind of spiritual wealth as ill fated? Karena's thin lips twisted in a sneer. Morons!

The dwarf glanced down at the hand gripping the carry-stick. The knuckles stood out white, like bleached bone. With a snort of bitter laughter, she forced herself to loosen her grip. Maybe that peace and wisdom was something she could do with right about now.

The Hall of the Passions was the centerpiece of this level, exactly where the Great Gyre would be if it penetrated this deep into the kaer. That meant.. .She hesitated for a moment, getting her bearings.

Yes. That way. Shifting the carry-stick to her other shoulder, she turned right and strode off down a broad passageway.

It was the sound that alerted her, not the light. The faint echo of conversation, of harsh laughter from ahead. Karena stopped, frowning. Carefully, she turned down the flame of her lantern. Yes, there was a flicker of light ahead, reflecting off polished stone surfaces, coming from the direction of the Hall of the Passions. Setting her jaw, she strode forward.

There were four of them. Youths, little more than children. Three orks, one human. All towered over Karena, though only the oldest of the orks came anywhere near her in breadth. In the light of two lanterns set on the ground, they were clustered around one of the statues— the one dedicated to Astendar, Karena saw—laughing at something. Distracted by whatever it was they were doing, they didn't notice her presence.

Until she hefted the carry-stick off her shoulder and brought its base down sharply on the stone floor. The youths jumped guiltily as the loud crack echoed from the arched ceiling. One—Karena thought it was the human, a girl and the youngest of the group—gasped aloud.

The four figures had drawn back from the finely carved statue. For the first time, Karena could see what had been amusing them. One of the orks was holding a stoneworker's chisel and a hammer. Seeing the direction of Karena's gaze, he guiltily tried to hide the tools behind his back. Too late, of course. Karena had spotted the incriminating objects.

And she'd seen the. . .modifications. . .the youths had made to the statue of Astendar. A third eye, crudely graven into the forehead of the smooth, androgynous face. The lyre the statue held hadn't escaped their attentions either—the instrument had been coarsely modified into some kind of grotesque phallic symbol.

Through anger-slitted eyes, Karena glared around at the other statues. Two others, the shrines devoted to Chorrolis and Upandal, had been disfigured—vandalized— in much the same way. Her gaze shifted back to the four youths. She felt the hot churn of rage in her chest.

Three of the vandals were backing away—the human girl and two of the orks. The third ork—the largest, presumably the eldest and hence the leader—was standing his ground, though. Karena felt her lips twist into an expression that was a smile in name only. Slowly, almost casually, she stepped forward, her lantern's carry-stick in her left hand. Her right rested on her hip, conspicuously near the hilt of her curved-bladed sword.

"Fine day," she said lightly. Then, joltingly, she roared, "What are your names?"

The youths—even the broad-shouldered leader— started at the ferocity of her voice. Thin-lipped and pale, the younger three looked about to flee. Fine, Karena thought grimly, let them run. Let them run and get themselves lost in the Unnamed Levels. It would put a good scare into them and teach them the lesson she wanted them to learn.

"Well?" she bellowed. “Names, Scourge you! Forgotten them, have you?"

Karena saw the leader hesitate, his eyes flicking around wildly as he looked for an escape route. It took all her self-control not to smirk.

But then, surprisingly, she saw his expression harden. Squaring his shoulders, he took a step toward her, fists on his hips. "Our names aren't yours for the asking." The firmness in his voice was bluff, Karena knew that. But the bluff did its job, bolstering the fragile resolve of his companions, and reassuring him too.

Karena shrugged. "You'll tell me, or you'll tell the Council," she stated flatly.

Just the mention of the Council of Elders had the desired effect—on the younger culprits, at least. Their faces paled even more, eyes widening in alarm. Karena ignored them. They weren't relevant at the moment. The only one who was important was the self-appointed leader. The dwarf fixed him with her cold, gray eyes, watched as he tried to decide how to proceed.

"How are you going to take us all before the Council?" he demanded, playing for time.

Karena let her fierce smile broaden. Quietly, icily, she asked, "Don't you think I can do it, child?"

She saw the hesitation in his eyes. Deep down, she knew she'd won. He'll bluster, she told herself, but he'll back down. They all will. She watched, waiting for him to draw breath to argue. The moment he did, she snapped out, "Names, by the Passions!"

The self-appointed leader blinked. And then something happened that shouldn't happen. His expression hardened, his eyes turned as cold as the ancient basalt that surrounded them. "Get out of here, dwarf," he hissed. "Get out of here, if you value your life."

Karena almost laughed aloud. But then she saw the glint of steel in the ork's hand—a short-bladed knife he'd drawn from his belt-sheath—and the laughter died in her throat. She shook her large head in amazement. She hadn't expected the youths to recognize her, but they must have seen the elaborate sword that hung from her belt, identifying her as a swordmaster-adept. Drawing a knife on a swordmaster. . .It just didn't make sense. What in all the Hells was going on here?

And what in the True Names of all the Horrors was she supposed to do now? She couldn't draw steel on four youths—children, for the Passions' sake!—knife or no knife. If the ork came at her with his blade, she'd have no choice but to take him down bare-handed. But still, that was much further than something like this should ever go. Bluff—that was about all that was left to her.

She squared her shoulders, settled herself into a stable, broad stance. Both hands touching the hilt of her sword, she smiled up into the young ork's face. "Are you hungry?" she asked lightly. "I hope so. Because you're going to eat that knife, in a moment." And she took a confident step toward him, letting her smile grow even broader, as though she were enjoying every moment of this. "It'd be best all around if that blade were gone by the time I get to you." Another step.

Again the ork hesitated. His companions had backed away even further, a good four paces behind him. They were out of the picture in physical terms; Karena knew they wouldn't get themselves involved physically. But they were still there. And their self-appointed leader knew they were still there. She kept her eyes—cold, expressionless—fixed on his face. What's it going to be? her stare asked him wordlessly. Are you going to be smart? Or are you going to listen to your pride? Another step.

For an instant, she thought he was going to drop the blade, turn and run. But then she saw him swallow hard. Something shifted in his eyes, and he settled into a fighting stance. In the lantern-light, the knife blade—no longer than the width of Karena's palm, but still potentially lethal—glinted evilly.

Scourge it! Things were beyond the point where she could carry out this bluff alone. She knew that. But still she had to give one last try. She pointed at the human girl, watching wide-eyed from across the corridor. "You," she snapped. "You're responsible for telling his next of kin. Agreed?"

And then she shifted her cold, hard gaze back to the leader. "I'm waiting," she whispered.

"Good day, all."

Karena almost yelped aloud in surprise as the cheerful voice rang out from behind her. She flicked a quick glance down the corridor, then quickly snapped her gaze back to the ork in case he tried to take advantage of her distraction.

It was Delain Evenstar. The troubadour-apprentice, by all the Passions! Half a dozen paces back behind her. In one hand he carried a small lantern, in the other his thrice-damned harp. He must have sensed the truth of the situation. Karena knew that troubadours were almost preternaturally sensitive to that kind of thing. Of course, the knife in the ork's hand also gave the situation away. Now that she was aware of his presence, she could hear his soft footfalls as he drew nearer.

"Good day, all," the young troubadour repeated, his tone of voice friendly and unconcerned. "Good day, and well met. I hadn't expected to meet anyone down here, but I'm happy for the company."

He was alongside Karena now, his presence surprisingly comforting. Some of that troubadour magic? Karena wondered sourly. Or am I just relieved to have someone share this with me?

"I always enjoy a visit to the Hall of the Passions," Delain went on lightly. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who still remembers them.

"Have you heard the story of the sculptor who carved I hem? Come, let me tell it to you."

The knife-wielding ork's face twisted in disgust. "We don't want to hear your thrice-damned story," he growled. "We've heard too many stories already." Voice and expression were fierce. But Karena saw he'd already lowered his blade, and had straightened from his fighting crouch.

Beside her, Delain shrugged lightly. "It's a fascinating tale, though." His voice was soft, musical. Karena felt it calm the anger, the tension, she felt. And not just her anger—she saw the set of the ork's shoulders change, as his muscles began to relax. "He was blind—completely blind, mind you—when he carved those statues."

"Blind. . .?" one of the younger orks asked tentatively, and Karena knew that Delain now had the situation under control.

"That's what the stories tell," Delain confirmed cheerfully. "Vergis, his name was. 'Vergis the Master' everyone called him. Or 'Vergis of the Clouded Eye.' And he was blind.

"Not from birth, of course," Delain went on, his soft voice weaving a web of calm throughout the hallway. "But his eyes had last seen the light a full thirty years before he began to shape the sculptures in this chamber. Amazing, isn't it? All this work"—he gestured around him—"all this fine work, performed by someone who couldn't see the tip of his chisel or the surface of the stone. Someone who couldn't work from a model or a drawing, but could only visualize the finished form in his mind. And yet look at his work. The fineness of texture, the delicacy of line. Could any of us—with full sight, mind you— create anything of its like? I know I couldn't.

"Yet, there were many people who said that only a blind master could have created something of this beauty, this perfection," Delain continued gently. "When our kaer was new, many people believed that. Can you think why?" And then he waited.

It was the human girl who answered tentatively. "Because. . .because he wasn't distracted by what he saw with his eyes?"

Delain smiled broadly, delighted. "Exactly! Vergis the Master wasn't distracted by what was, he saw only what could be. He didn't see with his eyes, he saw with his heart. And that's what allowed him to create perfection." He hooded his eyes and bowed his head—almost ritualisti-cally, Karena thought. "There it ends, for such is the truth of the thing." A moment later he looked up again, and glanced questioningly—innocently—at Karena, and at the ork who'd returned his knife to its sheath. "I'm sorry," Delain said lightly. "Did I interrupt something important? Pray continue."

"Uh, no. Nothing." It was all Karena could do not to laugh up into the young ork's face as his cheeks colored and he shifted from foot to foot in discomfort. "Nothing," he muttered again. His compatriots had already picked up their lanterns, and were edging toward the Hall's portal. Trying to cling to what shreds of self-possession he still had, the ork straightened his spine and strode off, the other three scurrying after him.

Delain watched them leave. As soon as they were out of sight, and their scuffling footsteps had faded, his smile vanished. Shaking his head sadly, he looked over at the defaced statues.

"Was that true?"

Delain turned at Karena's question.

"What you told them, about the blind stoneworker," she asked gruffly. "Was it true?"

"So the legends say," he said. Then he gave a small laugh. "Of course, if you look far enough, you're going to find legends that claim the kaer was built by Upandal himself. It's up to you if you want to believe them."

For a moment, in the light of the lanterns, Delain's slender, fine-boned face looked ethereal—almost as preternaturally beautiful as the statues of the Passions. But then his lips quirked in a wry smile, and the spell was broken. "I thought you might be down here," he remarked. "But I didn't expect you to have company."

Karena blinked in surprise. "You were looking for me?" She tried to keep her voice casual.

He shrugged. "Well, yes. I was hoping you could help me out with something, Karena."

With a snort, she turned away, glaring fiercely after the vanished vandals. "You just let them get away," she grumbled.

"I know their names," he remarked. "Two of them, at least. The girl—she's Lutea Venn. And the big one, the one you were.. .talking.. .with—he's Gralnath Splittooth. That probably means one of the others was his brother, Marnath. The last?" He shrugged. "They'll tell the Council his name soon enough. . ." He fixed Karena with a questioning look. . .if that's the path you intend to follow, of course."

"They can choke on quaalz, for all I care," she spat. Almost cautiously, she looked back at Delain. The moment was gone, the moment that had cast him in her eyes as an image of the Passions. Now he was just a youth—attractive in the pale, thin way of humans, but nothing overly special. She sighed. "You wanted something of me, Delain?"

He chuckled dryly. "I wanted to know if you'd heard any rumors about conflict in the kaer," he said. "I thought maybe you'd heard people talking. I didn't expect a front-row seat." He paused, and his expression grew more serious. "He had a knife, Karena. What would you have done if—"

Karena's bark of laughter cut him off. "I'd have taken the rotten thing off him, of course. Then I'd have knocked him down, and I'd probably havis Walked on him awhile to teach him a Scourge-touched lesson."

"You wouldn't have. ..?"

"Drawn steel? On him?" With another harsh laugh, she spat on the floor by her right foot, an orkish gesture of derision. "Knife or no knife, he'd be more likely to hurt himself than anyone else. Nothing to worry about."

"I’d have been worried."

"If I couldn't handle a child with a knife, my master would come back from the grave to take his sword back." Karena turned away to scowl at the defaced statue of Upandal. "Still," she admitted softly after a long moment, "it did worry me. Not the knife. The fact that he drew it in the first place." She snorted. "If that makes any kind of sense at all."

Delain looked at her speculatively. "It makes sense," he said at last. "More than I'm comfortable with."

The dwarf turned her scowl on him. "You're not turning into another one of those alarmists, are you?" she demanded sharply. Then she whimpered in a cracking falsetto, "'Society is breaking down, we're all going to die, oh save me..

The troubadour shook his head. "I'm no alarmist." He paused again. "But this does worry me."

"Hmmphl" Karena settled her carry-stick back on her shoulder, and started to turn away. "Sometimes I think this whole place is Horror-touched."

With a surprisingly strong grip, the young human grabbed her arm. Startled, she turned back.

"Don't say that sort of thing aloud, Karena." His voice was low, earnest. "There are some who'd kill you for that."

Suddenly, irrationally, angered by his concern, the dwarf shook loose from his grip. "You heard me, and still I live," she grumbled.

"You know what I mean."

Again she snortedy then turned away and stomped off toward the stairs leading up. As she left him behind among the statues, her scowl deepened. The irritating thing was she did know what he meant.. .and she agreed with him.

Gaylear Cleareye clan Granitebone drew the heavy bow to full extension. Held it, held it.. .She felt the tension in the muscles of her back echo the forces in the hand-woven bowstring. Momentarily closing her eyes, she imagined she could hear the stresses in the complex recurved shape of the wood-and-horn bow. Her right hand nestled up against the side of her face, the thumb joint lightly touching the line of her chin. Slowly, the massive bow still at full draw, she opened her eyes and focused on the wooden target, forty paces away across the deserted chamber. From this vantage point, the five arrows she'd already loosed looked like a single, thick bunch of feathers in the center of the target.

Even though the great muscles of her back and shoulders were resisting the massive tension of the bow, Gaylear was relaxed, as relaxed as she ever felt, as relaxed as if she were dozing in bed under a thick comforter. The steady hiss of her breathing, the slow thudding of her heart.. .she was aware of both sounds, but somehow they seemed distant—removed—as they always did in these moments.

Time seemed to slow around her as she approached the moment of unity—that's what she called it, at least— when she, the bow, the arrow, even the target itself, all became one unified whole. At that instant, if somebody had asked the troll where she was—where the part of her that thought, that felt, that was Gaylear Cleareye clan Granitebone, was located in space—she'd have said not within her skull, behind her eyes. No, she'd have said, in all truthfulness, "In the point of my arrow."

She didn't choose the moment of release, didn't make a conscious decision to relax her grip on the bowstring. It was as if the arrow itself made the decision, leaping from the bow between one heartbeat and the next. The bowstring sung like a harp, the limbs of the bow rung. But above both those sounds, the hiss of the arrow shaft through the air was the loudest sound in her universe. Before the arrow struck the target—even before it had crossed a fraction of the open space—she knew the shot was true. The thud and rattle as the wooden shaft drove into the center of the target, amidst its fellows, was an unnecessary confirmation.

Her left hand held the bow steady, the small "aiming dots" of inlaid stone still aligned with her aiming point. On release, her right hand had drifted back reflexively to stop behind her ear, her elbow high. Now she let out the breath she hadn't felt herself holding, and lowered the bow. She smiled in satisfaction—in sheer pleasure, to be honest—feeling the leathery skin of her face wrinkle into deep lines.

With a sigh, she set her bow down gently. Then she walked across the cold stone floor toward the target, past the chunks of light quartz she'd set down to illuminate the deserted chamber. She looked down at the wooden target, and her smile broadened. A perfect cluster, right in the center of the hand-painted goldmark. Even a human's small palm would cover the six shafts, standing out from the target. Carefully, taking pains not to damage the delicate fletching, she drew the six arrows from the soft wood. She held the last shaft to her eye, sighting along it. Still perfectly true, she was glad to see, as straight as the day she'd shaped it. The "target head"—a simple, smooth metal tip, without the bladelike vanes of a hunting broad-head—was dented and notched from impact. But it was much quicker to mount another target head than to carve, true and fletch a new otow. She grunted in satisfaction, slipping the arrows into the leather quiver that hung from her belt behind her right hip.

Gaylear stretched luxuriously, feeling the bands and sheets of muscle shift across her massive shoulders. Now that she'd relaxed her single-minded concentration, she could feel the warm spread of fatigue through her back and down her arms. A good day's practice, she thought, satisfied. Slowly, still enjoying the interplay of well-used muscles, she crossed back to where she'd set down her bow, picking up her fist-sized chunks of light quartz along the way.

With a quiet power-word, she quenched all but one of the stones. The heavy shadows of the Unnamed Levels, held at bay during her practice, filled the chamber again. The troll paused for a moment, looking around the vacant area.

A perfect place to practice, this deserted area. And not too far to travel from her quarters. Gaylear's smile faded as sadness twinged at her heart. What would Mother and Gran say? she wondered. Her mother and her grandmother—both archer-adepts like Gaylear—-had been forced to delve deep into the bowels of the kaer to find places to practice their discipline, down to the regions now called the Closed Levels. Nowadays Gaylear had to go only a fraction as far. What about my daughter, should I have one? she thought grimly. Where will she practice the way of the bow? In the rooms and corridors where I'm living now? A depressing thought, but not such a fanciful one, she knew. The population of Kaer Moar was decreasing. Anyone with the courage to face facts—and not hide behind false superstition—knew that. What reason was there to think the trend would reverse?

With a deep sigh, she unstrung her bow, and carefully wrapped it in protective cloth. Rising, she cast one last look around the chamber. Then she started her lonely walk back toward the occupied region of the kaer.

3

Grais Evenstar sat back in the broad wooden chair, brow furrowed. "Truly?" he asked softly.

And that, Delain knew, was as strong an indication as he needed that his uncle was deeply troubled. It normally wouldn't even occur to the older troubadour to question the observations of his apprentice. "Truly," he confirmed.

"Would they have fought?" Grais fixed the younger man with his green eyes. "If you hadn't come upon them, would they have fought?"

Giving himself time to consider, Delain glanced around the book-choked common area of their quarters. His eyes settled on the iron broadsword—his father's broadsword—hanging in pride of place on one wall. "If I hadn't come upon them?" he echoed. "How can I know that?"

"Guess, then."

The younger man hesitated, unwilling to answer. But finally, "If I had to guess," he said slowly, "then, yes, they would have fought."

"And you're sure lt wasn't your friend... er..."

"Karena."

Grais nodded. "You're sure it wasn't Karena who instigated things?"

Delain chuckled. "Sometimes I think Karena feels alive only when she's caught up in some argument or other. So if you're asking, could she have instigated it?, my answer would have to be yes." He sobered quickly. "But did she? She says not."

"And you believe her."

Delain nodded.

Grais sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. For the first time, Delain realized how tired his uncle looked. He knew the older man had been sleeping poorly ever since being named to the Council five months before. Delain often woke in the small hours of the night to hear his uncle pacing back and forth across the common area, but it never occurred to him that the pressure might be taking a physical toll. For as long as Delain could remember, Grais had always been a rock, possessing the constitution of a troll, the strength of will of a dwarf. Nothing could deplete his immense store of energy. Not even taking on the responsibility of raising his young nephew after his twin brother's accidental death. Delain was shaken to realize how much it surprised him to see his uncle showing physical signs of strain.

The older troubadour reached over to the low stone table beside his chair, and picked up a parchment. He unrolled it on his knee as though about to read it, but then just stared at it unseeingly, tapping on the paper with a broad forefinger. "This isn't the first case of this kind I've heard of," he said after a long pause. "But I'd been hoping they were just 'corridor myths.'" Fie flashed his familiar crooked smile. "You know the kind of thing, something that happened to the brother of a friend of a friend..." He chuckled sourly. "I suppose that's what I always wanted to believe they were." He sighed again, deeply. "Sometimes I think..

He cut off that train of thought with a shake of his bald head. "Never mind what I think," he said briskly. He re-rolled the parchment and returned it to the table. "I want to hear about your progress on The Sounding of the Horn. Did you clean up that problem in the sixth octavo?"

Delain raised an eyebrow. "I have had other things on my mind, if you recall," he pointed out wryly.

"Irrelevant." Grais's voice was firm. "If you're so set on holding to the fiction that you're still my apprentice, then I don't have much choice but to act like the master, do I? And a good master doesn't let his apprentice off the horn that easily, particularly when it comes to his jour-neyman-piece. Let's hear the sixth octavo." He sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Well?"

"I haven't made much progress..

"Well, let's hear what you've got. Come on, apprentice." Delain sighed expressively. He closed his eyes and calmed his thoughts, letting his mind fill with the musical cadence of the ancient High Dwarven dialect. Almost without conscious volition, he felt his posture straighten, his shoulders pull back to clear his airway and improve the resonance of his voice:

And on that day the horn will ring once more,

A true and limpid note of purest joy.

With gloried hearts we see the gate swing wide,

And feel the warming sun on skin that long Has felt no touch but cold and ancient stone.

The horn, a song to rouse the soul,

Rings forth again, a melody to touch The sleeping soul of ancient earth.

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. Then he opened his eyes and smiled deprecatingly. "That's all I have at the moment," he admitted. "Nowhere near perfect, but it's a start. I'll polish it later."

Grais pursed his lips. "Adequate," he judged after a moment, then amended quickly, "For an early attempt, of course." He grinned ferociously. "And since it is an early attempt, I won't give you too much trouble about line seven. Rings forth a-gain, a mel-o-dy to touch..He emphasized the scansion in an exaggerated, singsong voice. "You can do better than that, Delain, I know you can."

Delain smiled faintly. His uncle's voice and words were critical, but the true message could be seen in his eyes. Pride. Pride. . .and satisfaction, Delain knew. High Dwarven was a difficult dialect to compose in—difficult enough even to recite it properly, without butchering the pronunciation and meter—and both troubadours knew that Delain's work was much more than adequate for an initial draft. Given the choice, Grais would have released his nephew from his apprenticeship years ago, Delain knew. He'd have named him a journeyman, and he'd be considering The Sounding of the Horn as his masterpiece. But for his own reasons, Delain hadn't accepted that. He believed that traditions were important. They were what held the kaer together. And to set aside any tradition— even one as seemingly unimportant as the apprenticeship for a single troubadour—weakened the fabric of the kaer. It wasn't as if holding to the traditional path were holding him back in any way. Apprentice or not, Grais had already taught Delain the skills of a full-fledged troubadour-adept. The magic flowed through him, and he could bend it to his will. So why not follow the old ways?

Delain was silent in thought for a moment. Then he said, "How about this, then:

Rings forth again, a timeless song to touch.

The sleeping soul of ancient earth.

"Much better," Grais said firmly. He reached out to the parchment on the table beside him, then seemed to think better of it. His green eyes hooded in thought. "Will it ever come?" he mused at last.

Delain blinked. "What?"

"Will it ever come?" his uncle repeated, steepling his thick fingers before his lips, staring off into space. "The sounding of the horn. Will it ever happen?"

Delain paused. By tradition, dating back from the day Kaer Moar was created, the Great Horn had only been sounded thrice since it was cast. Those three blasts on the great brass instrument had heralded the closing of the kaer, the shutting and sealing of the Dawngate against the coming Scourge. Though it hung in plain view in the Hall of the Dawning, near the Council chambers, it would only be touched and winded on the day that the kaer opened once more to the outside world. Using the horn as its central motif, Delain's journeyman-piece described that day. "The ancient tales—" he began.

Grais cut him off with an impatient gesture. "I know what the ancient tales say. I want to know what you think."

"What value would my opinion have? None of us can know, all we can do is make empty guesses. And where is the good in that?

"Nowhere." Delain shook his head firmly. "No, Grais," he went on, "the ancient tales, the old words. . .they're all we've got to depend on. They're all we have. And they say the kaer will open."

"When?"

Delain quirked an eyebrow ironically. "While we're at this, do you have any other trivial little questions? Like the overall meaning of life, perhaps?"

For an instant, his uncle's eyes narrowed in anger. Then the tension drained out of the older man's face. Beneath the thick mustache, Grais's lips twisted in a rueful smile. "Maybe my nap wasn't quite as restful as I wanted it to be," he said.

Delain smiled, hearing and accepting the apology behind his uncle's words. "They're working you too hard."

Grais shook his head. "It's not the work," he said quietly, "it's the thinking. The knowing." He rubbed his sunken-looking eyes. "If I could just turn off my mind sometimes, just for an hour a day. . ." He chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. "If I could just forget.”

Delain felt the chill touch of fear in his belly. "Has it moved?" he asked softly.

The older man looked up. "Moved?" he echoed. "Fala'an? The gauge?" He seemed to sink in on himself, as though his chest were suddenly hollow. "No, it hasn't moved." His voice was bleak. "Not a hair's-breadth since I joined the Council." His gaze flashed, sharp as steel, transfixing Delain like a crossbow bolt. "And I didn't tell you that," he added gruffly.

"I know that." Delain drew breath to speak, to open up the discussion they'd run through countless times before, but then thought better of it. This was one of the few significant topics on which they disagreed. Or maybe they didn't disagree, but Grais was letting the strictures of the Council override his own judgment. . .

The issue was the "gauge", of course—the magical device constructed when the kaer was built. For something so vital to the future of the kaer's inhabitants, it was a simple enough thing: a sphere of enchanted true earth, no larger than a human's fist, magically suspended over a dish of true water. Nobody knew how or where the concept of the gauge had arisen; none of the tales remembered by Grais, Delain, and the other troubadours of Kaer Moar had anything to say about its origin. Oh, certainly, there were "corridor myths" claiming the concept of the gauge had come from some ancient text—The Scroll of Tomorrow, or The Book of the Morrow, or something like that—but if there ever had been such a book, nobody alive today had seen it, had read it, or knew of its whereabouts.

In any case, according to the theory behind the gauge, the Scourge would end only when the level of magic in the world outside had decreased to such a degree that the Horrors could no longer thrive, and were forced back to their own plane of existence. As the world's magical aura waned, so too did the power of the enchantment in the sphere of true earth. As the power supporting it decreased, the ball of true earth slowly descended. Eventually, it would touch the surface of the true water; the two elements would mix, and neutralize each other. And on that day, the Great Horn would sound, and the Dawngate would swing open.

Except that, for some reason, the ball of true earth had stopped its slow but steady descent toward the surface of the water. Some time ago—Grais didn't know how long, and none of his colleagues on the Council would answer his questions on the subject—it had stopped, and had moved not a hair since. Which meant. . .

Which meant what? By the logic that underlay the gauge, as the scholars of Kaer Moar understood it, at least, the only conclusion was that the world's magical aura had stopped decreasing in power. But what did that mean, in the overall picture? Was this just a natural pause in a longer process, a kind of temporary plateau in the ebb of magic? Or had the Horrors found some way of stopping—even eventually reversing—the ebb of magic? If so, would the Scourge never end?

To keep the gauge safe from accidental damage, it was locked in a special chamber deep in the heart of the Level of Astendar. Only duly appointed members of the Council of Elders were allowed into the room, to see the gauge with their own eyes. Up until two years ago, the Councilmembers had always reported the progress shown by the gauge. Not on any fixed schedule, but irregularly, when there was something significant to report.

Even today, Delain could remember the celebration when the Council announced that the sphere of true earth was suspended a mere two fingers above the surface of the water. He had been only five on that day, but the event had coincided with his birthday and Delain had thought all the singing was for him.

But then, just a little over five years ago, the Council had stopped making their reports. Delain had barely noticed. Reports on the gauge's progress had always been rare, and irregular. After all, according to the old records, the Scourge wouldn't be over for at least another century. Neither Delain, nor any other inhabitant of the kaer, had considered the Council's silence on the matter of the gauge to be of any significance whatsoever.

Until Grais was named to the Council and found out the disturbing truth. The day of his appointment, he'd returned to their quarters, obviously deeply disturbed about something. It had taken all of Delain's persuasive talents to break through the older man's reserves, to coax him into revealing what had so shaken him.

The gauge, of course. The gauge that should have been creeping down, marking off the days and months and years leading to the end of the Scourge. The gauge that had stopped some time in the past, and hadn't budged since.

The Council had initially decided to lie to the populace, to claim that the gauge was still descending on schedule. Eventually, the Elders had decided to end the regular lying, but not to tell the truth either. Best to say nothing, they had determined, best not to so much as mention the gauge, lest anyone figure out what was really happening. After all, what would knowledge of the truth do to the vital, and oh so delicate, morale of the kaer's society? As part of his appointment oath, Grais had been asked to swear not to reveal anything the Council declared to be confidential. It was only after he'd given his word of honor that he'd learned just what that oath concealed.

Should the matter of the gauge be kept secret? Delain asked himself for the thousandth time. No, he didn't think it should. Something so vital to the future of the kaer and its inhabitants—didn't the people of Kaer Moar have the right to know? Certainly, the revelation would be a brutal shock. Certainly, it would jar many people, undermine the assumptions by which they'd lived their entire lives. Yet, Delain believed the people of Kaer Moar were strong, stronger than the Councilmembers gave them credit for, stronger than they knew themselves. They'd weather this challenge, as they'd weathered every challenge they'd yet had to face.

What surprised Delain even more than the bad decision on the part of the Council was their belief they could keep their secret.

No family could keep secrets from its members. How much more difficult when the family numbered in the thousands? Because, after all, in a very real sense a kaer was a family.

The Councilmembers should have realized the word would get out somehow, sometime. Maybe not in its entirety, and maybe not in a form that reached everyone within the kaer. Word would leak out, though. Rumors, mutterings, corridor myths... Incomplete, and often contradictory, but even more disturbing for all that. The Council should have recognized the inevitability.

And should have foreseen the effect the rumors would have on morale. Not simply from their content, which was disturbing enough, but from the implication they carried. The Elders are keeping secrets from us. They're lying to us. . .It should have been obvious from the start that this realization would be the most damaging factor of all.

Well, the damage was done, now. The rumors were whispered throughout the corridors of the kaer. Doubts were in the wind as to whether the Elders were to be trusted on important issues. The Councilmembers themselves had chosen their course, and pride argued against changing their minds, against admitting the truth and explaining their reasons for concealing it. And Grais? Delain's uncle had sworn his solemn oath to keep the Council's secrets. Despite the damage the whispered rumors were causing, he was honor-bound not to take direct action.

And Delain was pretty sure he knew who had started those rumors. With a sigh, he shook his head. He suspected that Kolban Darkways had been the one who'd started spreading the rumors, but there was no way of proving it. Besides, it was too late. The damage was done.

Grais's voice broke into his reverie. "Have you heard of the Brothers of Night?" the older man asked.

Delain blinked in puzzlement. "An old poem?"

His uncle chuckled softly. "More current than that." Grais's smile faded quickly. "It's a..." He hesitated. . .not a society, they're not well enough organized for that. More like a group. Mainly twilighters." That was the slightly derogatory term for older inhabitants of the kaer, those who'd started their downward slide into senility "A few younger would-be mystics. Mainly people out on the fringe, nobody near the center of things. Not yet."

"So what is this group?" Delain asked.

"People who share a belief," Grais explained. "The belief that the Scourge will never end. That the Dawngate will never open. That the dawn will never come—hence 'The Brothers of Night', see?" He sighed. "That the Horrors have all the time they need to break down the kaer's defenses. That soon they'll penetrate the wards.. .to enter the kaer and feed."

Delain shivered slightly at his uncle's bleak tone. "Stormcrows," he mumbled, using a widely used Throalic epithet for "birds of ill omen"—people who "borrow" and attract trouble. But then he shook off the feeling of depression. "That's nothing new, is' it?" he asked. "There've been cults like this before." He shrugged. "Remember when that 'wise man' started preaching that the kaer would collapse with the turn of the century? That was more widespread than this, wasn't it?"

"True," Grais said slowly. "It's just.. .interesting.. .that this would arise now, of all times."

"Why?" Delain asked. "It seems obvious to me, with the rumors about the gauge, and all." He shrugged again.

Grais just looked at him with his sharp green eyes, patently unconvinced. He mumbled something under his breath, but all Delain heard was something like, If that’s all there was to it... Delain looked questioningly at his uncle, but the older man's expression was closed. Delain sighed. He knew Grais's moods well enough not to push the matter. He'd speak when he was ready.

Grais had reached out to toy again with the rolled parchment on the table beside him. "How goes your work on the fragment?" he asked, firmly changing the subject.

"Slow," Delain admitted with a wry half-smile. "I think I've translated all the words, but I don't feel much closer to understanding it."

"Where are you up to?"

From his voluminous belt-pouch, Delain pulled out his "working copy" of the scroll. Beckoning to Grais to join him, he unrolled the parchment and spread it across the table, using a sandshaker, an inkpot, and two stray books to hold the corners down. He ran his finger delicately along a line of blocky, ancient trollish characters, framed down both sides of the scroll with geometric embellishments. Above the original text he'd written in his tentative translation, using the familiar dwarven script. "Here's where I'm running into difficulty," he said, tapping a particular passage with a fingernail. Grais leaned in for a closer look.

The two troubadours had been working on the scroll that they'd come to call "the fragment" for more than a year now, though neither one knew exactly where it had come from originally An ork youth had delivered the dusty scroll into Grais's hands, mumbling something about "finding it somewhere". He'd shrugged off all questions, finally changing his story to claim that he hadn't found it himself at all, that it had been a friend who'd passed it on to him. Surmising that the ork had probably found it on some illicit trip into the Unnamed Levels and now feared it would get him into deep trouble, Grais had sent him on his way with sincere thanks. Exactly where in the kaer the fragment had been found didn't matter much; what mattered was what the fragment was.

Delain and Grais had recognized its age—and hence its potential importance—at once. The parchment was discolored and brittle. As they'd unrolled it for the first time, the fabric had cracked and split in many places. The writing-harsh, blocky characters, quite unlike the standard dwarven script—was faded, totally illegible here and there. Judging by the condition of the parchment, the style of characters, and the language used—a nearly forgotten troll dialect— Grais estimated the scroll to be more than three centuries old, dating back to within a few decades of the closing of the kaer. Immediately, the two troubadours had called in a wizard to magically copy the fading writing onto a new parchment, and to seal the original in crystal to preserve it. Unfortunately, the wizard knew no spells to bring out the parts of the text that had faded into invisibility over the centuries. Then they'd set to work translating it.

And that task was still not complete. From the start, they'd understood it would be slow going, but they hadn't known hozv slow. Over time—and three centuries was a lot of that—languages and styles of writing "drifted" and changed. Some of the characters had seemed meaningless at first, until Delain discerned how more recognizable characters had changed over time, and used those trends to "translate" the mystery symbols into something more contemporary. Then, once they'd made sense of the letters the scribe had used, had come the actual translation—another slow, laborious task. Even contemporary trollish wasn't an easy language, Delain thought. Status modes, protocol accents, relational prefixes, and all those Passions-be-damned irregular verbs! Why couldn't it be simple and straightforward, like Ehvarven? To make it even more difficult, the fragment wasn't written in contemporary trollish, but in an archaic form of the language—formal, scholarly, stylistically intricate.

Delain, who took over the bulk of the work after Grais's appointment to the Council, eventually managed to translate the text into contemporary "common" Dwarven. But that didn't mean the job was done. The text was loaded with arcane allusions and cryptic idioms (and Delain could only hope they weren't the result of his translation) that concealed the meaning almost as well as if the scroll had been written in a private code. To decipher even a single line, the reader had to recognize and understand one or more obscure allusions—quotes from ancient sagas, references to half-forgotten myths, and the like. Without that, text was meaningless.

Delain remembered well a particular example. How many months had it taken him to realize that the phrase "Poliphan's chariot" referred to the sun? Only when he'd remembered an old elven nursery tale about a boy, Poliphan, who'd ridden the sun across the arch of the heavens, did the passage make the first bit of sense. Certainly, poetic allusions like this were common enough in other old works—the traditional version of Jaron and the Sphinx didn't make much sense to anyone unfamiliar with Theran poetry, for example. But the frequency—the density—of obscure references in the fragment was unheard-of. Almost as if the writer was as concerned about concealing the contents of the scroll as she was about recording them, Delain had thought perhaps a thousand times.

Over the last several months, he had begun to understand why. . .or, at least, to guess at the reason. Unless his translation and interpretation were totally off the mark, the fragment referred to an event that occurred only two decades or so after Kaer Moar had sealed itself off from the outside world. Some kind of struggle between different factions, that's what the fragment seemed to imply. Not a quarrel within a single family or between family groups, but a schism involving a significant percentage of the kaer's population—and one that, if the fragment were to be believed, eventually came to violence. So far, Delain had found nothing within the text that explained the nature of the schism or the events that had precipitated it. Nor had anything he'd interpreted so far revealed how it had ended.

It had disturbed Delain—and Grais too, for that matter—to read about the schism. Not because such things didn't happen, or couldn't happen. To a large degree, Delain was surprised the pressures of life within the kaer hadn't spawned more violent disagreements. No, what unsettled the two troubadours was simple. . .

This had been the first hint either of them had ever seen about such a major event in the kaer's history. Even now, months after the initial realization, the thought still disturbed Delain. None of the standard histories said anything about this—not The Closing of Moar, not The Roll of Years, not even the "unofficial" corridor doggerel that one troubadour passes to his apprentice.. .Somehow, the only record remaining of a major event in the kaer's history was a moldering scrap of parchment, stumbled upon by sheerest chance. And that just shouldn't be the case.

Frowning at the copied fragment, Delain searched for an analogy that conveyed the depth of his concern. It was like realizing there was a gap in your personal memory, he decided after a moment. Like realizing you'd totally forgotten an important, formative event in your life.

Yes, that was exactly what it was like. After all, the troubadours had always been the memory of a society— a town, a nation. . .or a kaer. It was they who gave the society persistence of memory. They recalled the history—not just the events, but their significance, and the interrelations between them. More important, however, they gave the society a continuity in its self-awareness. They reminded members of the society who they were, and who they'd been. . .and illustrated how one developed inevitably from the other. We are the conscience of our society, and—to a large degree—its soul. He touched the parchment tentatively. Yet in this case, we seem to have lost our memory. ..

"Where are you up to?" Grais asked again.

"Here." Delain traced a particular line with his finger, reading aloud, "'They met the mind-seed of Trian's son in Troubadour's Hold, and the wine of life flowed freely.'"

"'The wine of life'," the older man echoed. "Blood, maybe?"

Delain nodded. "That's what I think. Maybe a skirmish of some kind?"

"And 'mind-seed', what do you make of that?"

"Probably the same as you do," Delain pointed out dryly. "'Trian's son' had spread his ideas—planted the seed of his mind, you might say—among other people, and they followed him, or at least agreed with him."

"That makes some sense," Grais allowed. "But it leaves us with the 'who' and the 'where'. Who's Trian's son, and where's Troubadour's Hold? I've wracked my brain, and I can't think of any reference to a 'Trian' in any of the Theran, dwarven, ork, obsidiman, or troll poetry I know."

"In the poetry you know, that's the key phrase." Delain struggled to mute his triumphant smile. "But there's more poetry in the world than troubadours recall. Other disciplines have their rhymes too. We often forget that."

"Teaching rhymes, perhaps."

"Don't dismiss them," Delain cautioned. "Teaching rhymes contain more information than 'how to do it'. Names, for example. Old masters, people responsible for breakthroughs, ancients revered for their contribution to specific arts. Like Trian's contribution to nethermancy."

"Trian's a nethermancer?"

"One of the greatest, apparently," Delain said. "You should ask Ner Barthas about Trian sometime." Barthas was a dwarven nethermancer who'd recently ended his apprenticeship. ",. .But only when you've got a lot of time to listen."

Grais's brow wrinkled. "So a famous nethermancer's son. .."

"Not literally," Delain corrected, cutting his uncle off. "Trian died soon after the founding of Thera. There's no way his direct descendent could still have been alive when the kaer closed.

"But," he went on persuasively, "the word 'son' might be metaphorical: Trian's spiritual son, his son in a philosophical sense."

"A nethermancer himself, then."

Delain nodded. "And probably the same person as back here." He indicated another line, further up the scroll. "The one described earlier as 'Mynbruje's visage'. An old man, then, who's also a nethermancer."

Grais smiled appreciatively. "Good, good. Now what about 'Troubadour's Hold'?"

Delain felt his lips draw back in a broad, victorious grin. "The skirmish, or whatever it was—it happened right here, on this level." He chuckled at his uncle's quizzical expression. "Think about it, Grais," he said. "A large, open area on this level, a good place for a fight, if that's your intention. Just to the west of the Great Gyre..."

Grais blinked, his face wrinkling in thought. "The Harper's Gallery, you mean?" he asked dubiously. But then his eyes widened in realization. "Which used to be called..

"Which used to be called the Gallery of the Harp," Delain confirmed.

"And what do troubadours hold?" Grais pointed to his nephew's instrument on its velvet-covered stand. "A harp." He hissed in frustration. "We should have seen that one at once." He clapped the younger man firmly on the shoulder. "Good job, that." His smile faded, and he went on soberly, "Which means. .

Again, Delain finished the thought. "Which means we know for sure that this did happen inside Kaer Moar. I don't think we can pretend it's even possible that this might be referring to something that happened before the closing." He shrugged. "Not that I ever thought that was particularly likely."

"You don't have to rub it in." Grais sighed. "How much longer to complete the whole thing?"

It was Delain's turn to sigh. "How much longer to the dawn?" he asked rhetorically. "I think I know where to start on some of this, but. . . listen to this." Tracing a line near the bottom of the parchment, he recited:

To follow the Four-Fold Way

And the stream of the ten thousand,

To see the Four Colors, to hear the Four Tones,

And to touch the weaving of the weaver.

"Scourge it, where am I supposed to start on something like that?"

Grais clapped him on the back again and laughed. "Be sure and tell me when you figure it out."

4

Delain crouched in the shadows, watching silently. The air was cold; the stone wall against which he was leaning seemed to leech the warmth from his body. But still he remained perfectly motionless, fascinated by what he was seeing.

The large figure, silhouetted against the glow of the light quartz, drew the string of her massive bow back to her ear. Through the dry, still air, he imagined he could hear the recurved bow groan with the strain. The figure held the bow at full draw, seemingly with no effort. Then she loosed. The bow sang, and almost magically the arrow vanished, to reappear in the geometric center of the target.

Slowly, the figure lowered the bow, turning slightly in her stance. Now Delain could see the troll's face, could see the calm satisfaction in her expression.

Delain shook his head slowly. He recognized the look in the troll's eyes. He knew she was feeling the magic, feeling the adept's gift flow through her body. What she was experiencing was, theoretically, exactly what he felt when he wove a tale or a song that touched his audience's hearts and souls. He knew that look of quiet. Was "ecstasy" too strong a word? He'd seen it often in Grais's eyes, and knew his own must have shown it on many occasions.

Yet what did it feel like for the huge archer? That was the question. He knew what it was like for him, and, presumably, for any troubadour. The magic manifested itself as a sense of belonging, almost of unity. As he wove his song or saga, he could feel the interconnection of all those who heard it—listener to listener, and listener to singer. When he used his adept's gift, he could feel the society of which he was a part. Not as a theoretical concept, but as an entity with a discrete, individual existence. The pleasure, the peace, that he felt—they grew out of that sense of belonging.

What would they feel like for an archer-adept, then? That was the question. He'd never really thought about it before, never had reason to wonder how other disciplines touched their adherents. Now, though? For some reason, he felt the question was important.

The troll drew another shaft from her quiver, and fitted it to her bowstring. Her motions were economical, slow and fluid. They looked unstudied, but Delain knew that was a misconception. They were as carefully choreographed as the most complex of dances, made casual-looking only by the skill of the practitioner. Gaylear's sigh echoed from the stone walls and ceilings as she drew the bow once more. A timeless moment later, she loosed. Delain laughed aloud with simple pleasure as the shaft struck true, no more than a finger's span from the arrow before.

The troll spun in surprise at the sound. In the glow of the light quartz, Delain saw her eyes widen, but it was more like the guilt of a child caught breaking a parent's prohibition than the anger of a wTarrior.

Delain sprang to his feet and advanced into the light, showing his empty hands. "Gaylear," he said, smiling disarmingly, "it's me, Delain Evenstar."

Gaylear Cleareye clan Granitebone blinked her large eyes. "Delain?" Her tone was tentative, a strange contrast with her rather daunting appearance. She shifted her great bow from hand to hand uncomfortably, again like a child considering how to hide an incriminating object. "Delain," she said again. "What are you doing down here?"

Stopping at about a dozen paces from her, he broadened his smile and shrugged. "I thought I might find you here," he said simply.

"You.. .did?" Gaylear was a good arm's-length taller than Delain, and almost twice as broad across the shoulders and back. The muscles of her upper arm were thicker than the young human's thigh. Yet still there was something about her stance that reminded Delain of a small child looking up at a parent in fear of punishment. A ludicrous image, but very real. At least I was right about her, he told himself. She doesn't know anyone's aware of her trips down here.

He shrugged again in answer to her nervous question. "Of course," he said simply. "Karena said you came down here regularly."

Gaylear blinked in surprise. Then her heavy brows drew down in a doubtful frown. "She did? When?"

"Not long ago." He hesitated. That was a strange question to ask. . . "She knew I'd be interested," he went on after a moment, "because 1 come down here quite often, too. And I know she does—I met her down here just yesterday, as a matter of fact, over in the Hall of the Passions. She thought I'd be interested to hear of someone else who doesn't seem to mind breaking the taboos."

"You spoke to Karena yesterday?" Gaylear watched him a little skeptically from the corners of her dark eyes. "And she spoke to you?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

For an instant, he thought the troll was going to say something—to explain why Karena wouldn't have talked to him. But then she shook her head, obviously discarding the thought. "You're just down here for your own reasons, then," she said, a little more confidence in her voice.

"Well, actually I did come down here looking for you," he admitted. He held up his hands quickly, palms out. "Don't worry, Gaylear, I'm not looking to get you into trouble with the Council or anything." He chuckled. "Scourge it, I'd have to denounce myself and Karena—and some other people I could name—for the same 'infraction,' wouldn't I? And why would I want to do that?"

She looked deeply into his eyes, as if the truth of his words could be found there. Then she nodded, and she smiled slightly. A shy smile, almost gentle, despite her harsh troll features. She is young, Delain had to remind himself. No matter what she looks like, she's still only thirteen, maybe fourteen, years old. How sure of myself was I when I was fourteen? Not very, that's how.

He let his gaze drift over her, trying to see her with the "innocent eye" that was one of the first skills taught to would-be troubadours—the ability to see something familiar as if for the first time. She was huge—of course!— well over eight feet tall, and broadly built even by the standards of her race. Her hair was straight and ebony black, chopped off at shoulder length, looking almost as if Gaylear had done it herself with the dagger sheathed on her broad leather belt. The horns sprouting from her high forehead were atypically small, and almost symmetrical. The hardened skin of which they were made—trolthelia, to use the troll term—was still faintly pink, not yet having dried and hardened to the fibrous, almost bonelike texture found in older trolls. Her nose was broad, and somewhat flattened—almost as if she'd had a difference of opinion with an obsidiman's fist, Delain thought, smiling to himself—and her mouth was wide and mobile, bracketed by deep creases graven into her olive skin. The tusks sprouting from her lower jaw were small, protruding beyond her lips by no more than the length of the first joint of Delain's smallest finger. (Would they grow longer with age? he wondered, remembering the terrifying visage of older trolls he'd met, with their tusks the size of sheath knives.) Her brows were heavy, and her eyelids slightly thicker than the human norm, making the eyes themselves look slitted, almost sloped.

Overall, though, her face was. . .well, definitely not beautiful (not to a human, at least), and a long way from pretty. But, he realized, Gaylear was attractive in a way— in the true sense of the word. Her calm nature, modest to the point of being self-effacing, showed in her face. More true character than in the features of countless "beautiful" girls and women Delain had seen. The face she shows to the world is an honest one, he decided, a true reflection of the person within.

He hadn't known Gaylear for long. Within Kaer Moar, trolls were typically raised by their extended families, their g'ralnakh, and shielded by them from the rest of kaer society until their tan'a'on, their "Claiming" or rite of passage to adulthood. Gaylear's own tarr'a'on hadn't been much more than a year before. He'd first met her when an elder of her g'ralnakh had brought her to Grais, to arrange for education in the Ways and Traditions of the kaer. Maybe things would be better if all families were so conscientious with their children, he thought suddenly, remembering the youths who'd faced Karena the day before. Delain had met the young troll a few times, and a tentative acquaintance—not yet quite a friendship, had developed between them.

Delain had never met any other members of Gaylear's g'ralnakh. That particular line-marriage within clan Granitebone kept to itself even more than was normal for trolls within the kaer. He had no way of knowing for sure, but he suspected her relationship with the remainder of her family was more formal than personal. And for the first few months after her tarr'a'on, she'd seemed to have no friends and only a few distant acquaintances outside the g'ralnakh. He'd seen her walking the corridors of the kaer on several occasions, totally alone, her massive shoulders drawn in, her back stooped, as if she were trying, vainly, to minimize the personal space she took up.

He didn't know how or where Gaylear had met Karena Hearthrock, or, for that matter, what in the name of the Passions they had in common. If he'd been asked to guess, he'd have listed the reticent troll and the cantankerous dwarf as perhaps the least likely two individuals to hit it off. Yet hit if off they obviously had. Karena and Delain were friends, though not especially close ones, and on the occasions when he'd met the dwarf in the corridors and chambers of the kaer, Gaylear had been with her. Maybe they were a good combination after all, he mused. Each had something to teach the other. Karena could teach Gaylear that it was all right to stand up for herself, that it was all right to have and express opinions. And maybe Gaylear could teach Karena that it was all right not to have an opinion sometimes.. .He chuckled softly at that.

Gaylear smiled down at him, her worries about Council punishment for visiting the Unnamed Levels apparently set at ease. "You were looking for me," she said. Even speaking quietly, the words rumbled in the resonant space of her large lungs. "Why, Delain?"

He gestured to the bow she still held loosely in her left hand. "That's why," he admitted simply. "I know the pleasure, the satisfaction, your Art brings you. Karena told me." Again, something changed subtly in the troll's expression at the mention of the dwarf's name. He pressed on anyway. "I wanted to see it for myself. Now I have. And I want to learn more."

Her thick eyebrows shot up. "But you're a trouba-dour-apprentice."

"And you're an archer-adept. Does that mean we're not supposed to be curious about each other's Art?" He smiled ironically. "I don't remember reading anything like that in the Ways and Traditions, do you?"

"No," she admitted slowly "I'm curious, that's all. I saw the expression on your face when you were shooting," he said, indicating the distant target. "I saw the satisfaction, I saw the peace. .

“Jar'arak is our word."

Delain nodded acceptance. "I saw your jar’arak, then. And in it, I saw a depth in the Art of the archer-adept that I'd never really considered before. I'd like to experience it."

The young troll looked skeptical. "It takes much time and effort to feel the jar'arak in the song of a bowstring," she rumbled.

"Of course," he laughed. "I understand that. Drawing a bow doesn't make you an archer, just as singing a song doesn't make you a troubadour.

"But I would like to draw a bow," he continued gently. "I would like to have the experience of loosing an arrow. I'd like to learn at least a little about what's involved. If you'd be willing to teach me, of course."

Gaylear looked away, almost shyly. "I'm not a bow-master."

"I know. But it's not as if I want to become your apprentice, after all." He chuckled. "Bow-master or not, you can show me enough that I'm not going to shoot an arrow through my own foot, can't you?"

For a moment, Gaylear still looked doubtful. Then a broad smile wrinkled her cheeks. "I think I can show you that much, yes," she agreed. "It's a good thing I brought my small bow today."

Delain glanced down at the bow the troll held in her large hand. It was a good five feet long, thicker than his wrist at its center. That was her small bow? "Good thing," he echoed.

Surprisingly gently, the troll reached out and took his left hand in hers. With fingers more than twice the thickness of his thumb, she manipulated his joints, gauging the size of his palm. Then she gripped his upper arm, her thumb and forefinger easily encircling his biceps. She nodded judiciously. "You should be able to draw the bow. Here, take it." Then, "No," she corrected quickly. "First, you need to get rid of that." She pointed at the silver, largely ceremonial shortsword that hung at the belt of all Kaer Moar troubadours. "You don't want the bowstring catching on anything."

"That makes sense." He unbuckled his belt and set it carefully on the stone floor.

"Now try it." And Gaylear handed the bow over.

The bow was lighter than he expected when he held it in his left hand. He looked at the smooth surface curiously. It couldn't be solid wood, as he'd thought at first. Horn, maybe? Or maybe alternating layers of wood and bone? With his right hand he reached out and plucked the bowstring as he would the string of a lute. He felt the dull thrum of the fiber resonate through the limbs of the bow, into his left hand.

"Turn sideways to the target," Gaylear told him. "Hold the bow out at arm's length."

Delain did as he was instructed. "Don't I need an arrow?"

The troll giggled, a strange sound from someone so large. "One thing at a time, Delain," she told him. "How does the bow feel? Too heavy?"

"Not yet."

Gaylear nodded. "Now reach across your body with your right hand and grip the bowstring at its center. Use just your first three fingers. When you've got an arrow on the string, your first finger goes above the arrow, the other two below."

"That's not how you held it."

The troll looked down at her right hand, at the bone thumb-ring she wore. "No," she agreed. She smiled again, her shyness leavened with a touch of gentle mockery. "But you're not me, are you?"

"There is that," Delain allowed. He began to draw back the string.

Gaylear stopped him with a touch on his arm. "Not yet. You need to know a couple of things before.

"First, you need to know that a drawn bow is seven-eighths broken. When a bow's at full draw, be careful with it—don't bang it against anything, don't drop it. And most importantly, don't dry-fire it. Release the string without an arrow nocked. I've never had a bow come apart in my hand, but I've seen it happen. You wouldn't enjoy it."

Delain suppressed a smile. All tentativeness was gone from her voice, as if now that she was on familiar ground—talking about something she knew well—she'd forgotten to be shy. "I'll take your word for that. Second?"

"Second, you don't use the muscles of your arm to draw a bow." She hesitated. "Well, you do.. .but the arm's not the important part. I want you to use these muscles, here." She drew a thick forefinger across his back, tracing the large muscles of his shoulders. "Think of drawing your shoulder blades together, if you can.

"Third. You might have seen some archers draw the bowstring all the way back to their ear. Don't, this isn't that kind of bow. Draw the string straight back until your hand settles up against the side of your jawbone, here." She touched the right side of his chin. "And keep your elbow up. It helps.

"And fourth: if the draw of the bow is too much, if you feel you can't hold it anymore, let it down without releasing the string."

"And fifth?" Delain asked.

"If there is a fifth, I can't think of it." Gaylear grinned. "Are you ready to try it?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Delain raised the bow again, sighting down his arm toward the distant wooden target. He couldn't wrap his fingers all the way around the bow's thick grip, but as he started to put tension on the bowstring, he realized it didn't matter. The pull of the string drew the bow firmly into the saddle between his thumb and forefinger. He found that he could relax his fingers totally, and the bow would still stay in place. He took a deep breath, and began to draw.

The muscles in his upper right arm started to quiver almost immediately. Scourge, he thought, it feels like I'm trying to pull a troll up the Great Gyre, and I've hardly drawn this thing a hand's-breadth. "How strong is this bow?" he asked.

"About a fifty-pound draw weight."

"And what about your large bow?"

The troll smiled crookedly. "Almost as heavy as you."

Wonderful, Delain thought. He strained against the bowstring, feeling the burn of fatigue in his biceps. After a moment, he let the bow down.

"These muscles," Gaylear said softly, again touching his back. "Try again."

With a sigh, Delain brought the bow up once more and took up the load of the bowstring. This time he focused his attention on the broad bands of muscles crisscrossing his back and shoulders, feeling the tension in them. Think of drawing your shoulder blades together, he reminded himself. He gritted his teeth and pulled.

The bowstring came back—not easily, but with nowhere near the effort and pain of his previous attempt. His right hand was eight inches from his chin, six.. .There, his thumb settled against his jawline.

"Elbow up," Gaylear reminded him.

His hand was trembling, the fingers threatening to give out at any moment. Quickly, he let the bow down. With a sigh of relief, he worked the muscles in his right shoulder. "Hard," he admitted.

"Everything is at first. Try it again."

The next attempt was easier. His shoulders and back were already starting to feel the strain. But at least he had a better sense for the technique, knew which muscles he should be using. Again he let the bow down, and then drew for the third time. This time, his right hand came smoothly back, nestling up under his chin as if it belonged there.

With the bow still at full draw, he looked past the bowstring, down his extended left arm toward the target. He imagined the presence of an arrow on the string, the sensation of loosing and watching it hurtle across the chamber to bury itself in the wood circle. A little regretfully, he let the bow down again.

"Good," Gaylear congratulated him. "How do your fingers feel?"

Delain looked down at his right hand. The tips of his first three fingers were red, with bone white grooves graven into the creases of the first joint where the string had cut into his flesh. He shook his hand a few times to improve his circulation, feeling the fingertips tingling almost painfully. "A little sore," he admitted.

Gaylear nodded. "If you want to try this again, I can get you a leather finger guard." She smiled again. "And maybe a lighter practice bow."

Delain hesitated. He did want to try this again, he realized. He hadn't felt anything even resembling peace or jar'arak—he'd simply had too much to think about. But he had enjoyed the sensations of drawing the heavy bow and holding the string back. "I think I can get used to this bow, with a little practice," he suggested. "Could you teach me more? Not necessarily right now, of course," he added quickly, "but whenever it's convenient for you."

He saw a faint flush come to the troll's cheeks, and she looked away shyly. "If you like."

"I would like," he confirmed. He paused, then said, "Could I try actually firing an arrow now?"

It was Gaylear's turn to hesitate, frowning doubtfully. Then her face cleared, and her smile returned. "If you like," she said again. She held out her left hand for the bow. "Let me show you how to nock an arrow. Then you can try it yourself." With her right hand, she reached for the quiver behind her hip. "Now watch, there's a trick to this. . In mid-sentence, the troll froze, statuelike, head cocked on one side.

"What. . .?" Delain started to say. But then he heard the sound, too, a strange hissing rattle. Like somebody pouring gravel onto a metal shield, he thought. He looked around wildly, trying to locate the source of the sound-difficult, since echoes from the surrounding stone confused the direction. He glanced up at Gaylear. The question on his lips died when he saw the faint smile of anticipation on her face.

"Watch," she said calmly. "I'll show you how it's done." And she nocked the arrow onto the bowstring.

"What is it?" Delain asked.

"Sometimes. . .things. . .come up from the Closed Levels," Gaylear explained. "Little scurrying things. I left them alone, until one bit me on the leg. Now they make good targets for an arrow."

The gravel-on-metal sound came again, louder this time. Delain still couldn't localize the source of the noise. Not so Gaylear, apparently. The troll turned to her left, toward one of the dark corridors leading away from the chamber. She raised her bow, settling the shaft of the arrow on the velvet-surfaced rest above her fist. She hooked her thumb-ring onto the bowstring, but didn't start to draw yet. Instead, Delain saw her close her eyes for a moment, as she filled her chest with a deep, cleansing breath.

And again the sound echoed around them. Doesn't sound like anything I'd call a "little scurrying thing,"

Delain thought grimly. Gaylear had been right about the direction, he recognized that now. Instinctively, he took a step back—both to interpose the troll's bulk between him and whatever emerged from the corridor, and to bring him closer to the shortsword he'd doffed. He saw Gavlear open her eyes, saw an expression of calm expectation spread across her face. . .

And then saw her heavy-lidded eyes widen in alarm, heard her gasp a trollish curse under her breath.

Whatever the thing was in the open doorway, it wasn't "small" or "scurrying." Almost man-sized, it was, but nowhere near man-shaped. It was hunched over, like a man on all fours, but as it saw them it drew itself up to its full height. Limbs—Not quite arms, but what else would you call them?—moved sinuously. Wide jaws—mounted vertically, instead of horizontally— opened and clashed shut again. It hissed again, piercingly, and began to move toward them. Delain felt his muscles freeze, with fear perhaps, or something else. He couldn't turn, he couldn't run. He couldn't even bend over to snatch up his silver broadsword. All he could do was watch as the thing moved slowly toward him. Like a fly trapped in syrup. . . "Gaylear. . ."

The troll's breath sounded like a smith's bellows beside him. He saw her large hand tighten around the stock of her bow, but that seemed the only movement of which she was capable.

"Gaylear," he gasped again.

And something shifted in the troll's eyes, as though they'd suddenly turned hard as the cold stone that surrounded them both. A low-pitched growl rumbled in her chest, as she brought the bow up. Muscles rippling across her shoulders, she drew back on the string, slowly, smoothly.

The thing shrieked, a nerve-flaying cry of frustration—that was how Delain interpreted it, at least. Instead of its previous slow, almost sinuous advance, now it flung itself forward across the open space toward them. Delain gasped aloud as he felt the strange paralysis vanish from his muscles.

Beside him, Gaylear's bow sang, the shaft hissing through the air to bury itself in the thing's torso, driving it backward with the impact. Delain cringed, fighting back an almost overpowering urge to cover his ears, as it shrieked again.

The troll archer stood poised, still as a statue, her bow rock-steady and her right hand against her neck beneath her ear. Calmly, almost ritualistically, she took another deep breath as she lowered the bow.

"Gaylear, for the love of the Passions!"

The thing wasn't dead, wasn't even down. It howled its agony at the basalt ceiling, flailing its limbs wildly. Then it grasped the shaft of Gaylear's arrow protruding from its body, and snapped it off flush with its flesh. Its vertical mouth gaped wide, dagger-sharp teeth glinting in the gleam of the light quartz stones.

"Shoot it again, Gaylear!" Delain yelled.

Smoothly, the troll reached around to her quiver, extracting another arrow. She set it against the string, settling the shaft on the rest. With great care, she hooked her thumb-ring onto the string.

Too slow! Delain thought desperately. The thing was moving forward again—slower than before, but still faster than a walking man. "Gaylear!" he screamed.

The troll's eyes were wide with alarm. Still, though, she drew a calming breath, then another.. .Going through exactly the same ritual as before, Delain realized with a chill. "Hurry!"

But she was trying to hurry, he knew, performing each step in the ritual as fast as she could. Finally the bow came up, and she drew the arrow back to her chin. She held the string at full draw.

Almost too long. At the absolute last moment before the thing was upon her, she loosed. From point-blank range, the arrow tore into the monstrosity's shoulder, ripping clear through the flesh, flaying it open to the bone. A mortal wound. . .

Yet not instantly fatal. Howling its agony, the thing lashed out with its multiple forelimbs, smashing Gaylear to the ground with terrifying force. Her bow flew from her, skittering away across the stone floor. The troll yelped with pain and fear, as somehow she managed to get an arm up to block the creature's lunge for her face. Delain saw her thick fingers sink deep into its throat, saw her great muscles bulge as she struggled to keep its teeth from her flesh. To his amazement and horror, he saw her muscles tremble with the effort, saw her arm start to collapse.

My sword! He'd forgotten it in the heat of the moment. With a cry, he leapt for it, snatching it up. The hilt, wire-wrapped leather, felt alien in his hand, as if he'd never gripped it before. For a moment he hesitated, hefting the weapon in his hand, feeling the balance.

The thing was still flailing at Gaylear with its forelimbs. She'd tucked her chin in tight to her shoulder, trying to shield her face from its blows. But that brought her head perilously close to its snapping jaws. In the glow of the quartz light, her face was pale, beaded with sweat.

Thinking back on it later, Delain would feel as though it were the sword itself that initiated his thrust. His mind was frozen with horror and fear, immobilizing him. Yet suddenly, before he even framed the thought in his mind, he was lunging forward, driving the point of the silver-bladed sword into the olive-hued flesh of the thing, throwing the entire weight of his body behind the thrust. The point bit deep, the blade sinking in to the hilt. Hot gore burst from the wound, splashing across his chest and face, stinging like acid where it touched skin.

The thing bent almost like a bow, arching backward unnaturally, like a man with a broken spine. Its limbs thrashed, actually gouging the hard floor. Transfixed, it flopped over, rolling off Gaylear. It landed on its back, driving the sword even deeper into its vitals. It twitched once more, rolling back onto its face. Teeth clashed one last time, and it spat a gobbet of bloody saliva onto the floor. A final shiver wracked the deformed body As he stood staring down at the still shape, Delain felt as though his body were wrapped in a thick blanket. Physical sensations—the touch of his clothes against his skin, the cold air on his face—were distant, like the times when he was feverish. Sounds were muffled: Gaylear's stentorian breathing, a faint, rhythmic whimpering. . .

He realized his mouth was open. He shut it, and the whimpering stopped. Tentatively, he reached down to touch the hilt of his sword. The creature's blood covered the leather grip, warm, sticky. He tasted bile in the back of his throat, turned away and spit to clear his mouth.

A presence was beside him—Gaylear. She, too, was staring down at the thing.

"What in the name of all the Passions is it?" His voice trembled as if his body were being wracked with violent shivers.

"I don't know."

"But you said. .

There was an edge to the troll's voice, the faintest hint of a tremor. "I said things sometimes came up from the lower levels. Small things." With her hands, she indicated something the size of a yearling ork. "One arrow, always. I've never had to fire a second arrow into anything." Delain saw a shudder ripple through the troll's large frame. But she had herself back in control an instant later. "No, Delain," she said more firmly, "I've seen nothing like this. Nothing even close to this." She prodded the still shape with the toe of her boot.. .and recoiled with a hiss.

"What?" Delain almost yelped.

"It's decaying. Look, it's rotting away already."

The troll was right, he saw: whatever the thing was, it was decaying. Its olive skin had turned pale gray, and now patches of putrescent white were starting to spread across it. The thing's back looked smaller, too, almost as if its chest cavity had begun to collapse in on itself. The ichor splattered across the front of his jerkin, and coating his sword, had already dried to a black, crumbly material. On impulse, he brushed at the stains on his chest, and watched the material fly to fine dust.

"Your sword?" Gaylear suggested.

He nodded his thanks. He reached for the weapon, then hesitated, suddenly loath to touch the dried gore. Giving himself a shake to dispel his queasiness, he grasped the hilt, and pulled. The blade withdrew easily, with a sucking sound that turned his stomach. A puff of foul-smelling gas belched from the gaping wound and he stepped back hurriedly, fighting down an impulse to gag.

The putrefaction process was accelerating. Already, the flesh was starting to flow, exposing more of the thing's internal structure than he cared to see. He turned away, closing his eyes for a moment and wiping the sheen of cold sweat from his brow.

For a few more seconds, Gaylear watched the accelerated decay. Then she stepped away from the now-shapeless mass, and laid a large, comforting hand on his shoulder. "I am beholden to you," she said quietly "I thank you for my life."

He shook his head, smiling. "Then I thank you for mine," he said. "Mutual debt. . .which means no debt exists. Have I got it right?"

Gaylear smiled and nodded. "That is the way of my clan," she agreed.

Delain glanced back over his shoulder, one last look at the hideous mass starting to spread across the blood-spattered floor. "And you've never. . .?"

"No," she said firmly. Then, more quietly, "Only small, scurrying things. Like rats, nothing more."

Rats the size of a yearling ork, he noted mentally. He shuddered again. Is that why the Council's never categorically forbidden people to visit the Unnamed Levels? he wondered. Because they know Gaylear and others protect the kaer from "small, scurrying things"?

And sometimes more than that.. .

"The old tales tell of nothing like this?" the troll asked quietly, after a moment. He shook his head. "You're sure?"

"I think I'd remember," he said. From a pouch on his belt, he drew a hand cloth, and carefully wiped his sword clean. . .or as clean as he could. He looked down at the soiled cloth, then tossed it in the direction of the decomposing body. "I can't believe it's natural," he said at last. In his own ears, his voice was as cold as a draft from the ancient depths of the kaer.

"And neither I." The fact that Gaylear had slipped back into the syntax of her native tongue told him how deeply this had shaken her.

Delain looked up into the troll's dark eyes, saw a reflection of his own fear. He came to a decision. "Come on," he told her, slipping his sword back into its sheath.

"Where?" she asked, but from her expression, he knew she'd already guessed.

The Closed Levels were even colder than the once-occupied regions above. The chill air stung the back of Delain's throat as he breathed.

It seemed somehow darker down here, he thought. He and Gaylear each carried a light quartz bright enough to dazzle his eyes when he looked directly at it. Yet for some reason, the light of the stones didn't seem to extend as far as usual, almost as if the darkness itself were striving against the light, holding it back. For the dozenth time in half as many minutes, he touched the hilt of his short-sword, made sure that it was loose in its sheath. Gaylear was a reassuring presence beside him as he walked on.

They were in the lowest reaches of the kaer, thirteen levels below Delain's home on the Level of Astendar. This was the deepest of the Closed Levels, and the largest— never occupied, never used, yet still arguably the most important level of the kaer. Kha'averen, it was called in the Throalic tongue—"The Foundation".

Delain had never set foot on Kha'averen; neither had anyone of his acquaintance. There was no need to visit the Foundation, taboos or no. For all its vital importance, there was nothing within Kha'averen that needed attention from the Name-givers living so many floors above.

Until now, he reminded himself, and the thought was like a chill wind through his heart. He stopped again, holding the light quartz high and looking around him, matching what he saw with his memory of the maps Grais had shown him years ago. Yes, he reassured himself, they were on the right path, not wandering aimlessly through the oppressive darkness.

"This way," he said, his voice the softest of whispers. And he walked on.

The only sound down here was the hiss of their breathing, the scuff of their feet on the stone. Startlingly loud, he thought, almost like a direct affront to the silence that's cloaked this place for so long.

Kha'averen felt empty, as dead as most of the kaer's inhabitants had always supposed it to be. As I always supposed it to be, too, Delain thought. Well, he'd definitely been forced to reexamine that assumption. To get to the chamber where Gaylear had been practicing her archery, the thing must have entered the kaer from below. Which meant that any friends it might have could well be down here right now. . .Yet again he touched the hilt of his sword, drawing reassurance from the solidity of the weapon.

A minute later, the two stopped in front of an elaborately carved archway. In the light of his light quartz, Delain's eyes traced the complex, interwoven elaboration graven into the basalt according to the ancient dwarven tradition. He moved the light slightly, bringing a series of raised letters into relief. Silently he translated, the ancient words chilling him to the soul like an evil omen.

As I stand, then let the World stand. So the words read, a quotation from a dwarven poem old when the kaer was new. The quotation referred to the kingdom of Throal, of course, and legend told that these same words were graven into the lintel of the almost-mythical Eternal Library. The craftsmen who'd embellished this archway must have thought the words would bring good fortune to the kaer. And until today, he'd have agreed with them, Delain thought sadly, reaching out to touch a webwork of cracks that were beginning to spread through the stone.

"Here?"

Delain glanced up at the troll. "Here," he confirmed, and together they stepped through the archway into the darkness.

The chamber was small, much too small for somewhere so important, Delain thought. Circular in shape with a domed ceiling, it was no more than twenty paces across. The same style of embellishment he'd seen on the entrance archway wove across the entire expanse of walls and ceilings, seeming to shift and writhe like a basket of snakes in the moving fire of their pieces of light quartz. Delain took a deep breath, trying to slow the frenetic pounding of his heart. The air was slightly warmer than elsewhere in Kha’averen, he thought. Or was it just his imagination? Warmer or not, the air was still as death itself, as though nothing had ever stirred it. The sense of age was oppressive, almost crushing. It took all his force of will to shake off the feeling, and to step forward.

There it was before them, their destination, the goal of this tiny expedition. Azhun, it was called in Throalic—a word translatable as either "center" or "crisis". It was small enough, perhaps the height of a man, and an equal measure in width. Carved out of the finest gold-veined white marble, it comprised four delicate semicircular arches—each representing one of the elements—intersecting each other at equal angles. The thickness and width of the individual semicircles varied along their span— smoothly, fluidly—adding a sense of complexity, of motion almost, to the structure. In the glow of the light quartz, the marble seemed to burn with its own pale, milky glow.

"G'ar," Gaylear sighed beside him. Wondrous.

Delain nodded slowly. Yes, it was wondrous, yet in a way, also terrifying.

For Azhun was the keystone of the magical wards constructed centuries ago to protect Kaer Moar. The threads and patterns of the wards' magics flowed through Azhun, their anchor. In theory, the destruction of this delicate shape would cause the entire magical structure of the wards to unravel, as loosing the single key loop in a knot-woven tapestry could cause the entire fabric to fall apart. Here, at the heart of the kaer, was the center of its protection, the foundation of all that protected its inhabitants from the Horrors.

Azhun, Delain thought bleakly. "Center", and "crisis". How appropriate. ..

He reached out toward the delicate arch of marble as if to touch it, then drew his hand quickly back. What he saw shocked and frightened him. He turned slowly to Gaylear, who was also staring at the delicate shape with an expression of terror.

"I think we need to talk to the Council," he said quietly.

Gaylear nodded her large head. "And also I," she agreed. "And also I."

5

Delain shook his head in disbelief. "Don't you understand?” he asked again, bringing his fist down on the hardwood table. He felt tears of frustration stinging behind his eyes. "Can't you see? With things the way they are at the moment, we can't let word of. . . of this. . . get out. Can you imagine what the consequences would be?" He shook his head again, an image of Tevra Neden Rockharrow's funerary procession flashing through his mind. If a stillbirth could make someone take her own life, what would this news bring?

With an effort, he forced his churning emotions into the dark recesses of his brain, cultivating the careful detachment that was so vital for a good troubadour. Remember, he told himself, nobody ever believed anything because someone told him he must. He fixed his gaze on the Chair of the Council of Elders, an ancient-looking dwarf with a face like a clenched fist, then let his eyes travel over the other eight Councilmembers seated around the table. "Master Corbyan," he said earnestly, "I ask you and your wise colleagues to at least consider my suggestion."

Of the Councilmembers, all but one more than old enough to warrant the title of "Elder", only two would meet Delain's gaze: Deny Corbyan and his uncle, Grais Evenstar. The others—most of them dwarfs, with a couple of aged humans tossed in for good measure—were looking at anything but his face, exchanging uncomfortable glances with each other, or staring at the walls or tabletop as though the answer to their dilemma could be found there.

After a moment that stretched painfully, Corbyan nodded. "Thank you for your report to the Council, good-man Evenstar," he said evenly. "We will take your words under advisement..."

Delain almost jumped to his feet in distress that they were dismissing him so easily, but he managed to restrain himself. He could see the tenor of the Council in the members' faces, feel the emotions around the large table. An outward display of distress would serve all of them ill. The old men would discount him as an irrational youth and give his words even less credence than they already paid them. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gaylear Cleareye standing to his right and a step behind, her back against the wall of the Council chamber. He was even more surprised that the Council had allowed the troll to stay than that they'd allowed him to address them. But he was glad for her presence, glad for the moral support she provided. He turned to his uncle, looked at him beseechingly.

Grais Evenstar nodded almost imperceptibly. "Master Corbyan," he said quietly, his trained voice carrying as clearly through the room as if he'd shouted. "I submit that postponing this matter is not wise. We need to settle it now. With your permission, I call for an open discussion."

The aged dwarf's eyebrows rose, almost disappearing behind his thick white bangs.

"Call it a point of personal privilege," Grais said gently.

For a moment, Delain thought Corbyan would deny Grais's request. But then the old dwarf sighed. "Point of personal privilege noted," he grunted. "Open discussion. Master Evenstar has the floor. . .and the Council's attention," he added a little pointedly.

"Thank you, Master Corbyan." Grais rose fluidly to his feet, smoothing away the wrinkles in his jerkin. "I won't take much of the Council's time, but I think it's vitally important to address the matter brought before us by goodman Evenstar." He nodded respectfully to his nephew, playing the role of the courteous Councilmember to the hilt.

"Goodman Evenstar brings us disturbing news. The presence of the"—he hesitated, searching for the right word—"the interloper on the Unnamed Levels is a disturbing development."

One of the other Councilmembers, a human named Thom Wyrrel, grunted. "What were these two doing on the Unnamed Levels against the wishes of the Council?" he grumbled. "That's what I want to know."

Delain drew breath to speak, but Grais spoke first. "That's an issue for a later time, if we wish to address it. The fact is they were on the Unnamed Levels, and they were attacked by some unknown creature. That's one of the facts that I wish the Council to consider. Nothing even similar to this has been reported before. Something has obviously changed. And I'd like to remind my worthy colleagues"—he smiled disarmingly around the tables— "that the level where it was encountered was only two flights below the Level of Raggok. . .an inhabited level, it's important to note. Master Wyrrel, do you agree?"

The old man wouldn't meet the troubadour's piercing gaze, but nodded sullenly. "Concur," he grunted.

"Thank you, Master Wyrrel." Again, Grais swept the Council with his eyes. "Something has changed, Masters," he stressed again. "If that were all, even without the rest of goodman Evenstar's report, it would be enough to concern me. To seriously concern me," he stressed. "Yet that isn't all.

"I wish the Council to consider—here, now—its response to the remainder of their report."

Corbyan shifted in his chair uncomfortably. His eyes, steely gray, and unclouded despite his advanced age, seemed to bore into Delain, to lacerate his soul. "Tell me again," the old dwarf ordered. "Describe the condition of Azhun."

Delain stifled a sigh. How many times do I have to repeat this? He managed to keep his emotions from his face and voice, or so he thought, and said, "As you wish, Master Corbyan.

"There were cracks in the marble of Azhun, as I already told the Council," he said carefully, his voice flat. "Most of the cracks were in the Arch of Water, but we also saw some in the Arch of Earth."

"Many cracks?" another dwarven Councilmember— Vilus Sand—cut in. “How many?"

Delain settled his hazel gaze on the wizened dwarf. "More than a dozen in the Arch of Water alone," he said quietly. "I might have missed some—the light wasn't the best, after all, and I certainly didn't want to come too close to Azhun while I was trying to examine it. Most were no thicker than a dwarf's hair, but I saw two that were at least thrice as thick as that."

The Councilmembers stirred uncomfortably at his words. "More than a dozen," Master Sand whispered. Then, "You're sure?" he demanded harshly. "Absolutely sure?"

"As sure as I see you before me, Master," Delain said. "On the Gift of Astendar, I swear—such is the truth of the thing."

Several of the Councilmembers exchanged glances. They understood the severity, the binding nature, of the oath he'd just given, Delain knew. No troubadour would ever forswear such an oath, or use it to shield an untruth.

"And how many in the Arch of Earth?" Sand wanted to know.

"Fewer," Delain said, "perhaps no more than half a dozen. And none of them thicker than a hair."

"Near the apex of the arches, or the base?"

Delain wanted to scream. What did it matter where the cracks were, by all the Horrors? There were cracks in Azhun—cracks in the keystone of the wards protecting the kaer! But somehow he managed to keep his voice level as he answered Master Wyrrel's question. "Near the base, Masters. Near the bases of both arches."

"And you saw nothing else amiss?" Corbyan wanted to know.

Isn't that enough? "Nothing, Master."

Vilus Sand murmured something under his breath, a Throalic word that seemed to pierce Delain to the heart. "Melakahim." Spreading...

By the Passions, they know! They've known this all along!

Delain turned desperately to Grais, watched the horrible realization spread across his uncle's face. They've known, but they haven’t told Grais, the newest member of the Council.

Deny Corbyan nodded tiredly, his face suddenly seeming to show every one of his hundred and fifty years. "Thank you, goodman Evenstar," the Chair of the Council of Elders said again.

And Delain was on his feet, this time unable to restrain himself. "But what are you going to do?" he cried in anguish.

"What would you have us do?" The rhetorical question came from the human Martain Porter. Already in his seventh decade, he was still, after Grais, the youngest member of the Council. "None in the kaer have the skill to shore up the keystone."

"Do we know that for sure?" Grais asked quietly.

Nobody answered him. Delain pressed on into the silence. "We can't let word about this get out," he said earnestly. "We can't. Do you know the tenor of the population? Have you been out among them, have you talked to them?" And that was a key question, he realized suddenly. Did the Elders ever get out among the people they were supposed to guide, to protect? "Morale is low," he said, thinking what an understatement that was, "and word of this will just drive it lower." He almost laughed bitterly. Scourge it! "People are losing hope. This will destroy what little they've got left."

Delain glanced over at Grais, saw his uncle's quizzically raised eyebrow. He looked away. How strange that now he was arguing for something he'd argued against not so long ago. Arguing for secrecy, for concealing something vital to the future of the kaer.

But this was different—wasn't it? another part of his brain asked—this was different from concealing the news about the gauge. This kind of news was just too devastating.

With an effort, he schooled himself to calmness. "Masters," he began again, "the Council has already decided to. . .to retain to itself. . .important developments within the kaer, to"—he searched for a diplomatic way of getting his thought across—-"to spare the populace something that would destroy their hope for the future."

"The gauge, you mean?" Corbyan shot a sharp look at Grais. The older troubadour's expression didn't change.

"Rumors of that are circulating throughout the kaer," Delain elaborated quickly, trying to cover up his potential blunder. Grais wasn't supposed to have told him about that. "Everyone knows. . .or they soon will know, when the tales spread far enough.

"But this is different," he emphasized once more, "very different. The people of Kaer Moar were strong enough to deal with that truth."

"And not this one?" Wyrrel asked ironically.

Delain hesitated, remembering the foul creature. "I think not," he said finally. "In all honesty, I think not." He shrugged. "I hope I'm wrong, but can we afford to put the matter to a test?"

Corbyan snorted. "Several members of the Council argued against that course," he said slowly, "Master Evenstar and I among them." Delain blinked. He hadn't known that the Chair of the Council agreed with his uncle on this point. "Are you now arguing for it?"

Delain gestured with his empty palms. "I don't know what I'm arguing," he admitted quietly. "I just know what I've heard, what I've felt, from the people of the kaer." He took a calming breath, and struggled to keep his voice even, persuasive. For an instant, he considered using some of his troubadour talents to help sway the Elders who surrounded him, then quickly dismissed the idea as fruitless, even counterproductive. These were old men, experienced in the ways of the world, probably equally experienced with the abilities of troubadours. They'd sense what he was doing, and they'd discount whatever logic was in his words.

"Excuse me, Masters," he said, as levelly as he could, putting his palms flat on the table and leaning forward toward Corbyan. His voice is the one that matters at the moment, he judged. "I'll speak openly, with no dissembling.

"You've known about the damage to Azhun for some time, haven't you?" The looks exchanged around the table were better confirmation than spoken words could ever be. "If this were the early days, when the damage to the keystone were newly discovered, then I'd probably argue differently.

"But it's not. The Council has known for—how long? years, possibly. As long as five years, perhaps." Again, the expressions on the Elders' faces confirmed his guess.

He thought back, trying to remember events in the kaer from years before. “Six years, maybe," he corrected himself. "That was when the big earth tremor rocked the kaer, wasn't it? After the tremor, you probably sent someone down to the Closed Levels, down to Kha'averen, to check on Azhun, didn't you? And that was when you found the keystone to be cracked."

He shrugged. "So you assumed the damage had been caused by the tremor, didn't you? And that was why you decided not to announce it to the populace." He smiled, although there was no trace of humor in his soul. "A logical enough assumption," he said, trying to inject a tone of understanding, of conciliation, into his voice. "Anyone with any wisdom would have made the same decision, I suspect. You assumed the damage was a one-time event, caused by an external catastrophe. You assumed the damage wouldn't progress.

"Yet it has progressed, hasn't it?" He let an edge of urgency sharpen his voice now. "And perhaps that means the initial damage wasn't caused entirely by the earth tremor. That's a very real possibility now. Perhaps the keystone is breaking down for other reasons."

"Horrors," breathed one of the Elders—another dwarf, Mystin Dalewood, who hadn't spoken yet. "They've found a weakness in Azhun, and they're exploiting it—breaking down the keystone of our wards."

Delain shook his head firmly. "We don't know that," lie said urgently. "We can't know that. . .and we can't allow ourselves to think it's true. For all we know it could be simply the action of time. How many centuries has the keystone lasted, without—without, I remind you—the presence of any wizards skilled in the art of maintaining the wards? Perhaps this is a natural process. Has anyone examined Azhun to confirm or deny that?" He looked around the table, saw the shaking heads. Then why not, by the Passions? he wanted to ask. But he kept the question to himself.

"For all we know, then," he pressed on, "the keystone could be experiencing changes that its creators expected. It could be capable of lasting for many more centuries, we just don't know.

"Yet what would the people think if they learned of this?" he asked rhetorically. He turned to the Elder who'd just spoken. "You, Master Dalewood. Do you have any reason to think that the people of Kaer Moar wouldn't come to the same conclusion you did? Of course not. The people of Kaer Moar—your charges, our charges—would fear the worst.. .and quite naturally.

"But, even more disturbingly, they'd realize that the Council was keeping secrets from them." They already know that, he chose not to add. "Important secrets, secrets that affect their lives and the lives of their children and grandchildren. When that fact became common knowledge, how could the Council maintain the confidence of the kaer? Would the populace ever trust the Council again? And if not, what damage would that do to the kaer?"

"How would the Brothers of Night respond to this news?" Grais asked. From the involuntary flinches on the faces of several Councilmembers, Delain knew his uncle's question had struck home.

"Twilighters," one of the more decrepit Elders muttered under his breath. Like you? Delain didn't ask.

"Perhaps," Grais responded equably. "But how would they interpret this? Think on it, Masters, I ask you."

Corbyan frowned. "The decision has already been made."

"Then keep to it," Delain urged, apparently an instant ahead of his uncle.

"I never fully agreed with the Council's decision," Dalewood mumbled. "If our people are to die, then..

A new voice cut the old man off. "Does it matter?" Delain turned in surprise, to stare at Gaylear Cleareye clan Granitebone. Her cheeks were flushed with self-consciousness, and her eyes downcast, yet still she spoke with surprising determination. "The keystone is damaged. Strange, vicious creatures haunt the deeper levels. The wards may be decaying, they may be falling. The question is, can we do anything about it?"

"What could we do?" Dalewood asked. He sighed dispiritedly. "The Passions truly have deserted us. .

“No!" Grais's fist thumped down on the table. "No," he repeated. "We can't despair. Above all, we can't give up hope.

"I agree with goodman Evenstar," the older troubadour said, his voice calm once more. He glanced toward Gaylear. "And goodwoman Cleareye," he added. "There are several things we must do. First, determine for ourselves when the damage to Azhun first occurred—truthfully, without concealment, at least, not within this room." His gaze around the table wasn't accusing, but still several of the Elders flinched visibly from it. "Second, determine if any way exists—any way—to shore up the keystone and the wards. And third. . ."

Grais paused. "And third," he emphasized, "keep what we've learned today within this room." He shrugged, deceptively lightly. "I know I was one of those who argued against concealing knowledge from our kaer's inhabitants, but Masters, things have changed."

"And so does your opinion, Master Evenstar," a soft voice said, "like a weathervane in a high wind."

Delain—and most of the Councilmembers—spun, to stare at the door to the Chamber. The door was open, and a slight, white-robed figure stood in the doorway. An elf, he was, slender and stooped with age. His thin face was the white of polished ivory, unlined, with high cheekbones and severe features. It was his eyes that captured Delain's attention, though, sharp as those of a bird of prey, and of a brilliant blue, almost like bright stones.

"Master Corbyan!" Grais protested. "I understood this meeting would be kept confidential!"

It was Mystin Dalewood who responded. "Are we to keep something of this import from one of the true guardians of Kaer Moar?" he asked sullenly.

Delain saw his uncle fix the old dwarf with a sharp glare, but the voice of the new arrival cut him off before he could remonstrate.

"Master Evenstar raises an interesting point," Kolban Darkways said, stroking his distinctive elven ears in a kind of nervous tick that Delain had seen the old man display before. "How would the Brothers of Night respond to this news?"

How long have you been listening, Kolban? Delain asked silently.

"We know how they'd. .

And again, Kolban Darkways cut Grais off, his voice still quiet, but as sharp as a honed knife. "Yes, Master Evenstar, we do know. And who are we to say they would be wrong? Perhaps the Horrors have somehow damaged Azhun to weaken the wards protecting us."

"Fearmongering," Corbyan muttered.

Kolban Darkways shot a sharp look at the Chair of the Council. "If telling the truth is fearmongering," he said, "then, yes, perhaps I am a fearmonger."

Delain couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "We don't know it's the truth," he snapped.

The elf turned his stony eyes on Delain, who had to fight back the urge to drop his gaze, to look away. "Goodman Evenstar," Kolban said slowly, seeming to savor the name. "I pose you the converse question, then. Do we know—know, mind you—that it's a falsehood?"

"No," Delain began, "but..."

"Are you sure enough that it's a falsehood to bet your life on it?" Kolban's voice was softer still, but cut as deeply as a stiletto. "To bet the lives of everyone in Kaer Moar? Or maybe I should say 'the souls', hmm?"

"It's not goodman Evenstar's place to be questioned before the Elders of the kaer," Grais cut in firmly. "Particularly by someone who has no seat on the Council."

"These two spoke before the Council," Mystin Dalewood snapped, pointing directly at Delain and Gaylear, a definite breach of good manners. "On what grounds do you forbid Master Darkways the same privilege granted to these?"

Grais Evenstar smiled politely, although Delain could tell from the look in his eyes that his uncle was struggling to suppress his anger. "Our two guests spoke after approval was granted by vote of the Council, if you recall, Master Dalewood," the older troubadour pointed out. "No such vote was conducted in the case of goodman Darkways"—he stressed the title—-"was it? Those are my grounds." He turned to the Chair of the Council. "Master Corbyan, may I have a ruling?"

Corbyan looked around uncomfortably. "Master Evenstar makes a good point," he said slowly Delain watched his sharp gaze rest on the face of each other Councilmember in turn, as the dwarf silently gauged the mood of the Council. "Yet I see no harm in granting goodman Darkways the floor for a brief remark."

Grais slumped back heavily in his chair, and Delain imagined he could almost hear his uncle's teeth grinding together.

Kolban Darkways smiled. "Thank you, Master Corbyan," he said politely. "I won't take up much of the Council's time." He stepped closer to the table, and regarded each of the Councilmembers in turn, his blue eyes glittering over steepled fingers.

"From various sources, I learned that goodman Evenstar and goodwoman Cleareye would be addressing the Council," he began, his voice falling into a singsong lilt that was surprisingly easy to listen to. "I also was able to deduce the topic of their report." He shrugged, with a self-deprecating smile. "Perhaps I should not have learned what I did. But the fact is I did, and any remon-strations concerning the fact may as well be saved for another time, hmm?

"My sole purpose today," the old elf continued, "is to contribute to the discussion that must arise from the report. As Master Evenstar so ably pointed out, I have no seat on the Council, and so I have no say in the final decision reached by this body. Yet I feel I would not be doing my duty to the kaer, and to those who dwell in it, if I did not bring before the Council some concerns that might not otherwise be heard."

Grais cut in sharply, "I think the Council is aware of any concerns..." He stopped in mid-sentence as Corbyan raised a hand.

"Goodman Darkways has the attention of the Elders," the Chair of the Council snapped. Grais nodded his acceptance, but Delain was sure he wasn't the only one who could see that his uncle didn't like it.

"Thank you, Master Corbyan," Kolban repeated. "To continue. . .

"The Elders of the kaer have many duties that consume much of their time. These duties diminish their opportunities for conversation with the people of the kaer." Delain scowled. Kolban's words were echoing his own thoughts of only a few minutes before, but he had a strong feeling he wouldn't like where those thoughts would lead.

"Perhaps some members of the Council"—and here he nodded politely toward Grais Evenstar—"spend more of their time beyond the walls of this chamber. Yet, for various reasons, those Councilmembers may be among the people, but not of them, if you take my meaning." He smiled again. "Perhaps it is the nature of both Councilmembers and troubadours to talk more than they listen, hmm?"

Across the table, Delain saw his uncle cloud up. But Corbyan was frowning pointedly at Grais, and the troubadour managed to hold his peace.

"I, on the other hand"—Kolban raised his empty palms—"I am just an old man. I speak little—what would I have to say, anyway, that people would wish to hear?—-but I listen to what happens around me. To the conversation of people in the corridors, to the concerns brought to me by those who visit me in the hope my age has brought me wisdom." He chuckled, as if at the patent idiocy of that.

"I hear much, Masters," the elf continued, "much, perhaps, that never reaches your ears. Many are talking about Fala'an—the 'gauge', as some call it. They know it has stopped falling—know it stopped long ago."

"And how do they know that, goodman Darkways?" Delain asked coldly.

He suppressed a shiver as Kolban's cold eyes settled on him. "You think I spread the word, hmm?" The elf chuckled thinly. "But what sense does that make, I ask you? The matter would have been discussed in the confidentiality of the Council chamber. Was I present to hear those discussions? Of course not. How then could I be responsible?

"Not that it matters," Kolban went on, turning away as though Delain held no more importance for him. "The kaer knows Fala'an has stopped falling. More important, perhaps, the Brothers of Night know it."

The elf's voice took on a new, more distant tone, almost as if he were speaking for his own ears alone. "There are tales told in the corridors of Kaer Moar," he said, "legends remembered in the chambers.'' He smiled frostily at Grais Evenstar. "Tales that our worthy troubadours seem unwilling to recall. . .or, at least, to teach to their apprentices." His gaze shifted to Delain.

"No," Kolban corrected sharply, "I misspoke myself. Some of our troubadours have forgotten them. Others have not."

"The ones under your sway, you mean?"

"I?" Kolban turned to Grais with an expression of surprise too great to even allow for affront. "Under my sway? Master Evenstar, I have no"—he seemed to savor the word on his tongue—"sway. True, I speak with some troubadours, since I have a taste for the old words, and enjoy discussing them with others of like mind. But beyond that, I have no sway.

"I have heard some of those tales myself, Masters," the elf continued smoothly. "Interesting tales, they are. Seemingly meaningless, or almost so—disjointed images and ideas. And yet...

"And yet, if you approach them from the right frame of mind, meaning starts to emerge after all. In a word, many of them seem to take on the guise of prophecy."

He shrugged again. "Now, I don't claim to believe that these tales are prophecy. How would one such as I know, one way or the other? Yet I feel the Council must know there are those who so believe. The Brothers of Night, of course—but others as well. These people—perhaps benighted, perhaps enlightened—fear that the developments with Fala'an match elements from the darkest of these 'lost tales', if I can so style them.

"The tales, you see, list a series of events that will foretell the doom of Kaer Moar—or, at least, they can be so read. . .and people do so read them. The earth tremor of half a decade ago; the increasing number of stillbirths and deaths among the infants of the kaer; the matter of Fala’an; other events, too, all seem to fit into this interpretation. Those who give these tales credence are waiting for another. . .well, 'sign/ if you will. Another indication that the tales of prophecy are true. Another indication that doom will soon fall."

"What doom?" Martain Porter asked softly. Delain could almost smell the fear emanating from him. "What do the prophecies tell us?"

"Just what the Brothers of Night fear," Kolban answered simply. "That the Scourge will never end. If that is the way you choose to read the lost tales, of course."

The aging Councilmembers shifted in their seats, shooting fearful glances back and forth, seemingly unwilling to meet the calm, unruffled gaze of Kolban Darkways.

All except Grais Evenstar. The older troubadour rose to his feet again, and cast a speculative look at Kolban. "And you, goodman Darkways," he asked softly. "How do you choose to read these lost tales of yours?" Scorn etched his words like acid. "Do you give any credence to these.. .these prophecies?"

Kolban smiled. "It matters little what I believe, Master Evenstar. What matters is what they believe." He gestured broadly, encompassing the entire kaer beyond the Council chamber's walls.

"Your beliefs might matter if you share them with others," Grais pointed out. "What was it you said? People who visit you in the hope your age has brought you wisdom, perhaps. What do you tell them when they ask about these 'lost tales' of yours?"

"Why would they ask me about them in the first place?" Kolban countered. "Am I a troubadour? No, I'm an old man who dabbles in nethermancy—of some little power. . .and perhaps some little wisdom that the years have granted to me." He chuckled softly. "You seem eager to cast me as a major player in some drama of your invention, Master Evenstar. In truth, I'm a minor character, hardly worthy of a single line in the saga playing out in your mind.

"Masters." Once more he turned to the Council as a whole. "I come to you to ask you to consider the fears of the kaer, that is my sole purpose here. Perhaps I bear bad news, but should the messenger be punished for the nature of his message, hmm? All I ask is that you consider what I've laid before you, when the Council comes to make its decision. That is my sole concern."

'"Sole concern,' my anus!" Grais spat. He slumped down on the stone bench outside the Council chamber. His voice was low, so as not to carry to the small knot of Elders further down the corridor, but Delain could hear his anger as clearly as if he'd screamed.

After Kolban Darkway's address to the Elders, Master Corbyan had recessed the Council for a few minutes. To give the Councilmembers time to digest what they'd heard, that was his excuse. Delain thought it more likely to make it easier to shuffle Gaylear and him. . .and Kolban too—out of the meeting without being too blunt about it.

His sudden anger spent, Grais rubbed at his face. He looks drained, Delain thought, even more drained than a day ago. The older troubadour looked up and smiled wanly at Delain and Gaylear. "Well," he said, "at least the other Elders heard what you had to say, in your own words. I wasn't sure they'd even permit you into the Council chamber, let alone listen to you."

"Did they listen?" Delain asked. "They heard, but did they listen?"

Grais shook his head slowly. "I won't know that until the Council reconvenes." He sighed. "I think they listened more to Kolban," he admitted unwillingly.

"Kolban." Delain snorted. "What in the name of the Passions is he up to, anyway?"

"Is he associated with the Brothers of Night?" Gaylear asked quietly, the first words she'd spoken since they'd left the Council chamber.

"Associated with the Brothers, or behind them," Grais answered grimly. Then he shook his head. "That's my personal opinion, for what it's worth." He flashed an ironic smile. "Not much, apparently, as far as the other Elders are concerned.

"I'd bet. . .well, not my life, but my second-best harp. . .that he is closely involved with the Brothers," Grais went on. "No proof, of course. Kolban's too smart for that. . .and the Brothers too paranoid.

"And while I'm in a betting mood," Grais continued, "I'd bet my best harp that our friend goodman Darkways is behind the rumors about the gauge. After today, it's a good guess that Mystin Dalewood told him despite the Council's decision to keep it confidential." He frowned, interrupting himself. "Come to think on it, it was probably Master Dalewood who told our stormcrow friend about today's agenda. In any case," he said with a sigh, "once he'd learned of the gauge from Master Dalewood, then the good nethermancer took it upon himself to spread the word, for his own reasons."

"What reasons?" Delain wanted to know. "If there's one thing I don't understand it's that. How does it benefit Kolban to spread this kind of news?"

His uncle's lips quirked in a crooked smile. "You've never given much thought to politics, have you?" he asked.

Delain blinked, realizing what Grais was implying. "Kolban wants a seat on the Council?"

"Anyone with a taste for influence or notoriety—or with a simple taste for meddling in other people's business, for that matter—wants a seat on the Council," the troubadour confirmed. "And to my mind, Kolban Darkways fits all three of those categories.

"When Master Ramoth died last year, everyone knew the Elders had to fill the seat on the Council. Kolban wanted that seat, and he had significant backing within the Council." He shrugged. "To this day, I'm not exactly sure why I was named.

"In any case, that's when Kolban started to apply pressure. He's playing a deep game, and I don't understand all the moves—or know about them, come to think of it—but it's pretty obvious what his goal is. He wants to undercut my influence on the Council, and the influence of those who supported me."

"But what he's doing, it's undercutting the influence of the entire Council," protested Delain.

Grais nodded. "True enough. He's got to realize it, though, so it must be a part of his overall plan." He shrugged. "Maybe he wants to destroy my.. .my faction, if you want to call it that, but also to whittle down the influence of the others so that when he finally gets the seat he's after, he'll be the most influential member of the Council."

"He's after Master Corbyan's chair?" Gaylear asked.

"Why not shoot for the moon?" Grais chuckled grimly. "Even if you miss, you're still among the stars." He sighed again. "It's an old political trick, dating back as long as Name-givers have had politics—a classic way of overthrowing a government. Use your influence to control a group that's dissatisfied with the way things are being handled. Use that group to apply pressure, both on the government and on the populace itself. When everyone's terrified that things are coming apart, that's when you call off your dogs. Problem solved, and you're the hero. The people toss out the government that couldn't solve the problem and replace it with the one person who could: you.

"There's a problem, though." His voice lost its ironic tone, and his smile faded. "All too often, it's easier to mobilize a group of people than it is to stop them once you've got what you want. I'm afraid that our good nethermancer might well find that out. To his loss, and to ours."

6

"He said that about Kolban several times, your uncle," Gaylear mused as they walked away from the Councilchamber. "'The good nethermancer,' he called him. Is Kolban a nethermancer?"

"Hmm?" Delain glanced over. He hadn't really been listening, so deeply was he absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Kolban a nethermancer," the troll repeated. "If so, then maybe he knows something about the keystone— some way of repairing it, maybe."

Delain laughed. "No, that's not in the cards. He might be a nethermancer, but he's not much of one—First Circle, maybe Second at the most. And he's certainly not a wizard." He quickly sobered. "You were thinking if he could repair Azhun, that might be how he plans to rein in the Brothers of Night when he's done with them, weren't you?" He looked at Gaylear with more respect. "Clever," he breathed. Then he smiled again. "Have you ever considered a career in politics?"

The troll snorted. "I'd rather be Horror-marked," she said flatly.

"There are some things you shouldn't say in public."

Both human and troll jumped at the voice right beside them. "Isn't that what you told me, Delain?"

Delain turned quickly, and it was almost like Karena Hearthrock materialized, ghostlike, from the shadows of a recessed doorway. Her hair was loose for a change, not pulled back severely from her forehead. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, but whether from exertion or anger Delain couldn't tell. Most likely the latter, he decided. "Good forenoon to you, Karena," was all he said.

Beside him, Gaylear was looking back and forth from one to the other, almost as if she didn't know what to expect. Delain frowned slightly. Was there something going on here he should be catching?

"How went your meeting with the Council?" the dwarf asked, her voice casual, and Delain suddenly had more to concern him than some possible secret between Gaylear and Karena.

He looked around quickly, saw that the corridor was empty for a dozen yards in each direction. Taking Karena's arm, he drew her over to the side, back into the shelter of the doorway where she'd been waiting. "What have you heard?" he asked urgently.

He saw her eyes change, saw her consider a sarcastic answer, then decide against it. "That you'd been called before the Council to tell the Elders something important," she replied after a moment. "That's why I waited for you here."

"What?" he demanded. "To tell them what?"

Karena's brows drew together in the start of a scowl. "You're asking me?"

"What have you heard we were to tell them?" he snapped back.

"All I heard was that it was important."

Delain sighed. The Kolban rumor mill strikes again, he thought grimly. "Where did you hear this, Karena? Who from?" Again he saw the start of a scowl, and went on earnestly, "It's important. I give you my word. Who did you hear it from?"

"Scourge, I don't know. Who do you ever hear gossip from?" She was silent for a moment, then, "Some people were talking about it on the Great Gyre, a couple of old tuskers." If she saw Gaylear bridle at the insulting term for orks and trolls, she didn't react. "I overheard them yapping about it. I don't know where they heard it. But it's true, isn't it?"

Delain nodded, suddenly feeling as tired as his uncle had looked. "It's true," he admitted. "So you heard, and decided to come looking for us? To find out what we were talking to the Council about?"

Karena hissed scornfully. "I don't care spit why they wanted you. And anyway," she went on, indirectly contradicting herself, "you'll tell me when and if you want me to know.

"I came looking for you because I wanted to tell you something, Troubadour."

Delain blinked with surprise at the heat in the dwarf's voice. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Karena," he said honestly. "I didn't mean to do that."

The dwarf grunted. "Offense doesn't have to be meant to be taken," she grumbled. "Anyway," she continued, "I heard something new in the corridors. After the other day.. .well, I thought you'd want to know about it."

A chill seemed to touch Delain's heart. "What did you hear?"

"One of those stormcrows who call themselves 'Brothers of Night' was holding forth in the High Concourse. Little new to it at first, just the same fralkh they always shovel out. You know, the Scourge won't end this time, the Dawngate will never open, and on and on.

"But then he started to change his tune," Karena went on grimly. "He started talking about when the Horrors would break through our wards and enter the kaer— when, mind you, not if. He started repeating the old tales about the city of Draoglin, about the Horror that ate the souls of the children." She snorted. "Almost like a troubadour, he was," she said, fixing Delain with a strange glare, "except that he was frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.

"Kaer Moar would become another Draoglin, he said, except it wouldn't be just the children whose souls would be devoured. Once the wards collapsed, there'd be nothing anyone could do to save their souls from the Horrors.

"So best not to remain alive when that day came," she concluded chillingly, "that's what he said."

"What?" Delain shook his head slowly, unwilling to believe he'd understood her properly. "What?"

"You heard me, Troubadour," Karena snapped. "Better dead than Horror-ridden, that's what he was implying. No," she corrected, "that's what he was saying, outright." She laughed without mirth. "'Kill yourselves now, because if you leave it up to the Horrors, it'll hurt.' Idiot!"

"How did people react?" Delain asked.

Karena looked at him, her expression bleak. "That’s the frightening thing, Delain. They were listening to him—listening to him rant. Nobody was laughing at him, nobody was telling him to shut his snout. Scourge," she swore, "some were even nodding their heads, like what he was saying made sense." She spat on the floor to her left, a gesture of contempt. "Fralkh, who's the bigger fool? The fool, or the fool who listens to him?"

"They were listening?" Delain echoed. "Many?"

"Enough," Karena shot back. "Two dozen, maybe more—I didn't bother to do a head count," she added with a sneer. "And not just the twilighters you might expect, either. Normal folk, Troubadour, people who should know better. They were nodding their heads as if what the stormcrow was saying was the most logical thing they'd ever heard."

"Did he say anything about Azhun?"

The dwarf's head snapped round to stare at Gaylear. "No," she answered. "No, nothing about Azhun. Why? Should he have said something?"

Both women turned toward Delain, their eyes asking different, but equally urgent, questions. For a long moment he vacillated, then came to a decision. "There's something you should know, Karena," he said quietly. He sighed. "I'm going against my own recommendation to the Elders, but..He shrugged helplessly. "Who knows, maybe you've got some thoughts that could make a difference." He looked around pointedly. "We need somewhere private to talk."

When he'd finished summarizing the events of the Council, Delain sat back and waited for Karena's reaction. He didn't have to wait long, but the reaction wasn't quite what he'd expected.

The dwarf shot up out of her low chair like she'd been levitated. Her usually mobile face was expressionless, as if it had been carved from unyielding stone. She paced in silence, back and forth across the common room of her living quarters. Delain could see tension, internal conflict, in every line of her stocky body. Finally she spun on her heel, and fixed him with a vicious glare.

"Well, thank you, goodman Evenstar," she hissed. "Thank you so much for sharing this with me. Just what I wanted to know. As if I didn't have enough to think about." She slumped back down in her chair, and rubbed a hand across her mouth as if wiping something distasteful away. "That was uncalled for," she muttered after a moment. She shrugged, with a half-smile that was about the closest Delain had ever seen her come to an apology. "All bile aside, though, why did you tell me this? Just so I could keep you two company in your unpleasant knowledge?"

Delain shook his head. "Think back, Karena," he urged. "Now that you know what you know. . .the Brother of Night. . .did he know? Did anything he said sound like he knew about Azhun?"

Karena's eyes widened slightly in understanding. Then, "No," she said after a moment's thought, her voice firm. "Nothing specific. Just vague fearmongering."

Delain let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That's reassuring, at least."

"Is it?" Karena asked. "Maybe Kolban hasn't gotten around to telling his flunkies about the keystone yet. Next time, maybe the Brothers will have all the details." She glared off into the indeterminate distance for a few moments, then, "What's the Council going to do?" she asked suddenly.

Delain shrugged again. "Discuss it, at first," he began, "and then—"

"Nothing," Karena cut him off. "And then nothing. They'll talk, and they'll decide there's nothing they can do without looking like idiots for ignoring the problems for so long. So they'll just pretend nothing's wrong, and let it slide." She looked angry enough to spit venom. "Kulaku," she swore viciously, "that's what they all are, kulaku, every one of them."

"Not every one." Gaylear's voice was quiet, but still cut through the dwarf's rant like a sword through silk.

For an instant, Delain thought Karena was going to argue the point. But then she nodded briefly. "Not every one, you're right," she agreed. "If there were more like Grais Evenstar. . .but there aren't." She turned back to Delain. "So what do you plan to do about this. Troubadour? Sit back and watch? Compose some poems about it that only the Horrors will get to read? What?"

With an effort, Delain suppressed his own flash of anger. Karena was just letting off tension, he knew, but that didn't make it any the less irritating. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "First order of business, as I see it, is to find out how bad the situation really is."

"That's what the Council should be doing," Karena snapped.

"Granted. But will they?" Delain said, knowing the answer. "Somebody must." He looked at the two women. "Do either of you know any wizards?"

"Are you sure the Council won't object?" It was the third time in as many minutes that Peg Ifollis had asked the question.

Beside him, Delain could see Karena Hearthrock clouding up, ready to snap at the wizard. Before she could explode, he said reassuringly, "Don't worry, goodwoman Ifollis, the Council won't object." Because they won't find out until it's too late to object, he added silently.

The wizard didn't seem completely convinced, but at least she picked up her pace again, keeping up with the others as they descended into the depths of the kaer. Shadows shifted and flickered around them, cast by the oil lamps that Karena and Gaylear carried, suspended from carry-sticks resting on their shoulders. Their footfalls echoed distantly through the corridors and chambers of Kha'averen.

"Where are we going?" Ifollis asked.

Delain smiled wryly. "YouTl see." He stopped for a moment, confirming his bearings. Yes, a right turn here. . .

And there, ahead of them, was the archway, with its complex carvings. The Throalic letters of the inscription seemed to move like live things in the lamplight. As I stand, then let the World stand. Behind him, Delain heard a sharp gasp. He turned.

The tall wizard had stopped in her tracks, gaping at the arch. "Azhun." Her voice was little more than a sigh. Delain could see her knuckles standing out, bone white, as she gripped her small leather satchel of magical tools.

He looked a silent question at Karena. It was the dwarf who'd recommended Ifollis in the first place, claiming that the human woman had the integrity to keep her word once she'd been sworn to silence. This was the pivotal moment, Delain knew. Ifollis could turn back now, refuse to continue, and leave them no further ahead than they'd been a couple of hours before. And where would we go from there? he wondered. Wizards were rare within Kaer Moar, and rarer still were wizards they could trust to keep matters secret.

It was Gaylear who broke the tense silence. "Yes," she rumbled. "Azhun.

"Goodwoman Ifollis, we need your talents," the troll went on earnestly. "Not just the three of us—all of us." The sweep of her arm took in the entire kaer.

The human looked up blankly at the troll towering over her. "But what.. .?"

"You'll understand soon enough," Delain promised. "Then you'll know why we're being so"—he paused judiciously—"so careful. Please, goodwoman Ifollis. It is important."

The silence stretched painfully, but then she nodded once. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

For the sixth time, Delain checked the level of oil in the lamp Gaylear had brought. As soon as he'd realized that wizard Ifollis didn't need much light for her investigations, he'd quenched Karena's lamp to save fuel. Now he was glad he'd done so. Peg Ifollis had been scrutinizing the marble arches of Azhun for more than three straight hours. Soon the lamp would be out of oil, and he'd have to re-light the other one. At least we'll have light to find our way back to the occupied levels, he told himself, suppressing a shiver at the thought of wandering lost through the Closed Levels in the dark.

He sighed, shifting his position on the hard floor. Karena was pacing like a caged animal around the periphery of the round chamber, as she'd been doing for the past couple of hours. Sometimes he could hear her muttering to herself, although he couldn't make out the words. Probably swearing a blue streak, he thought with a grin. In contrast, Gaylear was sitting motionless in tailor fashion, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful. Both his friends were dealing with their tension in their own ways, he knew. As for him, Delain knew he didn't have the self-control to meditate like Gaylear, and he was too proud to pace like Karena. Again he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Peg Ifollis was crouched down beside Azhun, silhouetted against a faint topaz blue aura that surrounded the marble arches. Tools of her trade—roughly carved bone fetishes, chunks of lodestone and fool's-gold, and other strange items—were arrayed on the basalt floor before her. Over the rhythmic tread of Karena's boots, Delain could hear Ifollis singing a repetitive, droning song in a sad, minor key. The topaz "witch light" surrounding the keystone seemed to wax and wane with the volume of her song. Opening his senses to their fullest extent, Delain tried to sense the threads that the wizard was weaving to and around the ancient artifact. In vain, as it turned out. Not that he should be surprised, he reminded himself. No matter how often the sages and philosophers claimed that all magic was the same, Delain couldn't fully accept that the threads he wove with his voice and instrument were the same a wizard used to contact other worlds. Idly, to take his mind off his worries—or to try to do so, at least—he concentrated on Ifollis's song, mentally composing complex variations on the doleful theme.

He'd evaluated—and discarded as just too depressing—his fifth full variation on the theme when the wizard's voice finally faded to silence. The blue witch light had faded from around Azhun, and Ifollis was gathering up her tools.

Both his companions had noticed, too. Karena had stopped in her pacing, frozen on the other side of the chamber, staring expressionlessly at the wizard. Nearer to him, Gaylear Cleareye was on her feet, her gaze shifting back and forth between Delain and Ifollis.

Slowly, Delain rose, ignoring the stiffness in his joints from sitting on the cold ground for so long. His stomach churned painfully as he waited for Ifollis to finish packing her tools away in her leather satchel. Emotions warred within him. Part of him wanted to scream, "Well?" at the tall wizard, to rip an answer from her right now. Another part wanted to put off that terrible moment as long as possible. He tried to read the woman's expression as she walked slowly toward him.

"How long have you known?"

Delain felt as though his bowels had filled with icy water. Her query was a definitive answer to his own mental question. His voice sounded dull in his own ears as he answered, "We didn't know. We feared, that was all."

Ifollis nodded slowly. "The Council, then. How long have they known?"

For a moment, Delain was surprised at the perceptiveness of her question. But then he reminded himself that wizards were used to understanding the intricacies of theoretical magic. Compared to that, it couldn't be so difficult understanding a group of crotchety Elders? "Who knows?" he said. "Years, maybe."

Ifollis nodded. At first, he thought she was unmoved by her realization, but then Delain saw the way her bloodless lips pressed together. She's scared witless, he realized. Just as we are.

"Tell us." The troubadour almost jumped at the dwarf's harsh voice close beside him. So intent had Delain been on reading Ifollis's expression that he hadn't noticed Karena crossing the chamber to join them.

The dwarf's balled fists were set firmly on her hips, her jaw thrust out pugnaciously. "Well? How bad is it, spell-mutterer?"

Delain winced inside, but Peg Ifollis seemed to have too much on her mind to react to the dwarf's insult.

"I suspect you know already," she said, her voice as chilling as the rock that surrounded them. "Azhun is damaged. The threads woven around and through it centuries ago have begun to unravel. And once the process has begun, it can only accelerate." She plucked at a voluminous sleeve. "As with old cloth, once the threads begin to fray, they fray ever faster. . .until the weave comes apart entirely."

"Can you...?" Delain stopped, searching for the right wrords. "Can you bind it back up again? Re-weave the frayed threads before they unravel any more?"

Ifollis chuckled mirthlessly. "As well as ask me to build a new keystone from scratch."

"Well, why not, Scourge it?" Karena demanded. "Weave a new one."

The wizard's deep-set eyes settled on the dwarven swordmaster. In the light of the one remaining lamp, they seemed to flash dangerously. But then Delain saw Peg Ifollis rein in her anger. Deceptively casual, she indicated the sword that hung at Karena's belt. "That weapon," she said lightly. "When are you going to enchant your blade with the same magics as Kegel's sword?" She named an ancient dwarven warrior, the subject of many epic tales.

Karena's brows drew together. "You taunt me, spell-mutterer," she spat. "Tales say the knowledge of those enchantments died with Kegel."

"Just as the knowledge of how to weave a keystone died with enchanters who've been dust almost as long as the kaer has stood!" Karena took an involuntary step back from the ferocity of Ifollis's tones.

With a visible effort, the wizard brought her emotions under control. "Nobody knows the techniques used to create Azhun," she explained more calmly, pointedly turning aside from the sputtering dwarf. "The skills, the knowledge—they were rare enough even before the closing of the kaer. Perhaps only a handful of masters—wizards who were also elementalists—knew the secrets that went into the construction of Azhun."

Delain frowned. "But that doesn't make sense," he pointed out slowly. "There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of kaers, weren't there? How could the skills necessary be so rare?"

"Different kaers used different methods in weaving their wards. So I was taught, at least, and my master before me, and his before him. The method used in Kaer Moar—weaving all the wards into a single matrix with Azhun as a central keystone—was an experiment." Ifollis shrugged. "Theoretically, it should have led to stronger wards."

"So much for theory," Karena grumbled, just loudly enough to be sure she'd be heard.

"No!" Ifollis turned on her sharply. "No," she said again. "The wards were strong—are strong, still. They have held." She pointed a long forefinger at Karena. "You, blade-woman. Do you know—know!—that the wards protecting Kaer Moar are any less effective than those guarding other kaers? Well?

"How can you?" She answered her own question, drowning out the dwarf's sullen answer. "For all you know—for all any of us know—this is the only kaer that hasn't been breached by the Horrors. Have you considered that?

"No," Ifollis answered herself again. "Of course you haven't. So think, blade-woman, before you speak. Or stay out of the discourse of those wiser than you."

From the corner of his eye, Delain watched Karena's reaction, saw rage and humiliation battle across her face. After a moment, she turned on her heel and stamped away, grumbling under her breath. She's terrified too, he realized with a chill. That was the only possible explanation for why she hadn't taken a swing at Ifollis. . .

"So the knowledge was lost," Delain repeated, to get the discussion back on track.

"Yes," Ifollis confirmed. "I don't know how, or when—nobody alive does. But it zvas lost."

"What about other kinds of wards?" he suggested.

"The more traditional form of ward has to be built into the walls of the kaer during their construction." The wizard shook her head tiredly. "I've considered all the possibilities, I think, goodman Evenstar."

"How long, then?"

Ifollis sighed. "There's no way to tell for sure," she admitted slowly. "I've tried, but I just don't understand enough about the weaving involved."

"Decades?" Delain suggested softly. "Years?"

"Months," the wizard corrected. "A year at most, possibly as little as two months." She shrugged again. "As I say, once the pattern begins to unravel..." She didn't have to finish.

Delain nodded. His skin felt cold all over, his senses preternaturally acute. He ran his tongue over his dry lips, feeling the rough texture of the skin. "And when it does?" he asked. "When it does finally unravel?"

"The wards collapse," Peg Ifollis said simply. "And nothing remains to keep the Horrors out of Kaer Moar."

7

The world seemed to spin sickeningly about Delain. Blindly, he felt behind him for the cold wall of the chamber to steady himself. Peg Ifollis's words had chilled his heart. Nothing to keep the Horrors out of Kaer Moar?

The disorientation lasted only a moment, then the world returned to stability around him. He nodded slowly, and glanced around him.

Gaylear was close by his side, more concerned about his reaction than the wizard's news itself, if her expression was any guide. Karena was still keeping her distance, but he could see by her eyes, wide and staring in the lamplight, that she'd heard Ifollis's words as clearly as he had.

He nodded again. His thoughts were sluggish, like congealing oil. He knew he should say something—think of something—but nothing would come. At last he managed to force his tongue to work. "Then there's. . He couldn't bring himself to finish the statement aloud. Then there's nothing we can do.. .

"Nothing," Peg Ifollis said, "if the Horrors truly are still outside the kaer."

That brought Karena back into the conversation with a vengeance. "Fralkh!" she cursed. "Of course the Scourge-touched Horrors are still out there."

"Oh?" The wizard's voice wasn't loud, but still it cut the dwarf off in mid-rant. "And again you know that for sure, do you, blade-woman?"

Karena spat on the floor. "Everyone knows. . ." Then she brought herself up short, and she blinked.

"Yes." Ifollis nodded. "Everyone knows the Horrors are still outside the kaer, trying to get in. Everyone knows it.

"But how do they know it? How do we know the Scourge still continues?"

“Eala'an," Gaylear Cleareye said tentatively. "The gauge."

Ifollis just shrugged.

The mental fog that had almost paralyzed Delain's mind seemed to be thinning. "I think I understand what you're saying," he began slowly. "The Scourge isn't supposed to be over until the gauge shows that the level of magic has dropped to a minimum. But the keystone isn't supposed to decay in power either, is it?"

Karena snorted her disgust. "So what?" she demanded. "Just because one thing that's not supposed to happen does happen doesn't mean kulaku. Dwarfs aren't supposed to fly, either. Does that mean I'm going to sprout wings?"

"What it means," Delain shot back, "is that maybe the ancients didn't know as much about magic levels and keystones and maybe the Scourge itself as they thought they did. As we thought they did." He turned to Ifollis. "Is that what you're getting at?"

The wizard smiled faintly. "It's an interesting hypothesis," she said. "Though I wouldn't advise going directly to the Council with it."

"But the gauge—"

This time it was Delain who cut Karena off. "Maybe the gauge is measuring something other than what we think it's measuring. It's possible. Maybe the same thing that damaged Azhun is affecting the gauge's reading."

"Yes, by the Passions," Karena roared. "The Horrors!"

"Maybe," Delain said quietly. "Maybe it is the Horrors. Maybe the Scourge is continuing outside. And maybe it's not, maybe it's all come to an end, and we just don't know it, locked in here."

"Wishful thinking!" the dwarf spat. "Moonbeams. Feel-good lies. If you want to pretend that the Horrors are all gone, that nothing's going to happen when Azhun collapses. . .well, do it, I don't care. Chase moonbeams and stardust. But don't expect me to chase them with you."

"And if you want to join the Brothers of Night, that's your prerogative as well," Delain snapped. "But don't expect me to become a stormcrow with you.

"Listen," he went on earnestly, trying to ignore the murderous rage flashing in the dwarf's eyes. "Karena, listen. I'm not chasing stardust. I'm choosing to consider a new alternative, that's all, just to see where it leads. Maybe it's not true, maybe nothing will come of it. . .but what if it is true?

"Think about it," he urged. The killing rage was fading from Karena's eyes, but her expression was still as closed as a magically sealed door. "Think,” he stressed again. "If the Scourge hasn't ended—if the Horrors are outside—when Azhun collapses, we're all dead, every one of us. We can't escape, we can't repair the keystone, we can't establish alternate wards. We have no chance of survival, none at all.

"So where's the possible harm in at least considering the possibility that the Scourge is over?" he asked rhetorically. "In at least following the consequences through to their logical conclusion?"

"What conclusion?" Karena demanded.

"I don't know, but that's the point, don't you see?"

He ground his teeth in frustration. “Maybe it'll all come to nothing. Maybe the whole discussion's meaningless in the first place. Listen. I'm not suggesting we do anything stupid, like throw open the Dawngate just on the off chance all the Horrors are gone. All I'm saying is we should consider this new possibility. Think about it, work it through. When we've thought out all the consequences, and maybe found a way to test it, then we can consider acting on it. Not before."

He gestured helplessly. "What's the alternative, Karena?" he asked again. "I don't want to give up hope and join the Brothers of Night. And I don't think you do either. Am I right?" He met her gaze and held it. "Well, am I?"

It was Karena who looked away first. "Never get into an argument with a troubadour," she grumbled.

There was something new in the air. Delain could sense it as soon as he stepped from the Scytha Stair onto the Level of Astendar. They were back among the occupied levels of Kaer Moar, yet the weave of the invisible, intangible fabric that was the kaer's society had shifted, altered. He could sense the change clearly. In the hurried, almost frenetic movements of the people in the crowded corridor; in the strange, new tenor of the background hum of conversation; in the taut expressions, the wide eyes, of those who brushed past him.

At his side, he felt Gaylear Cleareye stiffen. Even without troubadour training, she'd sensed the change too, he knew. He felt her eyes on him. Turning, he met her gaze and shrugged as if to say he didn't know what was going on, either.. .

Over the diffuse mutter of countless conversations, suddenly Delain heard a single voice rise and echo throughout the corridor. He couldn't make out the words, but the anguish in the voice was so clear, his own heart twinged in sympathy. For an instant, the background hum faltered, then strengthened once more, abnormally fast, as though silence itself were something fearful.

Out the corner of his eye, Delain spotted a familiar face. He reached out and tapped the passing figure on the shoulder. "Urghul, do you have a moment?"

The ork he'd addressed stopped and quirked a thick eyebrow quizzically. But he followed when Delain led him into the shelter of the Scytha Stair. "Delain Vadorn," Urghul said in greeting, calling Delain "Song-brother" in the orkish tongue. He eyed Gaylear curiously. "And your large friend, Vadorn?"

"Gaylear Cleareye, meet Urghul Jhigola—Urghul 'Handfast.'" Delain smiled. "Urghul's one of the better lutenists you'll find in Kaer Moar. He made both of my uncle's favorite instruments."

Urghul chuckled deep in his throat. "And I'll make one for you, Vadorn, when you're ready to set aside that toy"—the ork touched Delain's harp—"for a real instrument."

Delain's pleasure at the old argument was fleeting. He took Urghul's shoulder and drew him even further away from the jostling crowds of the corridor. "My friend," he began quietly, "I don't like the feel of the air. Something's changed, and it disturbs me. What is it?"

Urghul didn't answer at once, instead fingering a chipped tusk while he looked deep into Delain's eyes. "You don't know?" he said at last.

Delain shrugged. "Would I ask you if I knew?"

"But you met with the Council," the ork said.

Fear twinged in Delain's chest. He tried to keep anything from showing on his face, but the change in Urghul's eyes told him he'd failed.

"Ah," the ork breathed. "It's like that, is it?"

"How many people know about it, Urghul?" Delain asked.

The ork laughed harshly. "Oh, not many. Only those who aren't deaf." His fierce-looking smile faded. "Is it true, Delain? Is it true what they say?"

"What do they say?" Delain saw the flash of anger in his friend's face, and quickly went on, "I really don't know what the rumors are saying, Urghul. I've had. . .other things. . .on my mind."

"Mmm." The ork nodded, mollified. "What they say is we're chin-deep in cjuaalz, my friend, that's what they say." He chuckled, though his expression remained grim. "They say the Brothers of Night have the right of it, and we're never going to get out of here—not us, or our children or our grandchildren, or their children either. Never. The Horrors are going to eat our hearts, and the only question remaining is when.

"And more—anybody who can read the old tales should have known all this long ago. That's what they're saying."

Delain blinked. "Known this?" he echoed. "How?"

"Prophecies, Vadorn, that's how. Some of the old tales—they're prophecies. And so many of those prophecies have already come to pass, there's no reason to believe the rest won't, too. That's what they say, at least," Urghul added, almost as an afterthought.

"What prophecies?"

Urghul shook his big head. "That's your area of expertise, Song-brother, not mine. All I want to know is, should I believe it?"

Delain couldn't meet his friend's earnest gaze. "Who are 'they', Urghul?" he asked. "Who's talking about this? Is it Kolban Darkways?"

The ork's thick eyebrows shot up. "Darkways? That twilighter?" He snorted. "No, it's the troubadours—some of the troubadours," he corrected quickly. "They're talking about the prophecies and claiming the Council knows all about them. That somebody just brought the Elders proof that the prophecies are true." He reached out and tapped Delain on the chest. "It's not common knowledge that you visited with the Council, Vadorn," he said, his voice low but intense, "not yet. But that will change. You can be sure of that."

Delain nodded. "I appreciate your honesty, Handfast, and your help."

Urghul smiled, showing his chipped and yellowed tusks. "Ravalaaar," he responded politely, rolling the vowel deep in his throat—It is nothing of note. Then his smile faded again. "Can I expect the same honesty from you in return?" he asked softly. "Is there truth in what they say?"

Delain sighed. "I don't know, Urghul," he replied honestly. "I simply don't know."

Delain sat in one of the meditation alcoves off the High Concourse, legs folded under him tailor fashion. From the finely carved marble benches, he could see people passing in the Concourse beyond. He could see from their expressions that several recognized him and obviously wanted to speak to him. But, at least in this, the Traditions were still strong: only the greatest of personal emergencies could bring someone to interrupt another's contemplation in a meditation alcove.

The young man's mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another in confusion. Too much had happened in too few hours, too many new realizations and revelations, fears and imaginings. He sighed.

Urghul had said it was the troubadours—some of the troubadours—who were spreading this talk of prophecies in the old tales. As Delain had heard those words, unbidden his memory had brought up and replayed for him the many ancient tales and lays and epics he'd memorized as an apprentice. Now, reviewing them again, he confirmed the conclusion he'd reached in those first few moments: none of the old tales could possibly be interpreted as prophecies of doom, as support for the Brothers of Night. Certainly, there were evocative passages, allusive references to lost and forgotten events and persons. Certainly, someone with the right mental bent could find meaning in some of those passages, meaning that the original writers hadn't intended. That was one of the characteristics of poetry, after all, that the reader could bring his own meaning to it. Yet still, Urghul Jhigola had implied more than that, hadn't he? That there was some kind of unifying thread running through several—perhaps many—of the old tales, a thread that could be interpreted as prophecy. But that just wasn't true, Delain told himself again. There was no such unifying thread. . .

. . .Not in the versions of the tales he knew, at least.

And there was the key, wasn't it? There was the central issue. Maybe there was such a thread in other versions of the tales. The ones remembered by the "doomsayers", perhaps?

That was the only conclusion that made any sense at all, he decided. The troubadours that Urghul Handfast referred to had to be the "doomsayers," that other "school" of the High Art. In their versions of the tales— their perverted versions, he thought—there might be something that echoed the events of the moment.

And that was something else to think on, wasn't it? He frowned. How did the doomsayers know about those events? He had his suspicions, of course. . .

A familiar figure passed in the Concourse beyond. In an instant he was on his feet, hurrying out of the alcove after the retreating figure. "Marta," he called. "Marta, a moment?"

The black-haired woman stopped and turned to face him. "Goodman Evenstar," she said. Her expression and her tone were polite, but distant.

He stopped a couple of paces away from her, and gave her a mannerly half-bow. "Goodwoman..." He hesitated. "I'm sorry," he confessed, "I don't know your family name."

"Aravey," she said. "Marta Tethys Aravey."

"Goodwoman Aravey," he said, repeating his halfbow. "Do you.. .would you spare me a moment's conversation?" He saw doubt cloud her blue eyes, and hurried on, "It's important—to me, at least. Would you do me the courtesy?"

He saw her consider, then come to a decision. "Why not?" she allowed, with a slightly aloof smile. She glanced at one of the hour-candles in its sconce. "I could do with some refreshment. If you'd care to join me in that.. .?"

"Whatever you like," he told her.

Delain raised his earthenware goblet in a toast. "Your health, goodwoman Aravey."

Marta mirrored his gesture with her pewter flagon. "Your health," she echoed. Again he saw a train of thought flash across her face. Then she smiled. "And you may as well call me Marta."

"Delain." He brought the goblet to his lips, and tasted the sweet wine he'd selected. She took a healthy swallow from her own drink—orkish hurlg, which had surprised him—and puffed out her cheeks in a satisfied pah!

Delain indicated her flagon. "I don't know how you can stand that stuff," he remarked with an exaggerated frown of distaste.

The dark-haired troubadour laughed, a clear, ringing sound that echoed from the low ceiling of the wine shop. She set the flagon down on the table before her, and inspected its contents as if seeing them for the first time. "An acquired taste," she admitted.

"But why would anyone want to acquire it?" he asked, spreading his hands helplessly. "Fermented grain and animal fat? Brrr. . He feigned a shudder.

Marta shrugged. "When I drink something, I like to know I'm drinking it."

"With hurlg, you'll keep knowing it for hours afterward."

She chuckled again, and took another swallow of the sharp-smelling concoction. When she set the flagon down again, her expression was serious, her blue-eyed gaze steady on his face. "I take it you're interested in conversation with a little more import than tastes in beverages," she said dryly.

Delain nodded. "Yes." He sipped at his wine to give him another moment to order his thoughts. "Tell me about the prophecies," he said at last.

Marta raised a delicate eyebrow. "I thought that might be your interest." She settled her elbows on the table before her, and interlaced her long fingers. "What do you want to know, Troubadour?"

"Well. . ." He paused again, then, "Where are they?" he asked simply.

Marta blinked, as though his question was just gibberish. "Pardon me?"

"Where are they," he repeated, "these prophecies you and your colleagues are talking about?" He sighed, seeing her expression change. "I'm not taunting you. I really want to know."

She shook her head, her black shoulder-length hair swinging. "Throughout many of the old lays, the old canons," she replied shortly. "They're obvious enough.. .to anyone with eyes to read them, and the wit to understand."

With an effort, Delain suppressed an angry rejoinder. "Pretend I don’t have the wit," he suggested dryly. Then, suddenly, "Did Kolban Darkways point them out to you?" he asked.

The woman's blue eyes flashed. "Nobody had to 'point them out' to us."

"But your"—he chose his words carefully—"your understanding of them. . .that's new, isn't it?"

The anger in her face diminished, but didn't vanish. "True," she allowed, a little grudgingly perhaps. "But only as events have developed have we understood the references." She paused. "And in answer to your first question. . .yes, goodman Darkways did point us in the right direction, did set us on the course, though I don't think he realized it at the time. But after that aid, we teased out the prophecies woven through the tales without help." She shrugged. "Why would his opinions carry weight anyway? It's not as if he's a troubadour, after all."

You might be surprised, Marta, Delain thought grimly, remembering his uncle's comments on the old nether-mancer's political ambitions. "Yet you accepted his guidance at first, didn't you?"

"He's one of the oldest inhabitants of the kaer," she shot back, "quite probably the oldest. Doesn't it make sense to take advantage of the memories of someone who's lived for centuries?"

Delain shook his head slowly. She was arguing in circles, he thought, contradicting herself. But with an effort he kept his peace.

"Once we realized where to look," Marta went on, "the prophecies were obvious."

"Where? " Delain demanded again. "Prove it to me."

She gripped her flagon tightly, staring into the cur-dled-looking liquid it contained. He could see she was ready to storm away, angered by what she took to be his intransigence.

He struggled to keep his tone reasonable. "Give me an example, Marta, please," he urged. "So I can understand, too."

For a long moment she considered. Then she nodded once. "An example, then," she conceded. "From the Canon of Ages." She closed her eyes and recited in a pure, clear voice:

Stillness at last, and stillness ever more,

That shall be the first sign. And when the Overarching pattern cracks and shatters,

And the laughter of childhood is stilled at last,

Then that shall be the second.

And darkness shall fall, and the walls will collapse,

And the night shall be forever.

"It's obvious enough, isn't it?" Marta asked rhetorically. "'Stillness at last'—that's Fala'an. The gauge has stopped moving. 'The overarching pattern cracks'— Azhun is starting to break down. 'The laughter of childhood is stilled'—stillbirths." She shrugged. "And as to the rest, how else could you interpret it? The wards collapse, the kaer falls. The Scourge never ends."

"No." Delain shook his head firmly. ''No, that's not it. That's not how the Canon of Ages goes at all. I learned it like this:

Stillness at last, and stillness ever more,

At the end as at the beginning. And when the All-encompassing pattern comes to crack and shatter And the laughter of childhood is but a memory,

Then the cold wind blows through the soul.

And darkness at last shall fall, and the temple crumbles, And the night shall be forever.

"That's how the passage runs," he stressed. "There's nothing prophetic about it, Marta. It refers to aging: loss of memory and the realization of mortality. The 'temple of the spirit'—the body—crumbles in death. It's got nothing to do with kaers or wards or Horrors. Certainly, it's a powerful passage, but it's not prophetic."

Marta snorted. "You misremember the old words," she snapped.

"Those are the words as I was taught them."

"Those are the words as your master taught you, granted," she countered, "and as his master taught him. But words change over the generations. Everyone who's ever played 'tale-chain' knows that."

Delain ground his teeth in frustration. I knew she'd talk about "tale-chain", he told himself. It was a children's game where one child whispered a story to another, who whispered it to another, who whispered it in turn to another.. .until the tale returned to the original teller, and the players got to laugh over how the story had changed as it passed down the "chain". Game or no, it was an important concept in the High Art. Troubadours were taught to beware of "generational drift", of the way an old saga might change, sometimes drastically, as it passed down from one generation to another.

"And what about you, Marta?" he asked. "How can you be sure your words are the true ones? 'Tale-chain' doesn't play favorites."

She smiled triumphantly. "Confirmation," she replied. "And from someone who's lived for centuries, someone who remembers the words the way they were taught to him when he was a stripling. True, the words might have drifted before he learned them, but the tale-chain's so much shorter."

"Kolban."

"Yes, Kolban."

"But he's not a troubadour."

"Of course not," Marta agreed. "Which is why we give little credence to his attempts to interpret the words he remembers. But you don't have to be a trained troubadour to remember a tale told at your mother's knee, do you?

"And it's not as if the Canon of Ages is the only example," she went on firmly. "It's just the first one that came into my mind—and maybe the most blatant. There are examples throughout the old works."

"Give me another one, then."

Marta gave a long-suffering sigh. But again she closed her eyes and recited:

The Enemy is at the gate. As clear as the Four Tones,

His trumpets ring. The strongest of keystones will crack, The strongest of gates will weaken.

How can the wards hold, when none can reinforce them? Words from the past tell of coming doom...

"No," Delain cut her off sharply. He recognized the passage immediately as The Siege of Landis Nar, a martial epic dating back to the Orichalcum Wars. "No," he said again. "'Carried on the four winds, his trumpets ring. The strongest of foundations will crack. How can the walls hold.' Those are the true words."

Marta's blue eyes snapped open. She shrugged with studied indifference. "That's how you've learned them, I'll grant you that."

"If it's prophecy, then, how do you interpret the next section?" Delain asked. "The part that says:

Arrows fall in our parade grounds

And the banners of the houses—brilliant

With the multiplicity of colors of our honor—are afire.

Camped without are the hosts of the Foe,

And his axes hue to the ground trees, old When keep and walls were young,

To build his war engines.

The sky is black as night with the smoke of his cook fires, And the rivers run red with the blood of our heroes.

"What's prophetic about that, by the Passions?" he demanded. "Scourge it, Marta, it's the tale of a battle, a besieged city that fell to the army of Cara Fard centuries before this kaer was built. Where's the prophecy?"

"In the words as you remember them?" Marta's voice was heavy with irony. "Nowhere, I grant you that. But in the words as they should be remembered. . .?" She shrugged again. "They're clear to anyone who takes the time to read between the lines."

Delain drew breath to argue, then stopped. He was missing something here. A thought—vague, barely formed—nagged at the edges of his mind. Something Marta said. ..

Yes, that was it. "'The Enemy is at the gate'," Delain recited, "that's what you said, isn't it? 'As clear as the Four Tones, his trumpets ring.' What do you think that means—the 'Four Tones?"'

Marta blinked. She took another mouthful of hurlg. "I don't know, exactly," she admitted after a moment, the combative edge gone from her voice. "It's not as if it's important."

"Maybe it is." Delain reached into his pouch, and pulled out his copy of the fragment he and Grais had been trying to decipher for so long. He unrolled the parchment on the table between them, turning it so Marta could read his dwarven translation of the original trollish characters. With his forefinger, he traced three specific lines, reciting them from memory:

To follow the Four-Fold Way,

And the stream of the ten thousand,

To see the Four Colors, to hear the Four Tones,

And to touch the weaving of the weaver.

"The Four Tones," he stressed. "What does that mean?"

Marta shrugged. "I already said I didn't know." She gave the parchment the most cursory of glances. "What's this, something you're composing?" She limned the last word with a strange hint of irony, almost scorn, as if composing were somehow beneath the dignity of a "true" troubadour, Delain thought.

He looked at his counterpart in speculation for a moment. Then he rerolled the parchment and returned it to his pouch. "Nothing." He tossed a couple of hexagonal copper coins on the tabletop as he rose to his feet. "Enjoy your hunt."

8

"Master Corbyan, can we please get back to the business at hand?" Grais Evenstar struggled to keep his voice reasonable, his expression free of the anger that burned in his chest.

The Chair of the Council of Elders blinked in surprise, then dropped his gaze uncomfortably "Yes, yes, of course," he mumbled. Then he raised his voice. "I remind you, Masters, Master Evenstar has the floor."

Grais looked around the Council table. Two of the chairs were vacant, unheard of, at least during his brief tenure on the Council. Both Vervian Nenn and Baltris Freehold had simply not shown up for today's meeting, not even forwarding their regrets to the rest of the Council. Among those Elders who were present, only a few seemed to have their minds on the matter under discussion. The rest were either sunken in their own thoughts, morbid thoughts, judging by their expressions and poses, or were committing the gross breach of protocol and simple politeness by carrying on whispered conversations.

The troubadour sighed. What have we come to here?

he asked himself, struggling against the gloom that threatened to overwhelm him. We're supposed to be the guiding lights of the kaer—the wise, the Elders, aloof from the petty emotions that sweep through the populace we're sworn to guide. That was the theory, at least, but for the first time he was starting to truly understand how much that was fiction.

"You have the floor, Master Evenstar," Deny Corbyan reminded him.

"Thank you, Master Corbyan." With an effort, Grais brought his churning thoughts under some semblance of control. "Master Talbott, I asked about.. .irregularities. . .in the kaer's food production. That is your area of responsibility, is it not? Perhaps you can explain to the Council what's happening."

Jenna Talbott, a human, and one of the few women on the Council of Elders, shrugged uncomfortably. "Nothing untoward, Masters," she muttered, glancing around the table.

Grais cut her off before she could continue. "I'm sorry, Master Talbott, but that's not what I've been hearing. Production has dropped by almost one quarter over the past week, isn't that so? From what I understand, the level of absenteeism in the growing spaces is considerably higher than normal. Perhaps you could explain to the Council what's being done to deal with this problem."

Talbott flushed, unable to meet Grais's piercing gaze. "I haven't seen the figures that the good Master Evenstar refers to," she mumbled.

And why not? he wanted to ask. That's your responsibility, not mine, yet I'm more informed of what's going on than you seem to be. But he kept his silence.

Normally, news that the kaer's food production was suffering would have shaken the Elders. After all, operations in the kaer's growing spaces—massive caverns where farmer-adepts, assisted by elementalists, grew the magically altered food crops that fed Kaer Moar's inhabitants—was the most vital, and arguably the most delicate, facet of kaer administration. Yet today few seemed to care, so deeply were they sunk in their own personal concerns.

"Perhaps you should examine the reports," Grais suggested pointedly. "And then perhaps you could enlighten the rest of the Council as to how you intend to address the issue."

"What does it matter anyway?"

Grais turned at the sullen voice to his right.

Thom Wyrrel sat slumped in his chair, his shoulders drawn in, chest sunken. His unseeing eyes were fixed on the table before him.

"Pardon me, Master Wyrrel?" Grais asked sharply.

Wyrrel didn't look up. "What does it matter anyway?" he repeated. "I can understand why the workers prefer to spend time with their families. We can all understand, if we think about it." He sighed deeply. "Better to make peace with oneself and one's loved ones in these, the last days." To his shock, Grais saw nods of agreement from around the Council table. "I suspect that's where Masters Nenn and Freehold are," Wyrrel continued. "And perhaps where we all should be."

"What is this?" Grais demanded, letting anger tinge his voice for the first time. '"Last days', what is this?"

Wyrrel looked up from the table and fixed Grais with his sunken eyes. "You should know, perhaps more than any of us, Master Troubadour."

"But I don't know," Grais shot back. "None of us know. Masters," he said, raising his voice and sweeping his colleagues with his gaze, "we are the Elders of Kaer Moar. Are we to let despair counsel us, now when our people need our leadership more than ever before? Are we to let"—he hesitated, searching for the right words— "the maunderings of doomsayers, of stormcrows, counsel us to abdicate our responsibilities?"

It was Vilus Sand who spoke. "More than just maun-derings, Master Evenstar, you should know that."

"But I don't know," Grais repeated urgently.

"Kolban Darkways does."

Grais turned to address Wyrrel directly. "Goodman Darkways claims he knows, Master Wyrrel. The Brothers of Night and other stormcrows claim they know. But any twilighter can claim anything, without proof. Do we believe them?"

"Proof?" Wyrrel echoed. "Don't we have enough proof? I remind you of your own nephew's testimony, Master Evenstar. Would you gainsay his words? The despair that tears the heart out of the kaer. The prophecies. .

"Prophecies that create what they foretell," Grais snapped. "Despair feeds on despair. . .even if there's no real basis for that despair."

"But the prophecies are more than despair, they predicted the damage to Azhun."

"If they exist, Master Wyrrel," the troubadour countered. "If they exist. I haven't seen anything that looks even vaguely like prophecy."

"Other troubadours disagree with you," Vilus Sand pointed out grimly.

"And they could be wrong in doing so."

"And could you be wrong?" Wyrrel interjected.

Grais fought back the urge to scream. "Yes," he said evenly. "Yes, I could be wrong. But since there's no logical reason to choose one belief over the other—no overriding evidence—where's the wisdom in choosing the interpretation that counsels despair? That's what I ask you, Masters."

He forced himself to sit back, to relax his tense muscles. "And I also ask that we address ourselves to the issue at hand. Do I have your agreement?"

He looked around the table pointedly. None of the other Elders would meet his gaze.

After a long moment, Master Corbyan nodded. "Master Evenstar has asked a question, Master Talbott," he said. "Would you please answer?"

It's all falling apart around us. And faster than I'd ever have imagined possible.

Delain sat in the Harper 's Gallery, wondering if it was the site of an old battle as the fragment hinted. He looked down through the intricate arches down onto the High Concourse on the level below. In one of the squares, where the Concourse widened out to twice its normal extent, he saw a group of people surrounding a troubadour. He could see the man's lips move, could see his fingers plucking at the silver strings of his harp, but he could hear neither words nor melody over the background hum of the crowded Concourse. But he didn't have to hear to know what he was singing, did he?

The "prophecies", that was all anyone wanted to hear these days. He shook his head. He just didn't understand it. . .or maybe didn't want to understand it. By the Passions, he'd tried. He'd tried to counter the.. .well, the damage, the doomsayers were doing to the kaer. He'd gone out among the populace, among the people he'd known since his birth, and tried to sing them songs, weave them tales, of hope, to counter the tales of despair. But most simply hadn't wanted to hear them. Where once he'd been able to hold them rapt, entranced almost, for hours with his voice and his Art, now they turned away before he'd finished. Instead, they'd sought out the doomsayers like Marta and her colleagues, to hear the will-sapping "prophecies" of the last days.

Why, in the name of the Passions? he asked himself for the thousandth time. What is it about people that makes bad news—devastating news—so attractive?

The changes in the kaer weren't limited to taste in the songs and tales people wanted to hear, either. The malaise had spread to most other facets of kaer life as well. Even in worship, once the most private and personal aspect of life in Kaer Moar, the taint was starting to show. In the first week after Delain had first seen the damage to the keystone, he'd witnessed an upswing in devotion to various Passions—a public outpouring of worship, a plea for comfort and aid. At first, it was Garlen, Passion of Hearth and Healing, whose overt worship had seen the most growth. But then the trend had expanded, to encompass Mynbruje, Passion of Justice, and even to Thystonius, Passion of Valor, and Vestrial, Passion of Cunning and Innovation.

At first, he'd considered the increase in Passion worship to be a positive sign. After all, despair was the greatest threat to the kaer—so he and Grais believed—and didn't the burgeoning worship of the Passions imply hope within the population? To ask the Passions for aid meant that the worshippers believed there was still some hope of that aid coming to pass.

Yet that optimism had dwindled to naught. As quickly as it had grown in strength, the faith in the Passions diminished again. Over the next week, despair once more took hold. "The Passions have deserted us" became the phrase heard the most. Only those who followed the ideals of Dis, Passion of Order, still professed their faith in public.

And even that was becoming dangerous. A new.. .movement .. .seemed to be spreading through the kaer, a chilling undercurrent that frightened Delain more than he cared to admit, even to himself. A group, a philosophy, whose members called themselves "the Traditionalists" had emerged. At first, the "Traditionalists" had seemed to comprise the same people as the Brothers of Night. Both Delain and Grais had assumed that the "Traditionalist" movement was just the Brothers under a different name, and had expected its appeal to remain limited to the stormcrows and twilighters who'd been so attracted by the Brothers' fatalism in the first place.

Not so, apparently. Within a week, the size of the Traditionalists faction had expanded to several times the size of the Brothers of Night. Yet, even if those estimates were correct, the Traditionalists were still in the vast minority of the kaer's population. Among the thousands dwelling within Kaer Moar, maybe a hundred were "active" Traditionalists. For their relatively small number, however, their actions were disproportionately significant.

Just since Grais and Delain Evenstar had first taken note of the Traditionalists, the group had been responsible for destroying countless symbols representative of the Passions. Simple glyphs carved into the doors of personal residences—symbols calling down the protection of Garlen on the home—had been defaced with hammer and chisel, sometimes while the owner of the home looked on, afraid to intervene. Many of the small statues representing the Passions scattered throughout the kaer had been thrown down or smashed. Tapestries depicting the Passions—some dating back to the early years of the kaer—had been burned or slashed. All at the behest of the self-styled Traditionalists. Or maybe not all, he corrected, remembering events in the Hall of the Passions two weeks before. Those youths weren't Brothers of Night or Traditionalists, yet they'd been defacing the shrines. Probably some of the recent events were the actions of people who didn't follow the tenets of the Traditionalists, but who were just venting their frustration and fear in the only way they knew.

If it were only the physical symbols of Passion reverence that had attracted the ire of the Traditionalists, that would be bad enough. But things didn't stop there. Over the last couple of days, Delain and Grais had heard reports of questors being harassed, even physically assaulted. And not just questors, either. Even people who, by their garb perhaps, could be mistaken for questors, were suffering. To profess faith in the Passions—even to speak out against the wave of fatalism gripping the kaer—in public was to invite anger, and outright violence, from any Traditionalists or their sympathizers who happened to overhear. Delain frowned, remembering the old dwarven woman who'd tugged on his jerkin sleeve as he'd started to weave an ancient tale of hope, a woman who'd warned him that he might suffer a beating if any Traditionalists heard him "selling false and empty hopes", as they styled it.

And, yet again, there was more. As if the kaer didn't have troubles enough, he thought morosely. An old human—Lyske Milne, his name was, and one of the first people to embrace the philosophy of the Brothers of Night, even before the emergence of the Traditionalists— had taken his own life. Not unheard of, of course, particularly among twilighters. As far back as Delain could recall, most of the kaer had held to the philosophy that the old dwarf, Rockharrow, had expressed to him two weeks before at the funerary procession for his granddaughter: that suicide was spurning the gift of life granted by the Passions. Still, though, the aged and the infirm did sometimes take their own lives when living became a burden to them, and few had the heart to censure them for it.

That wasn't the case with Milne, though. Lyske Milne might have been old—into his eighth decade—but he'd also been hale and hearty enough to make himself a gold-plated nuisance to the Council. . .and to anyone else he could convince to listen to him. Many had considered Milne a twilighter, almost pathological in his paranoia and delusions. But Milne hadn't considered himself so, and he'd always seemed to draw great satisfaction from flaunting his. . .eccentric. . .beliefs in everyone's face. For this reason alone, his suicide was noteworthy enough.

Even more noteworthy, however, were his stated reasons for taking his life—explained in loving detail in a hand-written testament he'd passed on to a fellow Brother of Night. Abiding by Milne's last wishes, the Brother publicized the testament through every channel available to him: by posting magically duplicated copies in public places; by passing copies among those troubadours Delain classed as "doomsayers", for public recitation; by trying—unsuccessfully—to have it read into the official record of a Council meeting; and by reading it aloud himself to anyone who'd listen. Before Milne's body had cooled, his reasons for leaving this life were more widely known than any belief he'd held throughout his long life.

"I take my leave of Kaer Moar willingly," so read a portion of the rambling testament, a copy of which Delain had taken down from the wall of the High Concourse, where it had been posted. "As the Prophecies make clear, my doom is at hand. Better by much to die cleanly, by quick dagger thrust, better by much to go before the Passions with my soul untarnished."

As if Milne's testament weren't clear enough on that central point, the Brothers of Night and many of the Traditionalists had elaborated on it at great length. Better to take one's own life, they argued to anyone who'd stand still long enough to listen, than to be tortured for eternity by the Horrors.. .or, even worse, to be tainted by them and used as tools against other innocents. And now even some of the "doomsayer" troubadours were taking up the refrain, too, weaving tales hinting that suicide could be a worthy alternative to becoming corrupted.

Delain glared down at the troubadour in the Concourse, with his little knot of listeners. Stormcrows, all of them, he thought. Suddenly, surprising himself, he spit on the floor to his left, the gesture of contempt he'd learned from Karena Hearthrock.

He almost jumped out of his skin as a second gobbet of saliva struck the basalt beside his. He turned to see two shapes silhouetted against the light-quartz illumination in the gallery—one stocky, the other tall and massive. "How long have you two been there?'' he asked acidly.

Karena laughed. "Long enough to sense your mood. I guess sometimes you don't have to be a trained troubadour to read the signs."

Delain had to chuckle at that. "Sometimes," he agreed.

The dwarf's smile took on a slightly mean edge as she looked around pointedly. "Awfully lonely up here, isn't it, especially for a troubadour? What's the matter, goodman Song-brother, are your tales and ditties out of fashion with the people these days?"

Delain blinked, at a loss for exactly how to respond to the swordmaster's gibe.

But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the vicious edge vanished from her expression. "I take that back, Delain," she said quietly, surprisingly contrite. "You didn't deserve that." She shrugged, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. With an insulting gesture—buunda, an ork would have called it—she indicated the other troubadour below. "It's him and his kind I'm angry at." Her smile came back, this time self-deprecating. "It's just that you're closer," she finished ironically.

Delain reached out and patted his friend reassuringly on her thick arm. "It angers me too," he admitted. "But what is there to do about it? And don't suggest," he put in quickly, "that we go down there and beat his head in, all right?"

Karena snorted. "What do you think I am, a t—" Quickly, she changed what she'd obviously been about to say. "—A turgma ork?" she finished, a little lamely. Beside her, Delain heard Gaylear's soft rumble of displeasure, but he was glad to see that the troll seemed unwilling to make an issue of Karena's almost-insult.

Quickly, to defuse a potentially tense situation, he patted the marble bench beside him. "Join me?" he asked, carefully including both women with his expression. When they were seated, he lowered his voice to a whisper, and asked, "Have you thought any more about my ideas?"

"What ideas?" Karena snorted. "That the Horrors are just a tale to scare children?"

Delain sighed. "I never suggested the Horrors were never there," he explained patiently. "All I ever said was that we don't know they're still out there."

Karena laughed roughly. "The ghost of twilighter Milne might be a tad irked to find out that's the case." Again, her boisterous humor vanished. "I don't know, Delain," she said, and for the first time he could hear something close to despair in her voice. "Maybe you are right. Who knows?" She shrugged. "Maybe everything out there"—she gestured at the rock overhead—"is all sweetness and light. Maybe the sun always shines and the cold winds never blow, and the Horrors are just a bad memory, and the Passions walk the earth in all their glory.

"But we'll never know it. Not unless the gauge drops again. . .and does it right quick. Think about it, Delain, Gaylear," the dwarf urged. "Can you see the Council agreeing to open the Dawngate? Va," she spat, jolting Gaylear with her use of a common trollish expletive. "Can you imagine Corbyan and Sand—and Wyrrel, by Thystonius!—doing that? I can't.

"So what happens?" Karena went on hotly. "If you're right, Delain, nothing happens, that's what. We sit in here and we wait. Maybe the wards collapse, but we're not going to know it. I can't feel the wards, and neither can you. Nobody's going to know it when and if they give out. If the Horrors aren't out there"—she stressed the words—"nothing. . .at all. . .happens! Not in our lifetimes, at least.

"Maybe one day Azhun crumbles to dust and rubble, and the Horrors still don't come through the walls to drink our blood. Maybe on that day, the Elders—whoever they happen to be at that time—might decide to crack open the Dawngate and take a look outside. But you and I are going to be dust long before then, Delain. And you, too, Gaylear. All of us are."

The dwarf sighed, a deep, soulful sound. "I could live with that, Delain, don't get me wrong. I'm reconciled to living out my life in here, we all are. Certainly, it irritates me"—she laughed—"no, it burns me like acid poured in an open wound, that you might be right, that we might be able to open the kaer early, open it now. But if that's not how it turns out, I can live with it. What I can't live with is that all the people we know will go to their graves thinking he"—she shot out a thick finger, trembling with anger, to point at the doomsayer troubadour—"has the right of it."

Delain nodded slowly, digesting what the dwarf had said. He kept his gaze on the throng passing by below them, rather than looking into her face the way he wanted to, rather than trying to search out the sources of the emotions she'd just revealed. She was more complex than he'd suspected. There was much more to her than just anger. . .

"You can't live with it." Gaylear's deep voice jolted both Delain and Karena from their reveries. "Can the kaer live with it?"

Karena scowled, and Delain saw her draw breath to ask a sharp question. He managed to get his own question in first. "Can you tell us what you're thinking, Gaylear?"

The troll shrugged her massive shoulders. "There's more to it than Karena implies," she said quietly. "I don't think nothing will happen even if Delain is right. Something is bound to happen, something bad."

Karena looked patently unconvinced, but Delain nodded slowly. He thought he could see where she was going, but all he said was, "What do you mean?"

Gaylear shrugged again. She looked at him shyly—a totally incongruous expression from someone weighing a quarter of a ton. "You see it too, Delain. The kaer can't live with this." It was her turn to point at the doomsayer. "You've heard about the suicide cult?"

Delain nodded. "Lyske Milne."

"Yes, but more than Milne."

Delain felt the cold touch of fear on the back of his neck. "More?"

"Two more, today," Gaylear confirmed grimly. "Both old—a lot of people would call them twilighters—both human, and both thought to be members of the Brothers of Night. A third tried to take his life publicly—to slit his own wrists on the Great Gyre—but passersby stopped him before he could"—she grimaced—"finish the job. He's with the healers now."

"Why haven't I heard about this?" Delain asked, his voice sounding somehow alien to his own ears.

"Probably because you spend your time moping here." Karena gestured around at the gallery.

Delain ignored her. "Today, you said?" he asked Gaylear.

"In the past three hours."

"And were there testaments like Milne's?"

"I don't think so," the troll replied after a moment. "But I don't think it matters. Other Traditionalists have publicly said they would do the same thing—kill themselves—before they'd allow themselves to be. . ." She trailed off, as though unwilling to put into words the consequences to which three, almost four, kaer-dwellers had preferred death.

"She's right," Karena confirmed, "I've heard the same iliing. Not among the dwarfs—not yet," she added grudgingly, "but not just among the Brothers and the Traditionalists. I've heard it from people I'd normally say had their heads screwed on right. . .except that now they're talking about slitting their own throats."

"What about Kolban?" Delain wanted to know.

Both women shrugged. "He's not saying anything on either side," Karena answered. "He's just keeping to himself—locking himself in his rooms, according to some, because he doesn't want to see the trouble he's caused."

"And preparing himself to meet the Passions, according to others." Gaylear's voice was as cold as a breeze from the depths of a crypt.

"But the troubadours aren't hanging back," Karena almost spat, pointing again at the figure in the Concourse, "him and his cronies. They're dragging up the most dispiriting words I've ever heard pass the lips of a troubadour— and that's dispiriting," she added sharply, with a strange look at Delain—"and couching them as 'teaching tales'. And people are just eating them up."

Delain nodded—forcing himself to ignore the dwarf's strange parenthetical comment; he had more important things to worry about at the moment, after all, he reminded himself. So Kolban had dropped out of sight, he mused. Did that mean Grais was right, that Kolban had realized it was easier to start a "movement" than to control it once it was started? If the elven nethermancer were still playing his political game, what would be his next logical move?

"What do you say we do, Delain?"

Surprised by the dwarf's softly voiced question, he turned to Karena. . .and saw that Gaylear was watching him expectantly, too. Who elected me Elder here? he wanted to ask. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate. "I don't know what we do," he admitted after a long moment. "You described the problem all too well, Karena. The Council isn't going to vote to open the Dawngate, or if by some chance they do, I can't see that the populace of the kaer would let them do it, based on the way things seem to be going." He sighed. "And that's the only way to find out if the Scourge is over.

“Horrors," he swore sharply. "I don't know if I'd let the Elders open the Dawngate even if they voted on it. Maybe the Scourge isn't over, maybe the Horrors are still out there. But how can we tell? It's like.. .like checking to see if an old crossbow will work by having someone fire it at your eye." He stared at his boot as he scuffed at the floor.

"Maybe there is a way."

Delain looked up, shooting Gaylear a quizzical glance. "What do you mean?" he asked the troll. "You're thinking of the gauge?" Seeing Gaylear quail from the intensity of his gaze, he said, “It's all right, Gaylear, really. We're just looking for ideas here. If you can think of anything—anything—that might help." He shrugged. "Even if you don't think it can help, but it's something we might not have thought of.. .tell us. Please."

For a moment, Gaylear chewed on her thick upper lip. Then she flashed Delain the innocent smile of a child. I've got to remember how young she is, he reminded himself firmly. It's hard to think of someone nine feet tall as more or less a child, but that's what she is.

"I don't know if it's important," Gaylear began. Both Delain and Karena had to lean forward to hear her words. "It's something I've seen in the Closed Levels."

"What?"

She looked away, her momentary confidence already starting to ebb. "I'm not sure, Delain."

"Well, what do you think it might be?"

The huge archer fixed him with her dark eyes. "A door," she said simply.

9

Gaylear led the way, down into the depths of the kaer. They took the Scytha Stair again, down into the chill, still air of the Unnamed Levels, then deeper still. Delain tried to keep track of the flights they'd descended, but quickly lost count. Gaylear never faltered, though, never stopped to check her location or bearing, even when they left the stairway—not at the bottom, Delain noticed to his surprise, not at Kha'averen—and struck out into the echoing emptiness of the vacant level.

The troll carried a light quartz held out before her, silhouetting herself against its light. Beside Delain, Karena bore an oil lamp on a carry-stick, as if unwilling to trust to magic. Delain himself had brought nothing but his belt-pouch and his trusty harp, which bounced against his hip as he tried to match Gaylear's pace.

In general floor plan, the level they were traversing almost perfectly matched Kha’averen, at the base of the kaer, he realized quickly. The only major difference was that, instead of the circular chamber that contained Azhun, on this level the centerpiece was an open, echoing square. As they strode across it, Delain closed his eyes for a moment and imagined it filled with talking, laughing people at chairs and tables, where friends could share a glass of wine (or hurlg, he thought with a grimace); stalls selling sweetmeats; and strolling troubadours, their pure voices providing the descant to the continuo of conversation and movement. When he opened his eyes again a moment later, he had to blink back tears.

Right through the center of the level Gaylear strode, human and dwarf struggling after, trying not to be left behind. Almost ten minutes from the Scytha Stair, the troll began to slow down, for the first time tracing their route with more care. For a moment Delain stopped in his tracks, trying to picture where they were. If this had been Kha'averen, the level that housed Azhun, they'd soon be reaching the boundary of the kaer itself, the untrammeled basalt of the volcanic cone, laced with true earth woven into the first layer of the wards. Then, satisfied that he knew their location—roughly, at least—he hurried to catch up with the others.

Less than a minute later, Gaylear herself stopped— sharply enough that Karena almost rammed into her broad back. In the light of light quartz and lamp, Delain could see the rough, undressed stone that surrounded the kaer. "Well?" he asked softly.

Gaylear turned her large head from side to side, as if seeking landmarks too subtle for a human's eyes. After only a moment, she strode off again to the right, following the subtle curve of the kaer's outer boundary.

She stopped again maybe thirty yards further on, and pointed. Moving out from behind the shielding bulk of her back, Delain looked where she was indicating.

"That's your door?" he asked slowly.

Gaylear snorted, and reached out to rap on the door—wooden, bound with blackened iron—with a huge knuckle. "Of course not. Through here." She reached down and twisted the large, knarled doorknob. The door swung back at her push, the iron hinges complaining, but nowhere near as loudly as Delain had expected. As they passed through the portal, he glanced down and saw the scattering of rust on the floor. He nodded with understanding: Gaylear had already forced the door open, some time in the past. Then he shuddered, thinking how stiff the hinges must have been after centuries of disuse.

The light of Gaylear's light quartz showed what lay beyond the door—a low-ceilinged, narrow corridor. Its walls were the familiar basalt that made up the rest of the kaer, but the stonework here was rougher, less precise and polished, than elsewhere. The corridor bored deep into the rock, as straight as a spearshaft, for as far as the magical light reached. Delain blinked. Was it his imagination, or did the floor slope slightly upward?

"Where does this lead?" Karena's voice was gruff with doubt.

"To the door I told you about," Gaylear answered simply.

"I didn't know anything like this existed."

"Nor I," Delain answered the dwarf. He gestured at the corridor. "Shall we?"

"I'll lead." Before either of the others could object, Karena had strode through the door and started down the corridor. Delain and Gaylear exchanged amused looks, then quickly followed her.

The corridor was sloping upward, Delain recognized quickly. The muscles in his calves made that abundantly clear after only the first few dozen yards. The ceiling was even lower than he'd guessed, no more than a hand's-span above the crown of his head. That meant Gaylear had to bend almost double, laboring along in a painful stooped walk.

"How far?" he asked the troll.

"Nearly one hundred yards."

Delain frowned. How could that be? He tried to imagine the layout of the kaer, how it fit into the roughly conical volcanic mountain. Mentally, he drew a line from the lowest reaches of the kaer, tracing it upward at a slight angle. A hundred yards. . .that might extend beyond the mountain itself.

What were they getting themselves into here? Suddenly uncomfortable, he looked at the black, sweating stone overhead. Did the wards extend this far beyond the kaer proper? He shook his head after a moment's thought. Foolish, he chided himself. Could a rusty-hinged door have held back the Horrors for four centuries?

He breathed deeply, feeling the chill of the air, surprisingly damp, almost fetid, in his lungs. It was strange, he thought. He'd always considered the sense of age that hung over the Unnamed Levels to be partially a consequence of their painfully dry, dusty air. Here the air was cold and moist, yet he felt the age of the corridor even more overwhelmingly.

In the light of Karena's lamp, he saw the passage open out, expand into a square-walled chamber at least ten feet high. The dwarf stopped, and he heard her grunt of surprise. Behind him, Gaylear sighed with relief as she could at last stand at her full height.

"This is it?" Delain asked softly. The troll nodded. Hesitantly, he stepped around Karena for a better look at their destination. Lamp and light quartz cast deformed and shifting shadows on the wall.

The door before him was made entirely of a black metal that Delain suspected was oil-tempered iron. Unlike any other door he'd seen, it was circular in shape, about five feet in diameter. The metal surface was crisscrossed with bolts and latches and other locking mechanisms—but not hinges that he could see. Which means it opens away from me, into. . .well, into whatever's beyond.

Slowly, he reached out toward the metal door, then stopped, his fingertips an inch or two away. He imagined he could feel the door radiating cold, the way a heatstone radiates warmth. Of course cold didn't radiate, he told himself. But that's how it felt. Suddenly uncomfortable about touching the ancient artifact, he let his hand drop back to his side.

"So," Karena broke in gruffly. "Where does it lead, Gaylear?"

The troll just shrugged.

"Outside?" the dwarf pressed.

"How would I know?" Gaylear answered finally.

"Delain?" Karena asked.

He didn't answer, didn't even look at her. All his attention was suddenly focused on the circular frame surrounding the door. He hadn't noticed it at first. . .or, at least, hadn't attached any significance to it. In the shifting light of lamp and light quartz, he'd initially taken it as just a slightly raised region of rock, rough like the rest of the wall, surrounding the door: reinforcement of some kind to support the hinges, perhaps. Now he could see differently.

The frame was perfectly circular and about as broad as the span of Delain's open hand. It continued unbroken all the way around the door, forming a kind of curved sill beneath it. As he looked closer, he could see where the "roughness" he'd perceived came from.

Around its complete circumference, the frame was etched with runes and magical symbols, graven in lines often no thicker than a human hair. He gasped with wonder as he stared at the symbols, tracing with his eye the complex interlacings. Astounding, he thought. It was as though the whole frame was a single intricate symbol of unbelievable complexity, yet each glyph and rune comprising it was simultaneously independent. How many artisans worked for how many years to complete this?

And what in the name of the Passions was it?

"It's magical. Strongly magical." Karena said, and Delain turned to stare at her in surprise. The dwarf had set the base of her carry-stick down, and was gazing at the metal door, while her free hand toyed with the brooch holding her cloak in place.

He blinked in puzzlement. . .then in understanding. "A charmsense brooch?" he asked, and smiled at Karena's answering nod. "I didn't know you had that."

Karena shrugged. "It's hardly everyday wear," she admitted, "but I thought it might be useful today."

"It's useful, all right," Delain turned back to the door. "What's magical, though?" he mused. "The door itself, the locks.. .or maybe the frame?"

"All of it," the dwarf shot back. "Door, frame, locks.. .even the wall itself"—she tapped her brooch—"if this is any judge."

"What form does the enchantment take?"

Karena snorted. "You're expecting a little much from a chunk of jewelry, don't you think?" she asked sarcastically.

"Then what about the symbols around the frame?"

"They're magical, that's all I can tell you. Scourge it, you're the troubadour, the one who reads all the old quaalz. You tell me what it means."

Delain let his eyes trace the circumference of the frame once more. He could recognize many of the symbols and runes—ancient Throalic script, alchemical signs for the four true elements, combined with arcane glyphs from a dozen cultures and traditions, but as to the overall meaning, he couldn't even guess.

"Set the matter of the enchantment aside for a moment," Delain said slowly, voicing his thoughts as they came into his head. "Does the structure itself mean anything to either of you?"

"It's a door," Karena pointed out in the tone of voice she might use to communicate with a particularly dim-witted child.

Delain gave a long-suffering sigh. "Besides that." He shook his head. "There's something familiar about this," he muttered after a moment, "something I've seen before.. .no, not seen, heard about, or read about. It reminds me of something..."

Karena snorted. "It reminds me of a door, that's—" Her voice cut off in mid-sentence. In the glow of the light quartz, Delain saw her gray eyes widen suddenly. "A mining caisson." The words were the softest of whispers.

"Yes." Yes, that was it, Delain realized. A dwarven mining caisson. He'd never seen one, of course—there was no need for anything like that within Kaer Moar—but some of the old Throalic tales spoke of them. "Tell me about caissons," he said.

"Mining lore." Karena was still staring wide-eyed at the door. "Very old. Not often used, but still important. Miner-adepts used them sometimes when they were excavating chambers where poisonous gases seeped up from the rocks below. Mostly stoneworkers used them when they were working beneath the water—to shore up the face of a dam, for example, like the ones around Lake Ban. Iron chambers, sometimes reinforced with true earth, with iron doors—two of them, with a kind of"—she hesitated, casting about for the right word—"of antechamber between them. Pneumatic caissons," she repeated. "They were a way to keep water away from the work face.. .and those toxic gases, too. Keep the air pressure in the caisson high enough, and nothing could get in."

Delain nodded slowly. "Yes, I've heard about that. Didn't they cause some kind of disease?"

"The 'twists,'" the dwarf confirmed. "Obsidimen call it querithelniasticanum. Miners suffered from it when they worked in caissons at great depths. Upon returning to the surface, they'd sometimes suffer muscle cramps, crippling pains that could make them curl up into strange shapes trying to lessen the agony in their joints. Sometimes they'd die in great pain.

"But it wasn't a disease, though, not in the sense you mean," Karena stressed, "just a consequence of the pressure under which they were working."

Delain sighed. "Interesting, I suppose. But what could that have to do with this?" He indicated the circular iron door.

Karena fixed him with her sharp gaze, a complex expression on her face. "Pneumatic caissons used doors like this, two of them, so you could enter the caisson without letting the pressure out or water in.

"So you could enter the caisson.. .or leave it."

Delain felt the breath stop in his lungs. By the gift of Astendar. . . "I think we need an expert," he whispered.

10

Delain stopped before the iron-bound wooden door, and turned to the tall, slender wizard at his side. "Before we go any further," he said quietly, "I need to ask you to keep what you're about to see to yourself. Will you agree to that?"

Peg Ifollis smiled grimly. "I'd keep it to myself anyway, even if you hadn't asked," she said. "These days, there are certain things it's wiser not to talk about—not if you enjoy living, at least."

Delain raised an eyebrow. What had been going on in the corridors to make her say that? he wondered. But then he put the thought aside. "Thank you, goodwoman Ifollis," he said with a formal half-bow. He nodded to Gaylear and Karena again, each with her own light source, and they started the long climb up the slanting corridor.

Delain couldn't help a small smile at Ifollis's indrawn breath when she saw the iron door and its intricately carved frame. Eyes wide in wonder, she stepped forward for a closer look. "Upandal," she sighed. Then she turned back to Delain. "What is this?"

He chuckled. "That's what we want you to tell us," he said.

"I see. Yes, I see." Ifollis turned back to the door, gesturing to Karena and Gaylear. "Bring the lights in closer, and I'll see what I can do."

The cold, damp air had chilled Delain to the bone by the time the tall wizard stepped back from her examination of the door frame. "Fascinating," she sighed. "Totally fascinating." She smiled down at the young man. "Thank you for showing me this," she said earnestly.

Karena snorted. "What is it, that's what we want to know," she grunted. "And don't say 'a door.'"

"Well, it is a door," Ifollis pointed out simply—earning herself a foul look from the dwarf. "A door that's locked with more mundane and magical locks than I've ever seen in one place," she went on quickly. "That makes it vitally important." She gestured at the complex locking devices. "All this, it's very expensive—not only in terms of money, though that too, but in terms of the energy and effort that went into it." She shook her head. "I don't know how many wizards must have sacrificed their life energy into sealing this."

"Blood magic?" Gaylear asked, a tinge of fear creeping into her voice.

"Probably," Ifollis confirmed. She sighed again. "It was different then. Back when the kaers were first built, people didn't think blood magic was innately Horror-tainted. The ancients used it in so many ways. Blood magic can be so.. .useful."

A sudden, chilling thought struck Delain. "Have you used blood magic?" he asked.

Peg Ifollis hesitated. Answer enough, Delain realized grimly. "Yes," she admitted after a moment. Then, hurriedly, elaborated, "In very limited forms, of course. Just for experimental purposes."

Delain could see the shock and fear on the faces of his two friends. He felt it too. Everyone in the kaer was taught that blood magic was anathema—Horror-corrupt-ed in its very nature, and an affront to everything the Passions stood for. And yet.. .

And yet Ifollis admitted to using it herself—and she wasn't Horror-tainted.. .was she? And the ancients themselves, those who built this kaer to protect their descendants, they'd used it, too.

Was that why the keystone was starting to fail? Delain wondered suddenly. Because the ancients who built it used corrupted blood magic to create it?

With an effort, he forced his attention back to the tall, fair-haired wizard standing before him. "So the door is sealed with blood magic," he repeated, trying to keep his superstitious dread from sounding in his words. "What about the frame? What about the symbols?"

"Wards," Ifollis answered quickly, seeming relieved to leave the other touchy topic. "Powerful wards, not the kind of thing you'd use to seal.. .oh, say a treasure house or something so mundane."

"Like the wards that protect the whole kaer, then?" Delain suggested.

Ifollis nodded. "In a way. . .Like them, but distinct from them. The threads woven into this"—again she gestured to the circular door—"they're connected with the pattern of the kaer's wards, but only peripherally. They draw some of their power from the same source—they channel it through Azhun, for example—but not all." She gazed at the frame in wonder. "There's more true fire bound into this one region of stone than anywhere else in the entire kaer. That's where these wards draw most of their power."

"So. . ." Delain hesitated. He felt thoughts shift around in his head, like pieces in a puzzle, right on the verge of making a clear pattern. "So why would the builders do something like this?" he asked slowly. "Why set up a different set of wards. . .a distinct set of wards?"

"Because they are distinct," Ifollis answered. "Distinct," she stressed again, "with only limited interaction with the main wards."

And, with a mental click, the pieces slipped into a new orientation in Delain's mind. "By the Passions," he whispered. Could that be it?

Ifollis was smiling, as was Karena, as if both women already knew what he'd just realized. Gaylear was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What are you talking about?" the troll asked.

Yes, it had to be.. ."These wards. .Delain gestured at the door. "You can deactivate them, can't you? Without deactivating the main wards protecting the rest of the kaer?"

Ifollis nodded, her smile broadening. "That's how I interpret the symbols."

"But why?" Gaylear was shaking her large head in befuddlement. "Why would you want to? Why. . .when the Horrors could just come in through this door—down this corridor—as soon as you drop the wards?"

It was Karena who replied. "Two doors," she said quietly. "Like a caisson." She shot a sharp, questioning look at Ifollis.

The wizard nodded again. "That's how I interpret it," she agreed, her calm voice contradicted by the sharp interest, almost excitement, in her eyes. "There is something beyond this door. I can trace the threads woven from these wards to another set beyond them. They're connected by a. . .well, you might call it a 'waiting ward.' If these wards are deactivated, some of their power is transferred to the wards beyond. . .and vice versa, I think." She shook her head in awe. "An amazing piece of thread-weaving," she pointed out. "There's nobody alive today who could come close to weaving something like this."

"But you're sure that's what's going on?" Delain asked.

"As sure as I can be, all considered."

Delain's mind was churning with thoughts— assumptions, conclusions, guesses. "You said these wards were connected—peripherally, you said—with the keystone. .." He spoke slowly, carefully following the logical connection in his mind. . .connected with the main wards. What would happen to them if these were deactivated?"

"The main wards would still stand," Ifollis stated. "They'd lose some of their power, but they'd still stand."

"What about Azhun itself?"

"Yes," Ifollis said, answering the question he hadn't quite asked. "Changing the flow of power in the weaving would damage Azhun—not much, but enough. The decay would be accelerated."

"By much?"

The wizard's sharp gaze seemed to cut into him. "I don't think so, but I have no way of knowing for sure."

"Guess, then."

Ifollis shrugged, dropping her gaze. "Not significantly," she said, but there was a tentative tone to her voice that Delain didn't like.

"Define 'significantly,'" he pressed.

"I think—think, mind you—it would diminish the life of the main wards by.. .well, I'd guess by a month. Maybe more, but not much more."

Delain absorbed that in silence. A month, he thought grimly. And how long would Azhun survive as things are? A year at most, that's what Peg had said before, possibly as little as two months. He swallowed through a throat that seemed suddenly tight, constricted. "Would you know how to deactivate these wards?" he asked, feeling the eyes of his friends on him, unable to meet their gaze. "To deactivate them so the.. .the—what did you call it?— the 'waiting ward' would function properly?"

He had to strain to hear the wizard's answer: "Yes."

"How?"

Ifollis reached up and pointed to three of the glyphs carved into the basalt frame. "These are the words of power," she explained. "This one is feh, this one thark, and this one berram. Touch the door with both hands, and repeat those three words. The waiting ward will take care of the rest."

Delain nodded slowly, still unwilling—unable—to meet the eyes of the others. "I thank you, goodwoman Ifollis," he said formally, "I am in your debt." He hesitated. "I just want to remind you again—"

The wizard cut him off. "If anyone learns of this, it won't be from my lips." She frowned. "I think I'd be happier all around if I didn't know about this."

For the second time in a month, Delain Evenstar faced the Council of Elders. Or what was left of it, he thought. Four of the large carved seats were vacant, and judging by the expressions of the Councilmembers who'd bothered to attend, they had little enough interest in official matters. He forced himself to breathe deeply, calmly—forced himself to ignore the miasma of despair, of futility, that seemed on the verge of choking him. He looked across the table at his uncle.

Only Grais seemed untouched by the fatalism that was tearing the heart out of the kaer. . .and even he seemed suddenly aged, Delain thought, bowed under the weight of his responsibilities. Still, his uncle was able to flash him a quick, reassuring smile.

"Masters," Delain began again, struggling to keep his voice even and reasonable, "think about it. It's the only option we've got."

Corbyan looked up from his rapt examination of the tabletop. His eyes were sunken, the pouches of flesh beneath them as dark as bruises. "What is this 'caisson?'" he asked.

Delain stifled a sigh. He'd already covered this ground twice. . ."As I explained to the Council, it's two doors, each of them magically sealed, that allow access to the outside world without destroying the wards that protect the rest of the kaer.

"Think about it, Masters," he stressed again, "the builders would surely have developed something like this—a way to confirm that the Scourge was over before opening the Dawngate and counteracting the main wards. How could they not have foreseen this necessity?"

"We have Tala'an," Vilus Sand pointed out peevishly.

"Of course," Delain agreed, "of course we have the gauge. But would the builders have felt comfortable trusting entirely to that? A single source of information? No," he answered himself firmly, "it would be too much of a. . .a gamble, Masters, to risk the lives of everyone in Kaer Moar on that single source of information. No," he repeated, "it makes much more sense to provide an exit route, if you like, a way to send scouts outside the kaer to confirm that the Scourge was over. Only then—only then—would they wind the Horn and open the Dawngate."

"Why do we know nothing of this?" Sand snapped. "Why would the builders—if they thought this through as you claim—leave it to a handful of taboo-breaking rogues to find this out?"

With an ultimate effort, Delain fought back the angry rejoinder that sprang to his lips. "I can't answer that, Master," he allowed. "But other information has been lost over the centuries..."

"So you say," the dwarf shot back. "But should we value your opinion on something like this when you continue to deny that the prophecies are real, when anyone with eyes can see the truth of—"

Corbyan raised a hand, cutting the truculent dwarf off. For a moment, the Chair of the Council of Elders seemed cloaked in the nobility he'd once exuded as a matter of course. "We've covered this ground, Master Sand." Then he seemed to shrink in on himself once more, becoming nothing but a very old, very tired dwarf. "Tell me again, goodman Evenstar," he said slowly. "If we were to choose this course, how would it affect Azhun and the other wards? It would affect them, would it not?"

Delain nodded, grudgingly. "It would, Master Corbyan," he admitted. "But I say again, it would only speed up a process that's already well advanced. . .and only by a month—not a great degree, in any case."

The dwarf raised a silver eyebrow. "A month would seem like a great degree to a man condemned to die in two," he pointed out gruffly.

"To use your own analogy," Delain fired back quickly, "wouldn't the condemned man consider gambling that one month on the possibility of a full pardon?"

Corbyan smiled, a wintry expression. "Your nephew has your debating skills," he said archly, turning his cold gaze to Grais then back to Delain. "And yet your argument fails to sway me, goodman Evenstar."

It was all Delain could do to remain in his chair. "But—"

Corbyan raised his hand again, cutting him off as peremptorily as he had Vilus Sand. "The decision is the Council's to make, goodman Evenstar," he said dryly, "not yours." He looked around the table. "Your information is interesting," he continued more conversationally, "but as yet you do not convince this Council that the gamble is worth taking."

"But a month—"

"A month is a month." The dwarf's voice easily overrode Delain's. "And time is a precious commodity.

"Attend me, master Evenstar, and listen to one of your own troubadour's fables. A criminal was condemned to death, but he importuned the king who brought down the sentence to give him one last chance. 'Lock me away in your tower,' the condemned man said, 'with a spinning wheel and some straw. If, by the end of a year, I have learned how to spin straw into gold, you will let me go. If not, you will execute my sentence!!

"The condemned man's friends cried out, 'How can you ever spin straw into gold?'

"And he answered them, 'Many things can happen in a year. The king may die. I may die. And maybe I'll learn how to spin straw into gold.'

"Do you take the wisdom of that tale?" Corbyan asked, leaning across the table toward Delain. "In the time remaining, perhaps Fala'an will move again. Perhaps the Scourge will come to an end. How can we, in all conscience, diminish—even by a day—the time we have for this to come to pass?"

The dwarf sat back in his chair, his face becoming once more an expressionless mask. "Thank you for your information, goodman Evenstar," he said levelly. "You may leave."

Old men! Delain raged silently. Our fate's in the hands of old men too frightened to make a decision. Scourge it! He reached out and pounded one fist against the basalt wall of the Scytha Stair, then had to laugh softly at the futility of the action. Just as futile as trying to pound sense into the Council.

At least the Council hadn't adjourned, he reminded himself. The Councilmembers might still be discussing his proposal, and at least Grais was with them, to try subtly to convince them of the wisdom of Delain's suggestion. It wasn't much of a hope—somehow he couldn't imagine Sand, or even Corbyan, changing their minds— but it was the only one he had at the moment.

If we follow the Ways and Traditions, it's the only hope we have. . .And that was an interesting thought, wasn't it?

The Scytha Stair was deserted as he made his way down toward the Level of Astendar. No, not quite deserted, he noticed idly. There was someone else in the narrow stairway, a middle-aged man climbing slowly up toward him. The man nodded greeting as they passed on one of the narrow landings. Delain smiled in answer, an instinctive gesture—he didn't feel much like smiling.

I'll have to talk to Gaylear and Karena, he told himself as he started down again. Maybe they'll...

He didn't know what it was that warned him—a sound, maybe, the scuff of a bootsole on the stone stair. Fear—sudden, chilling—struck at his heart. As he started to turn, the blow slammed into the side of his head, a numbing impact that drove him forward off his feet. He heard himself cry out as he stumbled, missing his footing on the basalt stair, and fell forward. Slowly, it seemed, the black stone came up to meet him. Then all he knew was chaos and pain, brutal impacts against arms, shoulders, and back, driving the air from his lungs. Redness, blackness, then redness again swirled around him as he tumbled, bouncing off the hard stone.

A final, stunning impact against his back and skull, and all was still. The pain wracked him, blurring his vision, paralyzing his muscles. He was on his back, lying on one of the landings, barely clinging to consciousness. He tried to move his head, and groaned at the pain.

Movement—movement above him. Involuntarily, his eyes locked onto the motion.

It was the same man, of course, the same one who'd just passed him, who'd struck Delain, knocking him down the flight of stairs. Through the blurring of tears, he saw the weapon in the man's hand—a sap, a small leather sack filled with pebbles, or with sand. Delain tried to bring his hands up to shield his head from another blow, but his traitor body refused to obey the orders of his mind.

Glancing around quickly, the man knelt beside him. Apparently satisfied there were no witnesses to see him, he began to search roughly through Delain's garments.

Delain tried to protest, tried to roll aside or push the man away. Vainly. He blinked his eyes to try to dear them.. .and in that moment, the weapon in the man's hand had changed, seemingly magically, from a sap to a broad-blad-ed knife. Delain tried to yell, but all that came from his lips was a thin, keening sound.

Quickly, the man reached down and used the sharp blade to saw through Delain's leather belt, tearing the young troubadour's pouch free. Then Delain saw a thin smile spread across his assailant's face. Gleaming in the glow of the light quartz crystals, the blade moved toward his throat. Delain Evenstar knew he was looking into the soulless eyes of Death himself.

Voices, laughter—children's laughter, from further down the Scytha Stair. The patter of running footsteps on the basalt stairs.

Above him, Delain saw his assailant's eyes widen, watched them as he came to a decision. The man's knife was gone as magically as it had appeared, and then he was on his feet, running up the stairs back toward the Level of Vestrial.

Again Delain blinked, and again the view changed. Now there were two faces looking down at him, twisted into expressions of childlike concern. Suddenly the swirling blackness was back, and he felt himself fall headlong into it.

The children had wanted to take Delain to a healer, of course, when he'd come back to his senses scant moments later. They'd helped him to his feet, and he'd run a quick mental check of his body. He'd no doubt be sporting nasty bruises all over, including a tender lump on the back of his head, but nothing seemed broken or permanently injured. He'd thanked the children profusely for their help, then made his painful way out onto the Level of Astendar.

Who? he asked himself. And again, who? He tried to build up a mental picture of his assailant, but it was no good. He simply hadn't paid any attention to the figure climbing the stairs toward him. And, after he'd found abundant reason to pay more attention, his vision had been too blurry to pick out significant details. All he could recall was brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, simple jerkin and trous, a medium build—in other words, a description that could fit fully half the human males of the kaer. Maybe he'd recognize the man if he saw him again...

* * *

But maybe not even then, he had to admit. Unless I see the cold, soulless look in those eyes again.. .He shuddered at the thought.

He reached back to feel the size of the bump on the back of his head, wincing as his fingers touched it. Yes, it was still swelling. Webs of pain radiated from the lump, a spiderweb of agony spread over his entire head. Cursing softly, he reached down for his beltpouch. Didn't he have some salve that might take away some of the pain?

But no, he remembered immediately, he didn't have his beltpouch any more; the assailant had taken it. Salve was gone, along with his money and various other personal items he preferred to carry with him.

Why? He shook his head, then stopped quickly as the spiderweb of pain throbbed more intensely. A robbery?

Crime wasn't much of a problem in Kaer Moar—not this kind of crime, at least. In the main, violence was limited to a drunken troll taking a swing at a boon companion who'd infringed on the drinker's katorr. Still, there were occasional cases of filching, of purse-cutting. Was that all this was?

No, Delain realized quickly, there was more to it than that. He reached back and stroked the polished wood of his harp. An instrument of this quality, with its silver strings and inset gems, was worth much more than anyone would carry in a belt-pouch. His attacker would have known that.

He sighed. His head was still pounding, making reasoned thought difficult. Maybe it would all make more sense after a good night's sleep.

By the time he reached the door of his and Grais's quarters, he felt as exhausted as if he'd sprinted up the Great Gyre from the foot of the kaer to its peak. He turned the handle and pushed the door open. "I'm home, Uncle," he called out.

The common area of their suite was empty, silent. Maybe Grais hadn't returned from the Council yet...

But no, there was his cloak tossed over the back of a chair. Delain smiled grimly. It must have been an exhausting session to make the normally fastidious Grais not bother to hang his cloak up. And to leave a pile of books on the floor, rather than on the shelves where they belonged.

Seeing the door to Grais's bedroom shut, Delain briefly considered going to his own room and just slumping down on the bed, to sleep until his body decided it was time to wake. Then he shook his head—at the cost of another hot flash of pain. He needed to tell his uncle about what happened. Not that Grais could do much about it, but as a Councilmember he should know. Gently he rapped on the door.

No answer from within. Maybe his uncle was sleeping. He rapped again, a little louder. "Grais?" he called softly.

Again, silence. Well, best leave him to his sleep. He's earned it. With a smile, Delain started to turn away.

The sound from the other side of the door was quiet, so quiet he almost missed it. A soft, pain-wracked groan.

"Grais? Grais!" Delain pounded on the door, then grasped the handle. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it wide.

He saw his uncle at once, sprawled across the bed. The large man's face and bald pate were pale, almost blue, and his lips were white. His eyes were wide, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

He's dead! was Delain's first thought. But, no, dead men didn't groan. He rushed across the room, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

Grais's chest was rising and falling, rapidly but shallowly. From this distance, he could hear the breath hissing in and out of his uncle's lips. Sweat beaded the older troubadour's brow. Without thinking, Delain wiped it away, gasping in horror at the chill feel of his uncle's skin.

"Oh, Scourge. . He looked around the room wildly and his eyes lighted on the drinking goblet on the small bedside table, near Grais's outflung hand. The goblet had fallen, pouring a slick of rich purple liquid across the tabletop. Feeling suddenly as cold as his uncle's skin, Delain dipped a finger into the congealing liquid, raised it to his nose, then touched it to his lips. He grimaced, and spat. "Oh, Scourge," he breathed again.

In an instant he was on his feet, sprinting out into the corridor, looking for help.

11

"Poison, of course," Delain said tiredly. "Extract of glandroot—a strong decoction of it, too."

"How is he?" Gaylear asked. She was sitting on the floor in tailor fashion, her back against the door to Delain's bedroom. Karena was pacing back and forth across the common room like a caged beast.

"Not dead," the young troubadour answered. Then he smiled—or tried, at least—to rob his short answer of any offense. "He was still breathing when I found him. Lucky timing. He stopped breathing ten minutes later, but the healer was already here, and she started his lungs again. She says he's strong, but he's a long way from out of danger yet. The first twelve hours are the key. If the heart's strong enough to last that long.. He shrugged.

"But that's not the worst of it," he went on bleakly. "Glandroot is.. .it's insidious. And it doesn't just attack the body. His mind. . Delain swallowed a sob, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. "It damages the mind, too. Kvaltch gnarr, orks call it. 'Mind-ripper.'" He shook his head again, trying to keep control of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. My uncle—my father in all

but name...

"What happened?"

He looked up through tearing eyes at Karena. "Did he try to kill himself, you mean?" he demanded, voice harsh. The dwarf stopped in her pacing, and he saw the real pain in her eyes, pain echoing his own. He dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that."

"That never even occurred to me, Delain," Karena said, her voice as soft as he'd ever heard it.

"What happened?" he echoed tiredly. "I don't know. I don't know what could have happened. Scourge it!" he spat. "It's the not knowing that hurts, almost worse than anything else."

The dwarf was pacing again. "There was no sign of a struggle?"

"None." He blinked, his eyes suddenly drawn to Grais's cloak draped casually over the back of a chair, the untidy pile of books on the floor beside it. Would Grais have just tossed his cloak there, would he just have left the books scattered rather than re-shelving them? Did he?

Another thought struck him suddenly, jerking him to his feet like a marionette on strings. Those books. . .They came from...

There! He turned to the section of the bookshelf where the books belonged, where Grais so fastidiously filed them. There was a gap in the serried lines of volumes on the shelf, but something else was missing as well. A sealed ironwood case. He dropped to his knees before the disturbed shelf, then pawed madly through the pile of books. No, it was definitely missing.

"The fragment," he breathed.

"What?"

It took Delain a couple of minutes to explain to the dwarf's satisfaction what the parchment fragment was, why the troubadours had both considered it potentially important. "It was stolen," he concluded. "Somebody came in and took it. And that same somebody could have..." His eyes teared up again as he remembered the image of Grais, blue-skinned and white-lipped, sprawled on the bed. He couldn't finish the thought.

"You said you had a copy, though," Karena reminded him.

"Yes, I. .." He reached down to his beltpouch. . .finding only the cloth of his jerkin. "No, the copy's gone, too." Quickly, he filled his friends in on the attack in the Scytha Stair.

When Delain was finished, Karena was mumbling ferocious curses under her breath. Gaylear just watched him, puzzlement in her dark eyes. "You think they're connected, don't you?" she asked.

"What else am I supposed to think? Coincidence?"

The troll shook her large head. "No, not coincidence." She paused. "But why, Delain? What can be so important about the fragment—important enough to kill, or try to kill, two people?" He could see her thoughts racing, could sense her mind's frantic attempts to understand. "And why now? You've had the fragments for, what, a year?"

"About that, yes."

"And during that time, nobody made any effort to take them from you. Why now, that's what I don't understand."

Karena had stopped her muffled cursing, but was fingering the hilt of her sword meaningfully. "Just teli me who, that's all I care about at the moment," she rumbled.

Despite himself, Delain had to smile. "I think maybe the 'why' might answer the 'who,' too," he said. "I just wish I had some idea of where to start."

"What now?" the dwarf asked after a long moment.

"Revetting," Delain responded wryly, using a dwarven mining term that meant, roughly, "damage control." "We know Grais didn't try to take his own life. But what will other people think?" He left the second, more important question unspoken: And what will it do to the mood of the kaer?

He should have known what it would do to the kaer's morale, Delain realized grimly as he walked along a broad corridor toward the Healers' Quarter: trample it into the mud. It had never really occurred to him to wonder how the general populace of the kaer viewed Grais Evenstar. Now he had ample evidence.

One of the most optimistic, hopeful members of the Council of Elders—that's how the kaer had viewed his uncle. And now that symbol of light and hope had tried to take his own life.

Trampled kaer morale into the mud? Delain thought grimly. More like cut it to ribbons, burned it to ash, then trampled it into the mud. He could see from the uncomfortable glances people threw him as he hurried by that the news had already spread throughout the corridors and chambers. They knew who he was, they knew who his uncle was—and what he represented—and they knew what had happened just hours before. He could almost feel the spreading desperation. He wondered grimly if the doomsayers had found a prophecy that predicted this?

The Healers' Quarter was, fittingly enough, on the Level of Garlen. At some time, early in the life of Kaer Moar, the name might have been appropriate. Maybe a few centuries ago, there'd been enough healers in the kaer to warrant their own quarter. No longer, he thought sadly. Yet another change for the worse. Today, there were few people who even called themselves healers, and fewer still who actually warranted the name. Still, out of tradition, the "want-to-bes" and the "almosts" and the "never-weres" made what living they could in this part of the kaer.

The door to the Great Hospital—yet another sadly inappropriate name—stood open, as it always did. Out of habit, he made a quick gesture of respect to Garlen, Passion of Hearth and Healing, before stepping inside, and saw only too clearly the sharp, disapproving glances it earned him from passersby. He shrugged. If a small observance like that could somehow improve Grais's chances of recovering, he'd gladly suffer a lot more than disapproving looks.

Patrin Gavort—"Patrin the Bonesetter"—worked in the chambers nearest the main door of the Great Hospital, a labyrinth of tiny rooms and cubicles, storage spaces, and closets. The old man was struggling to keep a parchment unrolled on his desk when Delain entered the room the healer considered his personal "office." With an amused sigh, he crossed to the desk and held down a comer of the parchment.

Patrin looked up, blinking his surprise. He was a small, stunted figure, a human who looked decades older than his sixty years. His pale, watery eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on Delain's face. Then, as he recognized his visitor, his wrinkled face split in a gap-toothed smile. "Delain," he said. "Good day to you."

"And to you, Master Healer. How is he?"

The Healer's ingenuous grin faded. "Unchanged," he said. Then, "I assure you I'm doing everything within my power to—"

Delain cut him off with a comradely pat on the arm. "I'm sure you are, Master Healer," he reassured the old man, "it never occurred to me to think otherwise, I assure you." He paused. "But he has passed the twelve-hour milestone you mentioned?"

"True enough, that is true enough."

"Has he shown any"—Delain searched for the correct word—"any responsiveness?"

"Is he awake, you mean? No." Patrin shook his bald head emphatically. "Not for days yet. If—" He shut his mouth with an audible snap.

"If he ever wakes, I understand that." Delain sighed. "So there's no way of knowing about damage to his mind?"

"There are ways," the healer corrected. "Not to gauge his mind as such, but certainly to test if his nerves have been damaged. Reflex tests and the like."

"And the results?"

"Inconclusive." Patrin looked up at him, compassion in his pale eyes. "I wish I had better news for you, my friend."

"I know." Delain patted him on the arm once more. "I know."

The old healer brightened. "Still, he does have visitors—people who come to pay their respects and to wish him well."

"Oh?" Delain raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Others among the Elders. Friends, acquaintances. And others, concerned that he's receiving the best of care." Patrin's tone added an ironic edge to his last words.

"Oh?" Delain repeated.

"Yes, oh yes." Patrin nodded vigorously. "An honor contingent, as in days of old. Visiting him in watches, they are, like soldiers standing guard. I've never seen anything like it."

"Neither have I. Would you take me to them?"

Patrin led the way through the labyrinth of small chambers—sick rooms, as Delain thought of them—until he stopped at a door in the heart of the Great Hospital. "Here." Patrin pushed the door open.

The first thing Delain saw was his uncle lying on a bed. He wore a simple white smock—too much like a burial shroud, to Delain's mind—his skin, usually flushed with health, almost the same hue as the cloth. His uncle's eyes were shut, and his breathing was slower, stronger, not the frenetic, shallow panting of twelve hours before. The blue tinge had left his face and pate, but his lips still had a strange, almost deathlike tone. "Grais," Delain breathed.

"Good day, goodman Evenstar."

Delain's eyes flicked to the other occupant of the room; he hadn't noticed him at first, so intense his concentration on his uncle. Now he frowned.

The man was young, about the same size and build as Delain, standing beside the straight-backed chair in which he'd been sitting a moment before. The stranger wore a simple jerkin and trous of rough black cloth. His face was thin, almost pinched. He looks tired, Delain thought. Why?

"Good day..

"I don't think we've met," the stranger said. "My name is Jerrani Kaerkeep."

"Good day, goodman Kaerkeep," Delain responded slowly. The stranger was right, he thought, they hadn't met, and yet Kaerkeep looked familiar. Then his eyes fell on the bittern that rested beside the chair. "You're a troubadour."

"I have that honor, yes," Kaerkeep replied, "as do you and your uncle."

"You're one of the doomsayers."

Kaerkeep's thin eyebrows drew together. "We care little for that name," he pointed out dryly.

"What are you doing here?" Delain rounded on Patrin. "What is he doing here?"

The healer blinked his watery eyes. "He. . . I. . ." he stammered. "He asked."

"Who sent you? Who?"

Delain saw the other troubadour quail back from the heat in his voice, before pulling himself together. "No one sent me, goodman Evenstar," he said flatly. "I'm here of my own free will."

"And the other"—he shot a glance at Patrin—"members of the honor guard, they're troubadours like you? And they come of their own free will too?"

"Of course." Kaerkeep gestured his puzzlement. "I don't see why that concerns you, goodman Evenstar, really I don't. We respect followers of the High Art—all followers—and your uncle is one of the most renowned. When we heard about his.. .his break of faith—"

Delain cut him off. "There was no 'break of faith,' doomsayer," he roared. "Somebody tried to kill my uncle." He knew he was losing control, his fear and grief somehow turning into a blinding anger, but he couldn't stop it. "Somebody.. .tried.. .to kill.. .my uncle!" He punctuated the words with a finger jabbed into the chest of Jerrani Kaerkeep. "I don't know who, I don't know why. But until I do, nobody—nobody—comes near my uncle. Do you hear me?"

Again he rounded on Patrin. "And you, do you hear me too? Get him out of here, Healer"—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Kaerkeep—"and keep him and the rest of his kind out of here. Is that clear?"

He pointed a trembling finger at the dark-clad troubadour. "Do you hear me, doomsayer? Out!"

Through the tears of anger and grief—and humiliation, at his own outburst—that filled his eyes, he didn't see the other troubadour depart.

Delain walked aimlessly through the corridors of the kaer. He was careful to keep to occupied areas, memories of the recent attack making him want to avoid less-traveled regions like the Scytha Stair, but beyond that, he paid little heed to where he walked. He felt the eyes of his fellow kaer-dwellers on him, but ignored them.

Grais looks as though he's already dead. The thought brought bitter tears to his eyes, but it was the truth, wasn't it? The only sign that his uncle still lived was the steady rise and fall of his chest. Delain had never really thought about it before, but even when someone was asleep they always showed some signs of life. Their eyelids flickered as they dreamed; the muscles around their lips twitched and moved; the rhythm of their breathing changed. Up until now, he'd always unconsciously accepted the description of sleep from an ancient Throalic lay: "a visit to the realm of Death." Today, though, he knew the falsehood of that description. A sleeper was always closer to the world of the living than to oblivion.

Not his uncle, not now. Grais was really "visiting the realm of Death" now, he thought bitterly. He should be glad that his uncle was still breathing, at least. Where breath remained, hope remained with it. But he couldn't shake the fear that the only thing still alive was his uncle's body—not that incisive, intuitive mind that had made him what he was. Had the glandroot extract ripped that mind from him, leaving him an empty husk? There was no way of knowing. Patrin the Bonesetter had repeated that half a dozen times during the hours Delain had sat beside his uncle's sickbed. Time alone would tell.

He'd wanted to stay with his uncle—sit in the chair beside the bed, sleep on the cold floor—to be present when the first sign of consciousness returned. But the healer wouldn't allow it. "One patient is enough of a burden, Delain," Patrin had told him firmly, "I don't want you to make it two." After six hours, the old healer had almost physically driven him from the sickroom, ordering the younger man to go home and sleep.

Delain had left the Great Hospital, but he hadn't returned home. He just couldn't face that, couldn't face returning to the quarters he shared with his uncle, the quarters that would, he knew, seem so empty without Grais's presence. And more, he couldn't face the idea of sleep. . .and the dreams that sleep would bring.

And so he walked the bustling corridors of Kaer Moar. He had no destination in mind, no itinerary. His drifting thoughts kept no track of how long he'd been wandering, how far he'd walked. He just walked on.

The crystals of light quartz mounted along the corridor walls were dimmed for the kaer's twelve-hour night when he returned to the Healer's Quarters. Which meant he'd been wandering for, what.. .six hours? Maybe more? The quartz crystals surrounding the door of the Great Hospital still burned with their full intensity, however, as tradition dictated.

Patrin was in his office, poring over an old scroll spread across his desk. "Don't you ever leave, Master Healer?" Delain asked softly, wondering if it was the same scroll.

Patrin shot him a gap-toothed smile. "Oh, sometimes, sometimes. I snatched a two-hour nap not long ago. And you, Delain?" He fixed the younger man with a searching look. "Did your sleep do you good?"

Delain smiled crookedly. He couldn't bring himself to lie to the old man.

"Yes, well. . .yes, I see." Patrin shook his head sadly. "I remember I was young once, too. And when I was young, I too thought the world might stop revolving if I wasn't keeping an eye on it."

"Any change?"

To his surprise, he saw Patrin drop his gaze. "He had visitors, your uncle," the healer said quietly.

"What?"

"While I was taking my nap," Patrin explained hurriedly. "My apprentice—a good girl, skilled in the art.. .but young."

Delain waved that off. "Who?"

"Members of the Council. Two of them, Masters Corbyan and Wyrrel. And another. I'm sorry, Delain," Patrin rushed on, "my apprentice didn't think she had the authority to bar Elders from visiting your uncle. I explained to her that she does have the authority but—"

"Scourge it, Patrin..." With an effort, Delain reined in his anger, then sighed and said, "It's all right. I don't hold you responsible." Then he paused.

"I want to stay with him, Patrin. I don't care what you say I want to stay with him. Do I have your permission?" Delain knew he'd stay whether the healer gave permission or not, but he still felt the need to ask.

For a moment, he thought Patrin might refuse. But then, the old man nodded. "I grant it," he said.

It was only later that Delain realized Patrin hadn't answered his first question.

Grais Evenstar, troubadour of Kaer Moar, and member of the Council of Elders, died in the small hours of the next morning. Delain was with him when he faded away, saw his uncle take his last breath, heard the air sigh out from Grais's lungs for one final time.

"There was nothing any of us could do," Patrin Gavort said quietly from the doorway. "His spirit is with Astendar now."

Delain nodded wordlessly. Uncle, he thought, uncle in name, but father in truth, the world—my world—has been diminished by your passing, the kaer is darker for your death. May Astendar take you to her bosom and cherish you. He reached out and touched his uncle's lips with the tips of his fingers. Softly, he gave the benediction that only a troubadour can give to another. "Through me, your Art lives on, Grais Evenstar. In your name, and in your memory, I take on the mantle of troubadour-adept." One last time, he took the hand of the man who'd raised him, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the already-cooling flesh.

Finally he turned to the healer. "Master Patrin," he began.

The old man shook his head. "Don't trouble yourself, Master Troubadour," Patrin responded, stressing the title. "Matters have been arranged."

Delain raised an eyebrow. "What? By whom?"

"The Elders." Patrin shrugged. "He's. . .he was a member of the Council, and there are. . .traditions. . .to be observed." He sighed, glancing away uncomfortably. "They told my apprentice about it when they came in yesterday. Just in case, of course," he added quickly.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"You had other things to think about," the healer said simply.

Delain nodded at that. "Thank you, Master Healer," he replied, his voice soft. Then another thought struck him. "When you said Corbyan and Wyrrel came to visit, you mentioned 'another,' too. Who?"

"Kolban Darkways. He came with the Elders."

"That stormcrow? Scourge it!"

And again, in that strange alchemy Delain had experienced the day before with Jerrani Kaerkeep, his grief twisted in his breast—changed, became anger. He was on his feet before he knew it, striding purposefully from the sickroom.

"What...? Where...?" Patrin stammered.

But Delain didn't answer. You were right, Patrin, he thought grimly. I have other things to think about.

Delain found Kolban Darkways in the Hall of Princes on the Level of Astendar. The slight, white-robed figure was surrounded by a group of young people—male and female, mainly humans, but with a few dwarfs thrown in for good measure. Delain recognized two of them immediately—Marta Aravey and Jerrani Kaerkeep—and that identified the rest, as far as he was concerned. The doom-sayers, the stormcrow troubadours.. .Kolban's little followers...

"You!" he cried out. "Darkways!"

Heads snapped around to stare at him. The brighteyed elf himself turned more slowly, an almost-invisible eyebrow lifted in ironic curiosity Delain pushed his way through the small knot of troubadours, shouldering Kaerkeep from his path. "You!" he shouted again.

As the young troubadour approached, the elf gave him a polite half-bow of greeting. "Goodman Evenstar," he said, his voice like velvet. "Please accept my condolences. .."

"How did you know he was dead, stormcrow?" Delain demanded.

Kolban shrugged his thin shoulders. "The healers told us it was only a matter of time," he replied smoothly.

"Quaalz!" Delain spat on the floor to his left. "You killed him, stormcrow!" People were gathering, attracted by his raised voice, but he didn't care. "You killed him," he shouted again, "you and your doomsayers."

The elf's sharp gaze didn't shift from Delain's eyes. "Yes," Kolban said after a long moment. "Yes, I do accept responsibility for your uncle's death, goodman Evenstar.. .to a degree. If it was the prophecies that I helped these good people to find and decipher, if it was those truths that led Grais to take his own life, then, to that degree, I do accept responsibility."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it!" Rage pounded in Delain's head, his pulse a thudding drumbeat in his ears. "You poisoned him, Darkways. You or one of your. . .your puppets." Murmurs of outrage, of anger, swelled up around him, but he didn't care. "You killed him, and you tried to have me killed, too."

Kolban Darkways spread his long-fingered hands. "Why would I want to do that?" he asked simply.

The fragment, Delain wanted to yell. You wanted that, for some reason. But he didn't say that. "I don't know, but on the Gift of Astendar, I swear I'll find out, and I'll bring you to task for it. Such is the truth of the thing."

The mutters of anger from the gathering crowd reached a new crescendo. For the first time, Delain sensed the danger, could smell the barely restrained violence in the air.

"Horror-marked," he heard someone growl.

Another voice echoed, "Only a fool—or a tool of the Horrors—would so accuse a true guardian of the kaer."

Suddenly frightened, Delain looked around at the hard and hostile stares that surrounded him. All around him he saw hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening around tools or carry-sticks. He sensed the crescendo of emotion flowing around him, and realized the crowd was about to become a mob.

The troubadours were glaring at him with undisguised hostility. As well they might, he realized, since he'd accused them of being pawns in a murder plot.. .or worse. Only in the eyes of Marta Aravey did he see something other than hatred. And there, the pity he saw, the kind of pity a caring soul would feel for a sanity-touched twilighter, was almost worse. Desperately, he looked about for a way out. There was none; the crowd—the mob—totally surrounded him.

"My heart goes out to you, Delain Evenstar." Kolban's velvet voice cut through the fierce mutterings of the crowd like a sword through silk. "I, too, have lost. I, too, know how grief can cloud the mind, can drive you in directions you'd never normally contemplate. A kind of temporary madness, grief." And the severe-faced elf smiled. "We'll talk again when the fit has left you." He turned away, and gestured for his retinue to follow.

Delain stood, frozen. The incipient mob that had swirled around him was gone; the elf's words had calmed the building fury as skillfully as the greatest troubadour. Anger was still there in the eyes of those surrounding him, but now it was admixed with understanding. . .and even echoes of the pity he'd seen in Marta's gaze.

"Scourge!" Eyes filling with tears of impotent rage, he bulled his way through the crowd, not after Kolban Darkways, but in the opposite direction. Once he was clear of the press, he broke into a run.

12

There was no real warning, none that Karena Hearthrock paid attention to, at least. She heard the raised voices, of course, the acoustics of the High Concourse were a little too good in that respect—voices carried well and far—but ignored them. Altercations were a part of life in a kaer, just as she imagined they would be under the empty sky. And just because they'd been more frequent of late didn't mean kaer-dwellers paid more than peripheral attention to arguments. She had other things to think about at the moment, anyway.

Delain Evenstar, for one. The death of the troubadour's uncle had hit him hard. Understandable enough; she knew the relationship that had existed between the two men. Father in all but name, she mused grimly. I remember when I lost my father. ..

But it hadn't struck her as hard as it had Delain, had it? Certainly she'd been wracked with grief, but she'd put it behind her quickly enough. Death was just another part of life, wasn't it, simply the last act in the great play that was the World of the Flesh? Maybe it was because Delain was a human, she thought. Humans had such a.. .a naive view of death, didn't they? They all seemed to believe that Death was an enemy to face down and defeat, that succumbing to the call of Death was a tragic event. . .even a failure, of sorts. Foolish.

And yet Death came to all eventually. Why struggle against Death when it was a battle none could win? It was a game everyone must someday lose in the end, and yet humans were vain or foolish enough to think they could define the rules. Maybe that was why Delain's grief was so intense, and so unsettling.

Or maybe it was because he hadn't had the opportunity to make peace with his uncle, she thought suddenly. For a moment, her memory drifted back to her own father's death. Untimely it was, sudden, but not so sudden that his children, and his grandchildren, couldn't attend him at his bedside. The disease that was slowly sucking the life from him had at least granted him lucidity in the last days. His family had gathered around, hearing from his lips the tales of his life, his achievements.. .and his failures. And what true picture of a life did not include its failures? On the night before his death, Karena had received from his hands his dagger—a finely wrought thing, even by dwarven standards—as her bequest, and had held for the last time the sword he wished to have buried with him. Would my grief have unseated my reason if I hadn't had that chance? she asked herself.

Grief certainly seemed to have unseated her friend's reason, if only for a day or two. To accuse Kolban Darkways of murder even while the elf was surrounded by his lackeys? She snorted at the thought. That certainly wasn't the act of a reasoned mind.

At least that insanity seemed to have passed. At least Delain seemed to notice the world around him again, to understand and consider the consequences of his actions.

Yet still his heart was weighed down, she knew. His humor had fled; he rarely smiled anymore, that flashing, glorious smile that had so entranced her. . .

I wish... But, No! She cut that thought off sharply. She couldn't come to him in his grief and try to salve his pain by taking his heart to hers. He hurt, and he needed, but she feared he'd rebuff her advances, as he had before. Or, worse, wouldn't even notice them! She had too much pride for that.

Her reverie was shattered by the first scream of pain. She spun toward the sound, her hard eyes searching for the source.

No difficulty finding it. The argument had drawn a crowd, and now that crowd had become a mob! She watched in horror as that mob surged forward, drawing inward on the seed that had created it. From the center of that churning mass, more screams of anguish rang out. Scourge it, what now? She ran toward the commotion.

And she wasn't alone in doing so. The mob was drawing others to it, as mobs always seemed to do. As she hurried forward, a broad-shouldered human pressed in front of her. Without thinking, she grabbed him by his broad belt, and threw him bodily aside. "Get away!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing from the high stone ceiling, adding to the roar of the mob.

She hit the outskirts of the mob like a projectile, driving shoulders and elbows into soft flesh as she drove her way into it. People around her pushed back, but without real rancor, all their rage seeming directed inward, at the center of the surging, struggling pack. Deeper she pushed, roaring, "Move! Move, Scourge you!" until her throat felt flayed.

A large shape bulked ahead of her, that of a young troll, barely over six feet tall. She grabbed him by one arm, and—with more strength than she knew she possessed—spun him around to face her. "What is it?” she bellowed up at him. "What in the name of Thystonius is going on here?"

The young troll's face was twisted in rage as he glared down at Karena. "He wants to turn off the wards!" he growled. "Va! Kava! He's Horror-touched, wants to bring the Horrors down on us all."

“Buunda!" Karena snarled in the ork tongue. With all her force she pushed at the young troll's chest, throwing herself clear off her feet. Then she raised her voice in a great cry of, "No/" and drew her sword.

Her echoing cry, and the unmistakable ring of steel as it slid from its scabbard froze the mob like a magical spell. The people closest to her quailed back from her rage, and from the glittering blade she held over her head. "No/" she roared again. "Get back, all of you. Get back! Now!"

The crowd—it was a crowd again, she sensed almost subconsciously, no longer a mob, seemed to dissolve in front of her. The outlying regions of the pack were already breaking up, people scurrying away, melting into the crowds of the Concourse. Like quartz under a hammer blow, the pack disintegrated around her as she forced her way inward.

She smelled the blood and the excrement before she saw the victim; she sensed the death in the air. Even so prepared, the sight of the body shocked her speechless. A human, he was, sprawled on the hard stone of the Concourse. His clothes were those of a merchant, now drenched with his life-blood. Tasting bile in the back of her throat, she knelt beside the lifeless form, cautiously reached out to turn the head so she could see the face.

There was no face. Only red, pulped flesh and fragments of bone remained.

And blood—blood everywhere.

"I've never seen anything like it," Karena said quietly. "Never." The dwarf was wiping her left hand on the cloth of her jerkin as if trying to wipe away the stain of blood only she could see.

Delain shook his head. He, Gaylear, and Karena were gathered in the dwarf's quarters. They were smaller, and hence more crowded, than his own, but he'd rather be anywhere else, he realized. Anywhere that didn't have so many memories attached. “Why?" he asked.

Karena scowled. "Rumors," she said, her tone flat. "Rumors in the corridors." It hadn't taken her long to figure out just what those rumors had been, but still she'd taken her time, had spent two or three hours talking to people, asking careful questions, before bringing the news to Delain.

"What kind of rumors?" he asked.

"That some people on the Council are planning something—a way of opening the kaer to check on what's outside. A way that would bring down the main wards."

"No. .Delain breathed.

"Yes," Karena confirmed sharply. "Nobody seems to know the details." She shrugged. "But it's obvious that somebody on the Council let slip your suggestion. The rumors built on that. . . and like all rumors, they got out of control."

"But the mob, the man who was killed. . ."

The dwarf snorted. "From what I hear, he spoke out in favor of the plan. He said it would be a good idea to find out if the Horrors were still out there. He said it was a good gamble, that the possible gain was worth the possible loss. So they beat him to death, right there on the High Concourse. People who'd known him all their lives—friends, neighbors.. .They decided he was Horror-touched, and so they killed him."

Passions. . .Delain shook his head. "What's happening to us?" he asked, voice bleak. "What's happening to the kaer?"

Karena shook off the question. "More important, what are we going to do about it?"

"Do?" Delain looked from Karena to Gaylear, saw the anger, the fear, and also something that looked like determination in his friend's eyes. "What can we do?"

"I don't know," the dwarf snapped. "That's why I'm asking you, Scourge it! You're the one with the ideas around here."

Delain shook his head slowly. His head felt as though it were full of uncarded wool, his thoughts muzzy and slow. Grief was a cold emptiness in his chest, like the ashes of a fire—his anger—that had burned down to nothing. "I don't have any ideas, Karena."

"Then get some!" Karena jumped to her feet and began to pace—two steps in one direction, then two back again in the small room. "By the Passions, Delain, what are you going to do? Just sit around and mope? I don't know about you, but that's not good enough for me. Ah, Scourge it!" she swore bitterly. "What good are you?"

Something stirred in the young man's chest, like an echo of the rage that had filled him the day before. "I don't know what to do."

"Then think of something."

"I can't think!" He pounded a balled fist down on his knee. "The Council decided..."

"Who gives a flying fralkh what the Council decided?" Karena bellowed, rounding on him viciously. "You had ideas, Delain, you presented them to the Council. Good ideas, maybe." She glared down at him. "Did you believe what you told the Council? Or were you just flapping your lips? Tell me that, Troubadour!" She made the word a curse.

Delain felt his cheeks tingle. "I believed."

"'Believed' then. But what about now? Scourge it, Delain!" The dwarf struggled visibly to control her temper, but with only partial success. "Grais is dead, Troubadour." Delain flinched, tried to shut out her voice, but Karena pressed on, her words like a dagger twisting in his gut. "I'm sorry he's dead, but he is. He cared for the people of Kaer Moar, he worked to help them—to help us all. But he's gone." She stood before him where he sat, her hard gray eyes at the same level as his. "So what are you going to do, Troubadour?" she demanded. "Let all his work be for nothing? His death be for nothing?" She turned away in disgust. "Ah, why am I even talking to you? You might as well be as dead as he is."

"Karena, don’t. . ." Gaylear's voice cut through the agony in Delain's heart and mind—gave him something to cling to. With an ultimate effort, he fought back his despair and pain. Not totally, by any means, but at least enough to think almost clearly again.

"No, she's right," he said. And then again, louder, "She's right." He looked at Karena, then realized he was looking up at her. In his torment, he'd curled in on himself, like a baby trying to return to the womb. He straightened his back, and fixed a newly clear gaze on her. "You're right, Karena. I. . .thank you."

She looked away, her cheeks coloring. It was the only time he'd ever seen her blush, Delain realized with a touch of amusement. "I didn't do it for you, Troubadour, I did it for the kaer." Her tone made the strong words a lie. Delain shook his head. Again, he had the feeling that there was something going on he was missing.

Well, he reminded himself, now's not the time to worry about it. "You wanted ideas, Karena," he said slowly. "Then try this one on for size.

"How game are the two of you for a trip Outside?"

13

The reaction from his two friends was all Delain could have wanted. Gaylear's dark eyes widened to what looked like the size of dinner plates, and her lips tightened to form a single thin line.

Karena's response was, characteristically, more extreme. "Are you joking?" she demanded. "Scourge it! Don't say things like that. . ." But then she looked deep into the young troubadour's eyes, and saw what was in them. "By the Passions," she breathed, "you're serious."

"Of course." He had a sudden urge to laugh at the disbelief in the dwarf's voice. It passed in an instant, as the gravity of the situation struck him again. "I am serious, Karena. You said it yourself. Something has to be done. The kaer's coming apart around us, and I don't mean just the wards. Something has to be done, and we can't wait for the Council to see it. Which means we have to do it ourselves."

"But. . .to go Outside!"

Delain felt his expression harden. "You thought it was a good idea when I presented it to the Council," he reminded her. "Why then, but not now? Because, then, it would have been someone else who did it?" He saw that his words stung Karena in one of her more tender spots— her pride—but he pressed on. "I'm going, and don't ask why," he said, cutting her off before she could ask. "You gave me all the reasons. Because something's got to be done. Because nobody else will do it." He paused. "Because this way, Grais's work—his death—won't be for nothing.

"Will you come with me?"

He was staring at the dwarf expectantly, but it was Gaylear who spoke first. "I'll come," she said softly, her voice sounding her fear, but also determination.

He smiled. "Thank you, Gaylear." He turned back to Karena and waited.

"Scourge!" The dwarf was pacing again, two strides up, two strides back. "Scourge!" she swore again, then followed it with vicious curses in more languages than Delain had ever heard from a single mouth. "Yes!" she snapped. "Yes, Horrors take you! Which they probably will," she added bitterly, "and us too." She slumped down in a chair and stared at her boots. "When?" she asked after a moment.

Good question, Delain thought, and one that really brought home to him the reality of what he'd suggested. "As soon as possible, I suppose," he said slowly. "There's no reason to wait. . .and plenty of reasons not to." The major one being that the longer they delayed, the more likely they would be paralyzed by the fear of what they were doing. "We've got to figure out what we'll need," he went on, thinking aloud. "Weapons, armor, if we've got any, any magical protections we might own—like your charmsense brooch, Karena—and whatever else we can think of that might keep us alive."

"Food," Gaylear suggested.

Delain stared at her, then smiled. "Yes, food, and warm clothes, too. Sleeping rolls." He laughed. "You're right, Gaylear, it's just possible that we won't be eaten by Horrors the moment we step outside.

"Think hard," he told his friends firmly. "Make lists. Take time. Go over what you own and what you think you can borrow, and make lists. We'll meet"—he glanced over at the hour-candle in its wall sconce—"in three hours, back here. And we'll compare lists. Do you both agree?"

Gaylear nodded at once, but Karena was still looking sullen. "Do you want to bring anyone else?" the dwarf asked gruffly.

Delain considered that for a moment. "No," he answered finally, "I don't think so. I can't see how numbers could make any difference. Either the Scourge is over, or it's not. If it's not, how could another person or two make any difference?" He paused, as another thought struck him. "And how many people can you get into one of those dwarven caisson-things anyway?" He shook his head. "No," he repeated, "I think it should be just us.

"If we're all in agreement," he added.

"I'll go," Gaylear said simply.

"Scourge." Karena looked angry enough to punch a stone wall. “Yes. Yes, all right? I'll go too. Fralkh!"

Delain smiled. "Thank you," he said to both of them, then rose and headed for the door. "Three hours," he reminded them.

As he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, he heard Karena mutter, “Fralkh! I think I liked him better the way he was before."

When it came down to it, there wasn't really that much to bring, Delain realized as he looked over the three lists. He wasn't convinced personal weapons would do much good, but he knew he'd miss the silver shortsword at his hip if he didn't bring it. They'd need warm clothes and cloaks, having no idea of the climate or conditions Outside, or, come to think of it, even what season of the year it was. Food and water—but only limited amounts of each. All three agreed that if it took them longer than a day to confirm that the Scourge was over, then they couldn't trust their judgment enough to potentially doom the entire kaer. So, too, with camping gear; all three had decided to settle for a simple blanket. Beyond that. . .

Well, what else could they possibly need? Delain had debated whether to bring his harp, but had grudgingly decided it would just be dead weight. If the Horrors were gone, he'd be able to lay his fingers on its strings again after the kaer had opened. And if they weren't gone.. .well, he couldn't imagine he'd have much chance to play then.

He looked at the others sitting motionless in Karena's quarters. Though he hadn't suggested it, not only had they written out their lists, they'd also gathered together all the items. Gaylear had her trusty bow and a quiver full of arrows—with razor-vaned broadheads, she pointed out quietly, not the target heads she used for practice. Beyond that, she had a heavy traveling cloak that Delain guessed must date back a long way, a waterskin. . .and that was about it. When he asked about a bedroll, the archer smiled and said, "I don't think I'll be able to sleep anyway."

Karena's pile of equipment wasn't much larger: her sword in its curved scabbard, a "snap bag" full of food, a waterskin—not that it contained water, Delain realized when she took a swallow from it and the rich bouquet of dwarven wine filled the air—and her simple bedroll. She didn't have a cloak, but he saw she had kitted herself out in some old armor, small plates of metal sewn onto thick, quilted fabric. That should keep her warm enough, he decided.

For himself.. .well, he'd brought even less than either of his friends. He had his shortsword, of course. He also considered bringing his father's iron broadsword, more as a good-luck talisman than anything else, but had eventually admitted he simply didn't know how to use it. He also had a thick cloak that would double as a blanket if the Horrors gave them a chance to sleep. Beyond that, a small waterskin and a new belt-pouch filled with dried foodstuffs completed his equipment.

He looked over at his friends, searching their faces for signs of doubt. Fear was there, obviously, although Karena was struggling assiduously to hide it. Good, he thought. Fear was a natural reaction in a case like this. Anyone who didn't feel it was either insane. . .or Horror-touched. But matching the fear was an equal measure of determination, a kind of cold acceptance of the risks. Not fatalism—that would really have worried him—but a kind of clear-eyed appreciation that death, or worse than death, might be awaiting them beyond the kaer walls. He felt their eyes on him, too, and imagined they saw much the same thing in his face.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. "Ready?" he asked quietly.

"No," Karena snorted. Then she smiled grimly. "But if you wait for me to be, you'll have a long wait. Let's go."

Gaylear just nodded.

They decided to take different routes to the "caisson"—as far as the Closed Levels, at least. While there was nothing about any one of them alone that would raise warning flags for anyone seeing them, Gaylear had pointed out that three laden individuals heading for the depths of the kaer might attract a little too much unwanted attention, particularly considering the mood of the kaer at the moment.

Accordingly, they'd left Karena's quarters independently, each heading off in a different direction. Gaylear was taking the Scytha Stair, while Karena was taking an even less-used stairway out on the periphery of the inhabited areas. Delain would take the Great Gyre because the Scytha Stair and any other little-used route to the lower levels still had bad associations.

So now Delain was making his way down the winding steps of the Great Gyre. His cloak, turned inside out to show cotton lining instead of the thick wool outer layer, was under his arm, a shapeless bundle wrapped around his waterskin. His new belt-pouch counterbalanced his shortsword, but neither of those were worthy of any comment. Halfway down the Gyre, he stopped, unable to shake the conviction that he'd forgotten something vital, almost like the familiar dream of finding oneself abroad in the kaer without a pair of trous. It took him a moment to place it. Then he smiled grimly. His harp, that was it. He did feel naked, or worse, as though he'd left part of himself behind, without its familiar weight bumping against his hip. He sighed, and hurried on.

The hardest thing, he found, was responding to the greetings of the people he passed on the stairs, and not reacting to those who just watched him wordlessly. It was all too easy to imagine that, behind the familiar faces, were minds that knew, that could see—from his expression, perhaps—what he was doing. Minds that were even now husbanding their rage, until the moment they could let it out in the kind of mob violence that had slaughtered a man not so long ago. The soft mutter of voices, echoing up and down the Gyre, became the plotting of conspirators, debating the best moment to fall upon him. Every smile directed his way became the camouflage for murderous intent. Any unexpected sound—a bark of laughter, a child's playful shriek—became the signal for the attack. I should have taken the Scytha Stair, he told himself grimly, or even Karena's route. Whatever fear he might have felt there couldn't be worse than this.

No mobs formed around him, though. Nobody pointed at him, warning their friends that an enemy of the kaer was passing. No knife flashed, or cosh fell. The journey seemed to take years, but eventually he reached the bottom of the Gyre, on the Level of Raggok. The crowds were thinner here, the potential attackers fewer, which lifted some of the weight from his soul. Strange, Delain thought, as he followed the corridor that would take him to the Scytha Stair for his descent into the Unnamed Levels. Strange he was more terrified of his neighbors than of the thought of going Outside. How could that be? With a shrug, he set the question aside for later—if there would be a later.

At last, there ahead of him, was the entrance to the Scytha Stair. A casual glance around showed the corridor momentarily deserted. Quickly, he ducked into the Stair...

And bumped into a figure waiting on the landing. “Scourge!" he yelped, jumping back, hand flashing for the hilt of his shortsword. Then he saw who it was, and he let his sword-hand fall.

"Marta! What in the name of the Passions are you doing here?"

Marta smiled as she leaned back against the wall of the stairway. "Why," she said, her voice deceptively playful, "waiting for you, of course, goodman Evenstar. Or perhaps I should say Troubadour Evenstar." She chuckled, a faintly musical sound, but with a disturbing underlying discord. "I saw your large friend come this way just minutes ago, so I knew you'd be along soon enough." The smile fell away from her face, and her voice became little more than a tortured whisper. "Are you really doing it?"

He started to shake his head, but she cut him off with a snapped, "Don't lie to me, just tell me, Scourge you! Are you doing it?"

Delain looked into her eyes, searching for some clue. But if, as some old troubadour had said, the eyes were the windows to the soul, then Marta had closed and latched the shutters. After a moment, he sighed. "Yes, Marta," he said quietly. "Yes. We're doing it. We're going Outside."

"Why?" The desperation in her voice was like a knife into his heart.

"Because. . ." He paused. The true answer was too long, too complicated, to get into here. "Because if we don't," he answered simply, "who will?"

"You'd risk the entire kaer to prove you're right?"

He shook his head in frustration. "That's not it," he said. Then, he cut himself off firmly. "I don't have time to explain, Marta. I'd like to—I'd like you to understand, even if you couldn't agree—but I can't.

"So what are you going to do, Marta Tethys Aravey?" To his own ears, his voice sounded tired, drained of energy. "Your leader, Kolban, thinks we're the enemy. Are you going to go and tell him?"

"That's not how it is!" the young woman hissed. "He's not our 'leader.'" Then added softly, "Not mine, at least."

Delain took a deep, cleansing breath, pushing his emotions—fear, the remnants of anger, everything—to the dark, back corners of his mind. "We're going Outside, Marta," he stated calmly. "There will be damage to the wards because of it. But the wards will not fall, not immediately. Fall they will, eventually, but what we do won't hasten it significantly" He shrugged. "I don't know what else I can tell you," he admitted. "If you think you must tell Kolban and the other doom—" He remembered who he was talking to. "—The other troubadours, then be about it. I won't stop you." He stood, waiting.

Marta didn't head for the stairs. Instead, she shifted almost frenetically from foot to foot, like a child caught between two unarguable imperatives. She couldn't meet his eyes; her gaze flicked wildly over everything else but his face—the walls, the stairs above, the flights below. He could sense the conflict, could see it in every plane of her face, in every line of her body.

And he could sense, equally clearly, when she came to a decision. "Well?" he asked gently.

"My great-grandfather was a weaponsmith." Delain blinked at the apparent non sequitur in her answer, but he held his peace. "He kept many books," she went on. "Most of them were treatises on ways of forging steel, new techniques for tempering and annealing." She shook her head. "My grandfather, and my father, never had any interest in such things, so they never read them. Neither did I. Not so much as looked at them.

"Until just the other day," she continued, so softly Delain had to strain to hear her. "Until after"—a momentary smile, there then gone, flashed across her face—"you bought me a flagon of hurlg.

"I don't know why I did, but I pulled out some of those old books, and I thumbed through them." She chuckled ironically. "Ways of forging steel, new techniques for tempering and annealing.

"Most of them. But there were other books there, too. Old books of tales." She shook her head. "I never knew my great-grandfather, but from what my father told me, I wouldn't have imagined he'd keep such 'useless' writings. But still, they were there."

Delain thought he knew where she was leading, but kept his silence.

"They were old, some of those books, and copies of scrolls that were even older." Marta tipped her head back, to stare up at the stairs above—through them, to whatever might lie beyond. "Some were copies of scrolls written before Kaer Moar was ever built. And one of them contained a copy of the Canon of Ages."

At last, her blue eyes settled on his face. "I read it, Delain. A version of the Canon that dates back to before the founding of Kaer Moar." She began to recite:

Stillness at last, and stillness ever more,

At the end as at the beginning. And when the

All-encompassing pattern comes to crack and shatter

And the laughter of childhood is but a memory,

Then the cold wind blows through the soul.

And darkness at last shall fall, and the temple crumbles,

And the night shall be forever.

"Isn't that how you spoke it to me?" She laughed mirthlessly. "A reference to aging: loss of memory and the realization of mortality. No prophecy at all. Wouldn't you say so?"

Delain shook his head slowly. "I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," the other troubadour replied, her voice suddenly hard. "Just be on your way."

Delain Evenstar smiled. "Thank you, Troubadour Aravey," he said softly.

Marta turned sharply on her heel and started up the Scytha Stair. Halfway up the first flight, she turned back to him. "May the Passions be with you, Delain Evenstar.

"May the Passions be with us all."

14

Gaylear and Karena were waiting for him—impatiently, in the latter case—when he reached the iron-bound door leading to the caisson. "Problems?" the dwarf asked.

Delain shook his head. "Less than I expected," he said cryptically. "And you?"

Karena just snorted, but Gaylear nodded slowly. "Perhaps," she admitted.

"What happened?"

"A troubadour," she told him. "One of those you call the doomsayers. He saw me coming down the Scytha Stair. He watched me." She looked at him, her eyes wide in a pale face. "I think he knows, Delain."

"How could. . . " He stopped. How could he? was what he wanted to ask. But there was a strong chance that maybe he did know. Was it just chance that Marta was in the Scytha Stair waiting for him? What if all the doomsayers knew? What if Kolban knew?

"Perhaps he does, Gaylear," Delain said slowly. He tightened his grip on the bundle under his arm. "It just means we have to move faster. Maybe all the stormcrows are on their way down here to stop us." He headed for the open door, then stopped. Light quartz! That's what he'd forgotten...

But Gaylear hadn't. She pulled out two fist-sized chunks of glowing crystal, and handed one to Delain. He smiled in thanks.

"Go, if we're going,'' Karena snapped.

They went. Gaylear led the way, followed by Karena, then Delain taking up the rear. The chunks of light quartz cast horrific, twisted shadows on the curved walls surrounding them, and for the first time Delain noticed how hollowly their footfalls echoed in the sloping corridor. The passage seemed so much longer this time, too. We have to be there by now, he thought on two separate occasions. But both times, the tube of sweating basalt seemed to extend off into infinity before them. You're never going to reach the end, his fear whispered in his mind. There is no way out, it's all a Horror-begotten trick!

Then, without warning, the walls receded, and ahead of him Gaylear straightened to her full height. There was the iron door, just as he'd remembered it, crisscrossed with its complex of locking mechanisms. And there were the wards, carved into the circular frame, still seeming to writhe of their own accord in the glow of the light quartz.

Karena Hearthrock dropped her burden with a thump. "Well," she stated, "we're here."

Slowly, Delain stepped past his friends to stand before the door. In the light of the magical crystals, the graven symbols that framed it seemed to shift, to mutate, into almost-familiar characters. A warning, he thought, a warning like that carved on the gate to the Underworld in ancient dwarven tales: "Beyond me, oblivion." With an effort, he shook off the dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. No, he told himself firmly. There's still hope—that's what we must cling to.

"Do you remember how to open it?"

He turned, and smiled gently at Gaylear. Always practical—always bringing me back to reality—aren't you, Archer? he thought warmly. "I remember," he assured her. He pointed to the three symbols that Ifollis had picked out. "This. . . this. . . then this."

"Are you ready?" he asked. To his own ears, his voice was surprisingly calm.

"Yes." That from Gaylear Cleareye.

"Get on with it." And that from Karena Hearthrock.

For a moment he hesitated. Then he reached out and placed his hands on the door. The iron was cold against his skin, but nowhere near as cold as it should have been, he thought. He looked at his two friends, saw the resolve on their faces. He smiled.

"Feh." The first of the symbols that Peg Ifollis had pointed out burned with a soft, yellow light.

"Thark." The second symbol flared to life—a colder blue light this time. He could feel the magic shift around him. He was no wizard, but initiates of the High Art could sense the weavings of magical threads too. And now he was surrounded by threads of a power he'd previously only imagined.

No further. The thought seemed to come from without, from some source beyond his own mind, beyond the kaer itself. No further. Was he sensing some part of the pattern making up the ward—some kind of protective magic—or was it something else? He paused, feeling the eyes of his friends upon him.

"Berram." Speaking the last word was the hardest thing Delain had ever done in his life.

The third symbol burst to life, in blinding white fire. He staggered back, shielding watering eyes with an upraised hand. In the very core of his being, he felt the fabric of the magic shift around him, as profound a sensation as if the very rock beneath his feet had momentarily turned to mud. Even through the harsh glare of the third symbol, Delain saw the iron door shiver—a single, visible shock conducted through the metal—then begin to swing back.

"Thystonius, protect us... " Delain could hardly hear the troll's voice over the sound of the door swinging open, the brittle grinding of age-welded metal grating against stone.

After what seemed like an age, the grinding stopped. Simultaneously, the glare from the three symbols faded. Delain blinked in what, by contrast, seemed like pitch darkness. Then, slowly, his vision returned. The crystals of light quartz he and Gaylear carried were still alive, though the illumination they gave was like a spark to a pyre in comparison to the fire from the graven runes. He wiped tears from his eyes, and looked beyond the now-open door, raising his light quartz for a better view.

It was a caisson on the other side of the warded door. Or, at least, it closely matched Karena's description of one. The iron door opened onto a small antechamber roughly the size of the room where they now stood. Square, the antechamber was, with walls of cold, burnished iron instead of basalt. And on the other side was another door, perfectly matching in all details the one that now stood open. Delain realized he'd been holding his breath, and let it out with a sigh.

"Friends?"

Karena and Gaylear turned wide eyes upon him. He could sense their fear—almost smell it, a sharp miasma in the air. Pointedly he looked around. "Do you see any Horrors?" he asked lightly.

Predictably, it was Karena who laughed first. "So far, so good." She picked up her baggage, and without hesitation stepped over the curved sill into the iron-walled antechamber. After a moment, Gaylear followed. And that leaves just me, Delain told himself. But what in the name of the Passions do I think I'm doing here?

He looked around wildly, then suddenly calmed, as a voice seemed to speak in his mind. Grais's voice. "Why not shoot for the moon?" he imagined he heard his uncle say. "Even if you miss, you're still among the stars." He smiled. You're right, Uncle, he said inwardly. Even though I can't believe this is exactly what you meant. Delain bent down to scoop up his bundle, and stepped through the open doorway.

Karena was already examining the second door. Gaylear, in contrast, was crouching down, looking at something in the corner of the iron chamber. "Delain," the troll said quietly. "I don't think we're the first people to come here."

"What? But that doesn't make any sense." Yet she was right, he saw that the instant he joined her. Resting in the corner was a horn scroll tube, which looked as though it had been left there only yesterday. There was no dust, or any other sign of age, in the entire chamber, he realized suddenly, but he knew that was deceiving. He could feel the age of the artifact, as he could of the entire caisson structure.

Slowly, he reached out to pick up the scroll tube. In contrast to the iron door of the caisson, the polished horn was cold to the touch, even colder than would seem natural. Magic? Delain wondered. Protective magic of some kind? If so, then there was a chance—a slim one, granted, but still a chance—that the scroll within might be well preserved.

Fascinating. But what entranced him even more were the subtle embellishments carved into the outside of the horn tube. Delain had seen symbols like this before. . .

"Delain!" Karena snapped. "What in the name of the Horrors are you playing with?"

"A moment," he told her. Ever so gently, he worked loose the wax cap from one end of the horn tube, and extracted the rolled parchment from within. Yes, he sensed at once, it was magically protected. The membrane was yellowed with the passing centuries, but still it was supple as the day it was made, with no trace of brittleness. With fingers that trembled slightly, he unrolled a section of the parchment.

"Delain, are you coming, Troubadour?"

"Just a moment, Karena," he said firmly.

Yes. . . The complex geometrical embellishments that lined both edges of the parchment, even the writing—the blocky, ancient trollish characters—were definitely familiar. Quickly, he scanned the first line, translating crudely in his head: "Twelve longnights since Poliphan's chariot was hidden from my eyes, and fear that Thebal's lover stalks us grows in our hearts. . . " There was little doubt, he thought. The writing style, the allusions. . .Was it even the same hand that had written these characters and those on the fragment? Without a direct comparison it was impossible to know for sure, but there was no doubt in his mind that this parchment, and the fragment he'd once labored over, came from the same era.

"Twelve longnights since Poliphan's chariot was hidden from my eyes. . . " He knew the allusions; he'd already worked them out when translating the fragment. "Longnight" was the old obsidiman term for the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. And Poliphan's chariot was, of course, the sun. "Twelve years since I last saw the sun. .. " Twelve years after the closing of the kaer. As for the rest of that first line. . .

"Delain!" He looked up guiltily, saw his two friends staring at him—Gaylear in puzzlement, Karena in barely repressed anger.

"Sorry." Carefully, he rerolled the scroll and returned it to its protective tube. Then he stashed the tube within his jerkin. "I'm ready now," he told them, getting to his feet.

"Good thing too, by the Passions," Karena grumbled.

She gestured at the closed iron door before them. "I'll be fralkhed if I know how to open this Horror-touched thing."

Delain blinked. He felt the blood drain from his face. Oh, Passions...

"Well?" Karena was shifting from foot to foot as though she had more nervous energy than she knew what to do with. "Open the Horror-begotten thing, and be about it."

He turned to his friends. "Peg Ifollis didn't say anything about how to open this door," he said quietly.

The dwarf drew breath for a sharp retort, then Delain saw understanding dawn on her face. She closed her eyes. "You don't know how.. . "

He shook his head miserably. He hadn't even thought of this? What else hadn't he thought of? Maybe it was a good thing he couldn't open the door. He could well be leading his friends to their death, just because he didn't think of something important.

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

Beside him, Gaylear suddenly stiffened. Her large head snapped around, to stare back out through the open door.

"What?" Karena demanded.

"Footsteps," the troll said softly. "Voices. Down the corridor. People are coming."

Karena seemed about to scoff, but then her expression changed. She'd heard it too, Delain realized. He strained his own senses to the limits, but all he could hear were himself and his friends.

"A group of people," Karena confirmed after a moment. "A dozen, maybe more."

"But who. . .?" Delain didn't bother finishing the question. He knew, of course. Who else could it be?

"It's Kolban and his people," he told the others. "Coming to stop us."

Karena shook her head fiercely. "They don't know

quaalz about what we're doing—"

"They know," Delain cut in. "Believe me, they know."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter how, does it?" he snapped back. "They're coming. And what do you think they're going to do when they find us here? Slap us on the wrist, tell us we're naughty children?" He fixed his gaze on Karena. "I think this is much worse than talking about diminishing the wards, don't you?" He could see from her eyes that he'd gotten through to her.

"So then open the Horror-touched door before they tear us limb from limb!" she shouted back.

And that was the rub, wasn't it? He didn't know how. Delain pointed to the open door leading back into the kaer. "Shut that, at least. We don't have to make it easy for them." And it'll give you something to do other than stare at me, he added mentally as the two women leaped for the door. As he turned to examine the second door, he heard his friends throwing their weight against the first.

The two doors were virtually identical: the same complex locking mechanisms, the same encircling, intricately embellished frame. Cautiously, he touched the cold iron of the door. Yes, he could feel the magic of the wards like a thrilling through his fingertips.

"It won't close, Delain!" He spun at Gaylear's voice. Both his friends were still throwing all their considerable weight and strength against the door. For all the result, though, they could as well have been trying to topple a mountain.

"Scourge!" he spat. The doors were linked to the wards, obviously. The only way to open—and to close— the doors was to transfer the magical energy back and forth between the inner and outer doors. Which meant that to close the inner door, he had to figure out how to open the outer. . .

And right now! For the first time, he could hear the sounds his friends had already detected: the mutter of voices, the scuff of footfalls, echoing along the hundred-yard length of the sloping corridor. He tried to force the sounds from his consciousness as he concentrated on the frame.

Yes, it was identical to the one surrounding the inner door. The same symbols in the same positions, interlinked in the same intricate way. Instinctively, he picked out the three symbols that had opened the inner door. Could it be that simple?

Quite probably, he told himself. There was no reason to make it any more complex. After all, this wasn't like some kind of security lock, the kind of magical protection that the kings of old had used to protect their treasure rooms.

It had to be. And if it wasn't? Well, that would be the end of it, wouldn't it? If the "combination" was different on this set of wards, it was a certainty he wouldn't be able to pick it out by trial and error. Maybe if he'd had a couple of hours, Delain thought, scanning the complexity of the carvings. But he wouldn't have even a couple of minutes.

"Get ready." The words were out of his mouth before he was even aware he'd spoken.

"Do you know. ..?"

"I think so," he told Karena shortly. "Get ready."

As his two friends picked up their gear and girded themselves, he slung his own heavy cloak around his back, and settled the strap of his waterskin on his shoulder. He was ready. Or, as ready as he would ever be.

He turned to look at his friends—his comrades. He scanned their faces, saw the trust in their eyes. They trust me to know, he thought, they trust me to get them out of this.. . and to lead them into even greater danger. I can't let them down.

He shot them his best attempt at a reassuring smile, and then turned to the door. Slowly he reached out and set his palms flat against the cold iron. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, letting it hiss out between his teeth. Now or never. . . He opened his eyes, and gazed up at the runes carved into the stone frame.

"Feh." The first symbol glowed—a sullen red light, this time. He felt the weaving of the threads alter around him.

"Thark." The second symbol burst to life, burning with a cold silver glow. Mentally he tensed, preparing for the same sense of warning that had almost overwhelmed him the first time. But it didn't come.

Another deep breath. Behind him, the sounds of pursuit were growing louder. If he turned, he imagined he'd be able to see the light of the doomsayers' lamps. Now or never.

"Berram."

The cold iron rang under his hands, like a huge bell struck with a mallet. There was no sound, though, not anything he could hear with his ears. Instead, he felt the sound—or some magical analogue of sound—ring through the core of his being, through his bones. . . through his soul. He lowered his hands and stepped back from the door. Something had happened, but was it what he expected? Would the magic of the wards transfer from the outer line of defense to the inner? Or had he just canceled both layers of wards, leaving the kaer open to the Horrors? Oh, Passions. . .He hadn't thought of that possibility, had he? What in the name of all he held holy had he done?

He spun at a gasp from Gaylear.

The inner door was swinging closed, slowly, ponderously. With a solid thud it seated itself firmly in its frame.

And the magic shifted again. He felt it as a quivering shock, perceived as if by a sense he hadn't known he had.

Around the circumference of the second door, all the symbols suddenly flashed, a single concussion of light. He reeled back from it, raising his hands to shield suddenly streaming eyes.

The brutal light was gone in an instant, the fire going from the three key symbols as well, the runes feh, thark, and berram. Blinking back tears, he saw the second door start to swing open—outward, away from them.

It seemed to take forever for the massive iron door to swing back—long enough for countless thoughts of fear and recrimination to flood through his mind. He closed his eyes, concentrating on an ancient rhyme that—so the legends said, at least—sages of Throal had once used to calm their minds:

My mind is a limpid pond,

My thoughts but ripples on the surface.

Fears are like pebbles cast into the pool.

Though they may disturb the surface for a moment,

Beneath that surface the stillness remains. . .

"Delain." At Karena's whisper, he opened his eyes again.

The door was fully open now. Blackness lay beyond it. Blackness, and silence.

A large hand squeezed his shoulder. Reassurance—a kind of calm strength—seemed to flow through the contact, finishing the job that the ancient rhyme had begun. He looked up into the face of Gaylear Cleareye, and thanked her with his eyes.

"I'll go first," he said softly. Touching his sword-hilt, almost as though it were some good-luck charm, he stepped forward over the sill, holding his light quartz out before him.

The crystal's glow reflected off rough, black stone— undressed basalt. He was in another corridor, another narrow tunnel sloping upward. Not a long one, though, he saw at once. Less than a dozen yards ahead of him, the rock walls ended, the tunnel opening into further darkness.

He paused, breathing deeply. The air was frigid, chilling his throat and lungs. But there was something else about it, he realized, something new—something important. Not quite a scent. . . or, at least, not only a scent. A whole mixture of sensations, he thought. The complexity of life. . .and a sense of space, of openness, that he could have only imagined in the kaer. Outside. . .

Slowly he walked forward, sensing the presence of his friends behind him. Halfway along the up-sloping tunnel he stopped, and on impulse slipped the light quartz into his pouch. No sense in announcing our presence too clearly, he told himself. Around him, impenetrable blackness fell as Gaylear, too, pocketed her light quartz.

No, he realized after a moment, not quite impenetrable. This wasn't the blackness of the Unnamed Levels. There was light, coming from the end of the corridor. The faintest of lights, from a source he couldn't make out. But it was there, showing him the walls around him as ghostly outlines. He waited a few more seconds while his eyes adapted, until the details of the corridor, of the hand he held out before him, emerged from the blackness. And then he walked forward again.

He stopped once more in the mouth of the tunnel, frozen in place by the vista that revealed itself to his dark-adapted vision.

"Outside," he breathed, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

The tunnel emerged onto what had to be a steep mountain slope. Huge, rugged boulders surrounded it, great looming masses of deeper blackness. Ahead of him, the mountain sloped away, down to a great plain that spread out to the distant horizon. Delain stared in wonderment. By the Passions, he'd never dreamed there was this much space in all the world. He tried to gauge size and distance, but it was impossible. None of the cues he might use to judge the size of a kaer chamber made sense here. Everything was just too vast!

Nothing moved on that great plain, or on the mountainside around him. There was no sound, no intimation of life whatsoever. The sense of the multiplicity of life that had so struck him in the tunnel was gone now, seemingly torn from him by the icy breeze that cut through his clothing like a stiletto. Is this what the Scourge means? he asked himself. A dead world?

For the first time, he thought about the source of the gentle, silvery illumination that limned the landscape. He raised his eyes to where the roof would be in the kaer. ..

And gasped aloud at what he saw.

The sky. For the first time in his life, Delain saw the sky. Vaster and more magnificent than anything the old tales had described, than any picture his imagination had painted. A great, midnight purple bowl over the world. But no, that wasn't right. Not a bowl. There was no depth to this. When he looked up, looked out, he was seeing into infinity.

And then there were the stars.

He'd known about stars, of course; so many of the old legends spoke of them. He'd seen the old drawings, the shapes of the constellations—the patterns that Name-givers had read into the sky since before the dawn of language. That's what he'd expected to see, if he'd given any thought to it: a larger representation of those constellation charts, each of the Passions made up of a dozen bright stars, and maybe twice as many smaller points of light. Twelve constellations, each comprising perhaps thirty stars, fewer than four hundred in total.

Yet, above him, the entire sky was alive with stars.

Myriads of them, myriads upon myriads, like handfuls of diamond dust cast across a field of black velvet. They burned with a light he'd never seen before, a light that was both immediate and incomprehensibly distant. They flickered and they danced, never remaining constant for more than an instant. And the colors. . .All the constellation charts were points and lines of silver ink on black or blue paper. But the real stars burned with a thousand colors for which he could never dream up names.

He felt Karena's stolid presence beside him, saw the dark bulk of Gaylear silhouetted against the stars as she rose to her full height.

"Passions. . . " He didn't know which of them had spoken—more a sigh, than anything else. Karena, Gaylear. . .or even himself.

"I never thought it could be so beautiful," the troll breathed.

There was no warning. Two of the bulky shapes surrounding them—boulders, Delain had thought—moved, changed, becoming the silhouettes of massive figures, flanking them. Silently the figures moved toward them, reaching for them with clawed hands.

15

No!

Fear was like a physical blow to the stomach, driving the air from Delain's lungs. The Florrors—what else could they be?—loomed up from the rocks, one on each side of their small group. In the cold starlight, they were just shapes—roughly humanoid, but not human—slightly shorter than Gaylear but much bulkier, looking almost squat despite their size.

His first impulse was to turn and run, back into the tunnel, back toward the safety of the kaer. But they'd come this far, and somehow he steeled himself to face whatever was to come. And if he didn't want to risk leading these creatures back down into the kaer...

Beside him, he heard Karena's sword sing from its scabbard, the steel glinting in the starlight. To the other side, Gaylear was struggling to unsling her great bow from her shoulder.

Closer the shapes came. His hand reached, seemingly of its own volition, for his sword hilt. He stopped it. What good was a shortsword against Horrors?

One of the shapes stepped out from among the rocks that had shielded it from view. Eyes like black pits looked down at him from a gnarled, misshapen head.

"Parathiociotlantbelthanaripetl?” The word rolled from the shape's lips, a deep, rumbling sound like rocks grinding together in a tunnelfall. A question, Delain thought numbly, the sounds inflected it as a question.

I know that tongue, he realized even more stunningly. The pronunciation, the accent—both were alien, but he recognized the rules that governed the formation of the long compound word. It was the tongue of the obsidi-men, the "Rock-Brothers." Delain had spent many months learning the complex language so he could read some of the race's ancient poems in their original form. But he'd never met one, for Kaer Moar numbered none of the race among its people.

To his left, Karena moved forward in a fighter's crouch, curved blade held out before her, threatening the shape that towered to almost twice her height. He saw her muscles tense for a thrust, saw the great hands of the shape facing her clench into fists almost as large as his head. On impulse, Delain reached out and gripped her shoulder, holding her back. Her head came around, fixing him with a glare of absolute outrage. But at least she held back her thrust.

Slowly, Delain held his hands out from his sides— open, to show he had no weapons. "Who are you?" he asked the dark shape before him.

Those black pits blinked—in surprise, he thought. "That was our question to you," the slow voice rumbled again, this time in Throalic, although again with a strange accent.

In the starlight, Delain saw the blade tremble in Karena's grip. The dwarf's gaze flicked back and forth between the troubadour and the shape. "What. . .?" she asked dully. To the other side, he sensed that Gaylear had stopped trying to ready her weapon, and was just watching him patiently—trustingly.

"You're an. . ." The words caught in Delain's throat. He tried again. "You're obsidimen?"

Again the black eyes blinked. When the voice rolled forth again, it seemed tinged with amusement. "Of course."

"You're not Horrors?"

The shape laughed deep in its chest, and turned to its companion to speak another long, compound word. Delain concentrated, trying to pick out the word's roots. Something about Horrors, he realized. It was saying something like "He asks if we're Horrors." In reply, the other shape laughed boomingly.

"If you're not Horrors," Karena snarled, "what are you? And what in the name of the Passions are you doing here?"

As Delain's eyes adapted further to the ambient light, he began to pick out details on the first shape's face. It seemed to have no eyebrows as such, but gnarled ridges over its night black eyes arched expressively. "I have said what we are," came its rock-on-rock voice. "We are obsidimen, of course." The eyes switched back to Delain. "Interesting," it mused. "A human, with a dwarf." It glanced over at Gaylear. "And a troll, too. Greetings, tru-a'a'uli," it added with a formal-seeming nod.

Delain shook his head slowly. What in the name of Astendar was happening here?

"A human, and a dwarf, and a troll," the obsidiman continued thoughtfully. "In an area occupied only by ork scorchers." Hairless brows arched again. "You must be far from home."

"Not as far as you might think," Delain answered carefully. He turned to Karena, gestured for her to put down her sword. The dwarf shot him a foul glare, but finally she lowered the blade so it pointed toward the ground. "My friend asked a question," he went on.

"Would you answer it? What are you doing here?"

The second shape finally emerged from among the rocks to join its fellow. Another obsidiman, Delain saw. The fear churning in his breast was starting to diminish, its grip on his heart beginning to loosen.

"We are scouts, of course," the second obsidiman answered. Its voice, while still deep, was less rough than that of its fellow, more like the note of an enormous wind instrument than the grind of a rockfall. "We happened to see your light. We came to investigate, lest you were ork scorchers set to fall upon our encampment again."

Ork scorchers? Delain thought. What were they? He shook his head, forcing himself to ignore the irrelevancy. "Another question, then, if you would." He paused, bracing himself. "Is the Scourge over?"

Both obsidimen just stared at him, a complex procession of emotions flashing across their rock-textured faces. One looked at the other...

And then they both laughed, the sound booming and rolling, echoing from the rocky mountainside. Delain heard Karena's snarl of anger, and again he gestured for her to keep her weapon lowered.

"Your answer?" Delain asked simply.

The obsidiman who'd spoken first turned back to him. "Our answer is yes, of course. A long time ago, as your races measure things, the tera'avenorvethionalicatl came to an end."

Delain felt the tension flood from his body, like water from a punctured skin. His vision blurred. His knees unlocked, and he almost fell—would have fallen if Gaylear hadn't wrapped a supporting arm around his shoulder. "A long time..

"You believe them?" The outrage in Karena's voice would have been humorous under other circumstances.

Both obsidimen fixed her with cold gazes. "You doubt our word, janalthapanl?" the second asked, a dangerous undertone to its voice.

"No," Delain said quickly. "No, we don't doubt your word, Rock-Brothers. It's just that..." He shook his head. How to explain?

He didn't have to, he saw. The first obsidiman's brow ridge arched almost comically. Then it looked around, at the opening to the tunnel, at the mountainside that rose toward the sky. "A kaer," it said wonderingly. "A lost kaer." It turned back to Delain. "Truly, you did not know the Scourge had ended?"

"It has ended? Not that I doubt your word," Delain added quickly.

The obsidiman's lips drew back from its teeth in a grimace that might have been meant as a smile. "It is ended," it stated flatly. "It's true that some areas of the Wastes are still tainted—and areas where Horrors are still abroad— but in general Barsaive is free from the terror." It paused. "There are those in your kaer who do not know this?"

"None of us knew that until right now. And some of us still aren't sure," he heard Karena grumble, but ignored her. He shook his head again. "A long time," he repeated. "How long?"

"It has been almost one hundred years since the Earthdawn took to the skies of the new world."

"One hundred years...?" A distant roaring seemed to fill Delain's ears. One hundred years. . .Three generations of humans, five oforks.. .And we didn't know. "Oh, Passions!" Grais might still be alive. My father might have seen the sky and the sun, and the moon and the stars. . .All the fears, the paranoia. . .the deaths, the thrice-damned prophecies—all for nothing.

He turned to face the great mountain that reared up above them. For a moment, it was as if he could see through the living rock, into the chambers and corridors and stairs of the kaer. As if he could see the people—thousands upon thousands of people—cowering within.

Ignorant of this, the most important truth he could imagine.

The first obsidiman reached out toward him, a welcoming gesture. "Come," it said. "We will take you to our encampment. You will meet the others."

"No. We must. . ." Delain stopped. He looked at the gaping blackness of the tunnel mouth. "We have to tell them, we have to make them understand. . ."

"Delain." Gaylear's voice was quiet. "Would they believe us?"

"Of course they'd believe us! If we go back—all of us go back—they can't not believe!"

"Are you so sure?" the troll asked gently. "Would they? Would they listen to our words? Or would they think us Horror-tainted, sent to trick them into opening the kaer before the Scourge had ended?

"And would they even give us a chance to speak those words? The same people who beat the life from an old man for even suggesting that the Scourge might be over.. ."

"Yes, but. . ." He gestured wildly about him. "But if the Rock-Brothers came with us, they'd have to believe!"

"Would they?" Gaylear shook her head slowly. "I don't think so, Delain. I think they'd fall upon the Rock-Brothers even before they did us. Thousands of kaer-dwellers, fighting against what they saw as invading Horrors? None of us would survive. And the ignorance would continue."

"But what—"

"Gaylear's right, Delain," Karena cut in. "Think about it, Troubadour! Would Kolban Darkways listen? Would his followers listen? Or would they strike out—out of fear—before your words reached them? They'd kill us, Delain."

"I don't care!" he shouted into her face. "I don't care if they kill me. What does it matter if I die in the process of telling them the truth?"

"If that's how it would be," the dwarf snarled, "I'd join you in a minute. But it's not the way it would be, Delain. It's not! They'd kill us. . .and they'd stay in the kaer. They'd wait, and when the wards finally collapsed, they'd heed the prophecies"—her tone made the word the harshest of oaths—"and they'd take their own lives. Our deaths would be for nothing, the one thing I can’t accept!"

"Then what do you say we should do, Scourge you!"

"Something else," Gaylear answered simply.

"What? Tell me that—what?"

"I don't know." The calm expression in the troll's eyes seemed to quench his anger, like water dousing a fire. "I don't know, Delain," she repeated. "There is an answer, there has to be. But it'll take thought."

Delain raised his eyes to the star-encrusted sky, stared off into infinity. Finally he lowered his gaze again. "You're right, both of you.. .You're right."

He turned to the two obsidimen. "Take us to your encampment, then," he said, "if we're still welcome."

Delain tossed uncomfortably on the hard ground. The heavy cloak that had seemed such a good idea at the time wasn't a good substitute for a bedroll, particularly when the ground on which he lay seemed to be made up entirely of fist-sized rocks. He flopped over onto his back, and stared up at the top of the tent. It was a dome-shaped contraption of a design he'd never heard of before, oiled fabric of some kind stretched over bowed shafts of springy wood.

He couldn't sleep, his mind racing around in circles like a cave rat trying to find a way out of a trap. It didn't help that both Gaylear and Karena were snorers either. The oiled fabric over his head seemed to vibrate with their stentorian roars. Delain sighed, thinking for the hundredth time over all that had befallen them since leaving the kaer.

The obsidimen had been as good as their word, leading the three kaer-dwellers downslope to the half-dozen domed tents clustered around a firepit that was their camp. In the starlight Delain had made out several heavily laden wagons of an unfamiliar design beyond the tents, their contents covered by tarpaulins. And beside the wagons he saw more than a dozen quadruped beasts tethered. Mules, he guessed, remembering descriptions of those animals from old tales.

He chuckled softly, wishing there'd been some way of recording Karena's reaction on seeing the mules. The fearless dwarf swordmaster had almost soiled her britches when one of the animals looked her way and snorted.. .

A sentry had watched their approach—another obsidiman. Delain hadn't seen him until he'd risen from his resting place beside a large boulder. And that almost made me soil my britches, he remembered ruefully. The kaer-dwellers' escorts had greeted the sentry in the complex, fluid obsidiman tongue, and then introductions had been made. The three obsidimen were all part of the same "Brotherhood," they'd explained. They had no name for the Brotherhood, as other Name-giver races might, because (so they'd stated) there was no such need. They were, effectively, family: closer than any blood relationship, or any sworn marriage, could ever be. The sentry was Ryann; the first obsidiman who'd spoken to Delain was Tebar, and his companion Falen. Although there'd been no mention of gender (why would there be?) and no physical clue as to his newfound comrades' sex, Delain found himself thinking of them all as males, labeling them as "he" and "him" in his mind.

They'd explained a little of the nature of their encampment—a caravan engaged in trade with a settlement on the Borderlands that had been set upon the previous day by ork scorchers. Whatever they are, Delain thought again. And then the obsidimen had escorted the three to their own tent—currently unoccupied because all three of the Rock-Brothers were serving the caravan as scout or sentry. Wishing the three goodnight, the obsidimen had withdrawn, to go about their duties.

Gaylear and Karena had immediately settled themselves down for sleep. Delain could see the exhaustion in their faces—not physical exhaustion, like that which comes from strenuous work, but the emotional kind, no less debilitating. Feeling it himself, he'd made his own bed as well. Almost instantly, the two women had fallen into deep slumber, and began to threaten the stability of the tent with their snores.

Delain sighed again. He wanted to sleep. His mind was as exhausted as his friends'. But he'd always been a light sleeper, since his youth. Even as a child, he'd been unable to sleep in the middle of the day. And now, even though the sun was down here on the Outside, his body was still operating on the clock of Kaer Moar. By kaer reckoning—which was the only reckoning his body cared about—it was mid-afternoon. With a soft curse, he unwrapped himself from the cloak and stood up, casting the cloak around his shoulder and pinning it at the throat. He untied the leather thongs that kept the "door" flaps of the tent shut, and stepped outside.

The stars, again, immediately caught his attention— myriads upon myriads of them, strewn across the bowl of the sky. For minutes he just stood there, staring. He tried to pick out the features of the major constellations—the three bright stars that formed the shoulder of Vestrial, the line of stars that traced the blade of Thystonius. . .But there were too many other stars to distinguish the familiar patterns. He turned, letting his gaze traverse the sky. A great diffuse band of light arced across the dome of the night, like a spill of milk on the firmament. If I had died yesterday, he found himself thinking, I'd never have known this existed.

His smile of wonder faded. How many fellow kaer-dwellers had died without seeing this? People who could have spent their final days under the open sky, rather than breathing their last in prisons of stone. . .He sighed.

In the darkness beyond, he heard what he guessed must be one of the mules snort, and shift its hooves. Carefully, so as not to turn an ankle on the shifting stones, he made his way in the direction of the sound.

Delain's eyes were well adapted to the darkness now, but it was still difficult to pick out the dark-skinned creatures against the black of the night. In fact, it was the smell, more than anything else, that told him when he was drawing near. He slowed.

The mules had scented him long before he did them, it seemed. As he drew nearer, the dozen shapes seemed to materialize out of the darkness. All were looking at him with large eyes that seemed to absorb and concentrate the starlight. Cautiously, he came closer.

Passions, they're bigger than I thought. From what he'd read, Delain had always imagined mules as small creatures—that's how the old tales had described them, at least. Yet these things seemed massive in the stillness of the night, their shoulders on a level with his chest, their eyes almost on a level with his own. He stopped in his tracks, trying to remember any relevant details of the creatures.

Stubborn—that was the main thing the tales had stressed. Stone-headed when it came to having their own way. And yet still gentle if you treated them with kindness, and capable of true—sometimes fierce—affection. Like many people I've known, Delain thought wryly.

The closest of the mules was stretching its neck out toward him. Its skin—pelt?—looked soft, like well-aged wool. The creature's eyes were on him, dark and limpid, empty of any hostility. It seemed to want him to touch it.

Well, why not? The short, velvetlike fur around its muzzle looked enticing. Slowly, he reached out toward it...

And the creature's lips rolled back from a daunting set of teeth, and it snorted. With a sharp curse, Delain flung himself backward, beyond the range of those jaws. He stumbled over a rock, and fell hard.

Musical laughter rang out. Delain looked up, saw a slender shape silhouetted against the star-strewn sky.

A female voice said, "Nice way with animals you've got, stranger. Here—" A pale-skinned hand seemed to materialize in front of his face.

Instinctively, he reached up and grabbed it. The grip was firm, the strength in the arm beyond the hand easily enough to pull him to his feet. "Thanks."

"For a beastmaster like you. . .no problem." The musical laughter sounded again.

He stepped back—not too far back, in case the potentially carnivorous mule was waiting for him to make a false step—and regarded the person who'd "rescued" him. She was slender and tall, a finger's-span taller than he was, he judged. Her hair was black as night—blacker—and fell unrestrained to her shoulders and below. Her face was thin, with high, finely chiseled cheekbones and a slender nose that seemed to draw attention to her slightly overlarge eyes. In the starlight, those eyes glinted with a faint tinge of gold. It was the woman's ears that startled Delain, though. Elongated, they were, with distinct points. Outlandish, yet somehow attractive.

She stood with her hands on her hips, regarding him. She wore close-fitting black garb, well-worn leather, reinforced here and there with plates of bronzed metal, and a swept-hilt rapier hung at her waist.

"I heard the scouts had dragged something interesting back to camp," she said, her sudden roguish smile robbing the words of most of their offense. Her eyes swept him from top to toe, appraisingly. Delain felt his cheeks color. "Personally, I think they understated the case." The woman held out her hand. "I'm Julea," she said, "Julea Fiannen, swordmaster, of Sereatha, City of Spires."

Delain took her hand, again impressed by the firmness of her grip. "Delain Evenstar. Troubadour of Kaer Moar."

Julea raised a delicate eyebrow. "A song-weaver, eh?" She chuckled. "I suppose we'll have to keep you away from Ryann, or you two will spend the next few days exchanging poems and we'll never get anywhere."

Delain blinked. Ryann—that was the name of the obsidiman sentry, wasn't it? "Ryann's a troubadour too?"

"He calls himself a 'skald,' but it's the same thing." Her musical laugh rang out again. "Two troubadours. How do we come to count ourselves so lucky?" She glanced up to the sky, seeming to read something from their pattern. "It's late, and I'd better get some shut-eye. Dawn comes early this time of year." She turned and started toward the center of the encampment. After a few steps, she threw Delain a smile over one shoulder. "Well met, Troubadour." A wicked edge came into her smile. "If you ever feel like. . .singing me to sleep. . .I rather think I might be agreeable. Goodnight, Delain Evenstar, Troubadour of Kaer Moar." And with that, she faded into the night.

For a long moment, Delain stared off into the darkness after her. Maybe the mules weren't the only potentially carnivorous animal around here, he thought. Then, shaking his head—and making sure he gave the mules a wide berth—he made his way back to his tent.

16

Screams, and the clash of steel on steel, jolted Delain awake. For a moment he lay on the hard ground, blinking up at the curved fabric overhead, trying to remember where he was. Then memory flooded back, and he bolted upright in his jury-rigged "bedroll." Gaylear and Karena were already awake, but their wide, staring eyes told him all too clearly that they hadn't shaken the disorientation of their sudden awakening.

Predictably, it was Karena who was on her feet first. Grabbing her sword, she was out the flap of the tent in a moment, not even stopping to pull on her boots. Delain and Gaylear exchanged helpless glances, then they, too, were scrambling out of the tent. Gaylear's great bow and quiver of arrows were just outside, and she snatched them up as she straightened. With nearly a will of its own, Delain's hand reached for the hilt of his shortsword, and found nothing but his hip. Scourge, he swore under his breath. He'd left his blade in the tent. He debated for a split second about going back for it, but discarded the thought quickly. It wasn't as if he really know how to use it, anyway. Gasping at the cold of the night air on his bed-warmed skin, he stumbled after Gaylear and Karena.

Something had roused the encampment. Figures hurried hither and yon, shrugging their way into armored hauberks or fumbling for weapons, the whole scene chaotic as a cave-wasp nest hit with a thrown rock. Delain looked around wildly for some clue as to what was going on. In the distance, off in the direction of the great plain he'd seen the previous night, he heard the skirl of steel on steel, but he couldn't see who was fighting, let alone figure out why. To the east, or what he guessed to be that direction, the sky was turning the faintest of opalescent pinks. In the herald of dawn, he saw a familiar, hulking shape running toward him, a massive sword grasped in its hand. "Falen!" he yelled out.

The obsidiman stopped in his tracks, turning toward the voice. "Tebar," he corrected.

"Tebar, then. What's happening?"

"Scorchers," Tebar responded. "Ork scorchers."

"What?"

To Delain's surprise, the fighting tension seemed to drain out of the obsidiman. He lowered his sword, and a faint smile—a look of pleasure—spread across his face. "Nomadic raiders," he said. "Ork scorchers prey on caravans such as ours, or hire themselves out as mercenaries to anyone willing to pay. Riding their thundra beasts, they attack whatever enters their territory.

"It's interesting, Troubadour Evenstar," Tebar went on conversationally. "Ork scorchers claim they are the descendants of a great cultural tradition, dating back to before the Scourge. Yet ork scholars with whom I've spoken claim this is not the case. At some time, I hope to make a study of this, and other false 'traditions'—"

“Tebar!"

The obsidiman blinked at the heat in Delain's voice. "Yes?"

"You say these ork scorchers of yours are attacking us?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe we can save this discussion for another time?"

In an instant, the obsidiman seemed to revert from a curious scholar back to killing rage incarnate. His weapon came up, and ridges of rock-hard muscle sprung out across his broad torso. "We will continue this later," he promised. Then he broke into a lumbering run, quickly vanishing into the darkness.

Delain watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Delain!"

He turned at Gaylear's voice. She was on the other side of the banked firepit, beckoning to him. He ran over to her.

"Here." She shoved a short double-recurved bow into his left hand, a cluster of arrows into his right.

"Where did you get this?" He imagined one of the caravan's defenders—somebody who could actually use a bow well—searching for his weapon as the orks descended on them, and not finding it.

"It's part of the caravan's trade goods. . .weapons." She smiled grimly. "It seems fitting that we use the caravan's cargo to defend that cargo, doesn't it?"

Philosophy again. "You should talk to Tebar sometime," Delain told her. The troll shrugged uncomprehend-ingly, then turned and started to move off among the encampment's tents, beckoning for him to follow. "Wait!" he called after her.

She turned and gave him a strange look. "What for?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't even know who I'm supposed to shoot, if it comes to that."

"Start with anyone who looks as though they want to kill you," Gaylear said with a grin. "After that, use your judgment." And she hurried on.

Delain followed his friend in a stumbling run, cursing at what the rocky ground was doing to his unbooted feet.

Among the tents they ran, then out onto the rocky plain...

And into the midst of chaos—or so it seemed to Delain. Shapes surged around him in the faint pre dawn light, humanoid figures screaming and flailing their weapons, intermixed with beasts whose shoulders rose higher than his head. Some of the shapes carried great, flaming brands that they waved in the air and sometimes used as weapons, striking with incredible ferocity. Other light flashed around him, silent concussions of fire, arcing bolts of blue-white brilliance. Magic, of course.

Beside him, Gaylear set her feet wide and looked out into the roaring chaos before them. A grim smile spread over her face as she drew an arrow from her quiver and nocked it to her bowstring. Deliberately, as if she had all the time in the world, she raised the bow and brought the string back to her chin. She closed her eyes for a moment in concentration. Then, as her eyes opened once more and focused on a target he couldn't even see, the vicious broad-head of the arrow burst into flame. The next instant she loosed. So powerful was the great bow that the arrow's trajectory was almost perfectly flat, streaking across the open space—tracing a blue afterimage across Delain's visual field—to drive into the chest of a hide-armored figure fifty paces away. The brutal impact of the arrow drove the ork from his feet, flinging him to the ground, where he lay still. With a satisfied smile, Gaylear lowered the bow and, again deliberately, reached for another arrow.

Figures surged into Delain's field of view, the swirling, clashing chaos of melee. For an instant, he saw the squat shape of Karena Hearthrock standing back to back with a massive troll, fighting off a trio of disheveled orks. Then the tide of battle shifted again and the scene was swept away.

Something slammed into him from behind, bowling him over and throwing him to the ground. The air was driven from his lungs as he hit hard, a massive dead weight landing on top of him, pinning him down.

Desperately he rolled and thrashed, trying to free himself from the imprisoning weight.

Passions! The weight was a body, a hide-clad ork, eyes wide and staring in death, a great wound in his chest. With all his strength Delain forced the corpse off him, rolling it to the side. Knees trembling, he clambered to his feet. "Gaylear. .

But the troll was nowhere to be seen. The tide of combat had shifted again, sweeping the troll archer away from him.

Movement in his peripheral vision. He spun, trying to bring up the bow Gaylear had given him. But he had no arrows; they'd scattered when the dead ork had slammed him to the ground.

An ork seemed to materialize from the darkness, a squat, muscular shape dressed in tattered, piecemeal armor, an iron pot helm on his head. In a scarred hand he wielded a spiked mace, its jagged head wet with blood, the bulky weapon held as though it weighed no more than a dagger. The ork's lips drew back from yellowed fangs in a horrible smile. Hefting his weapon, he strode confidently toward Delain.

Fear churned in Delain's stomach, and tainted the back of his throat with its sharp copper tang. Across the intervening space he stared into the ork's eyes, searching for.. .what? he asked himself. Mercy? There was none of that to be found, only blood-lust and an unholy amusement. Delain took a step back, felt something shift under his foot. One of the arrows he'd dropped! He started to reach for it...

Then stopped. The ork was too close, no more than three paces from him. There was no way he could retrieve the arrow, nock it, draw and loose before the mace splattered his brains over the hard ground. Even if I could get off the shot, what are the odds I'd even hit? Flight, that was the only option.

But no, even that wouldn't work. The ork was too close, he'd just strike Delain down from behind.

Something seemed to shift within him. Suddenly, his fear, his anger, all emotions just flooded away, leaving him a cold machine. He felt his face set into a grim mask as he changed his grip on the bow, grasping it in two hands now, like a club. He set his feet and he waited.

His attacker seemed to have sensed the change. The ork's fierce smile faded, and momentary doubt seemed to flicker in his eyes. He hesitated in his advance.

And that was when Delain attacked. Dancing in, he swung the bow with all his force at the ork's head. The scorcher's eyes widened comically in shock, and he flung himself back from the whistling blow, too startled to even try parrying with his mace.

With a fierce cry, Delain brought the bow sweeping around again in a backhand stroke. The scorcher was ready this time. Instead of dancing away, he held his ground and ducked under the sweeping blow. He raised his mace for a counterstroke, the glee back in his eyes. Delain tried instantly to back away, but his ankle turned on a loose rock and, with a despairing yell, he tumbled to the ground. His eyes met those of the ork just as the huge arm was cocking back on the mace for a fatal blow.

In the darkness behind the ork, steel flashed, the light of dawn reddening the blade. . .or was it blood, Delain wondered? The blade slashed down in a hissing arc, and the ork fell, his head almost completely sundered from his neck. A black shape came into clearer view. Standing over the fallen scorcher was Julea Fiannen, the swordmaster who'd "saved" him from the mule earlier in the night.

"I'd find some arrows if I were you, Troubadour," she laughed, bringing her swept-hilt rapier up to her chin in an ironic salute. "Bows aren't like harps. You need something more than strings to make them work." And then, with a flash of teeth, she was gone, melting back into the darkness.

Trembling like an old man, Delain forced himself to his feet. He knew his mouth was gaping open, his eyes staring wildly, but he felt as though he had only the grossest control over his body. Using his bow as a walking stick, he steadied himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to stretch his lungs to their capacity, then another. Nausea rippled through him, but the cold air seemed to hold it at bay. . .

Until his eyes fell on the almost-decapitated ork, on the mace, spattered with blood and tissue, in his stiffening hand. Delain's guts twisted within him and he fell to hands and knees, emptying his stomach over the dark rocks. He retched again and again, wrackingly, even after there was nothing left to bring up, the sheer strength of the convulsions sending bolts of pain through his muscles. He was totally helpless—a child with a belt-knife could have finished him off—but he couldn't bring his traitor body back under control of his mind. Swirling red tunneled his vision down to nothing, and a dull roaring filled his ears.

Finally, some unmeasured time later, the roaring faded, and the blood red clouds seemed to recede. His body had stopped trying to purge itself, leaving him empty and cold, shivering like a man with the ague. Once more he forced himself to his feet, keeping his balance only with the help of the bow. He looked around him. Only the dead kept him company: two orks and a dwarf dressed in reinforced leather armor, his cold hands clutching the haft of a spear transfixing his body. Swallowing hard, Delain looked away, raising his eyes to the distant, uncaring stars. When he thought he might have regained at least some semblance of control, he hobbled off toward the encampment.

The skirmish was over by the time Delain rejoined his friends. The scorcher attack had been only half-hearted—so Tebar explained—but even so the casualties were significant on both sides. Five orks were dead, not counting those who might have been dragged off by their comrades, which made the obsidiman opine calmly that the survivors would think twice before bothering the caravan again.

Among the caravan's personnel, two were dead. One was the spear-transfixed body of the dwarven mercenary Delain had seen and an unarmed groom whose job had been to tend the mules. Among the obsidimen, Ryann the skald had taken a vicious slash across the chest, laying open his stonelike flesh to the bone beneath. He bore the pain stoically, however, sitting propped up against a boulder while Falen staunched the bleeding and wiped away the blue-gray blood that poured down his chest. Among those with lesser wounds, Tebar totally ignored a bloody gash on his wrist, and Julea the swordmaster bound a shallow wound on her upper arm. Despite their losses, all knew the situation could have been a lot worse.

"Are you sure the turgma are all gone?" Karena asked Tebar. She was sitting near Gaylear close by the fire, her naked blade across her knees. Both women were untouched, Delain was glad to see, although there was a strange, almost frenetic light in Karena's eyes.

"Grond is confirming that," the obsidiman replied. "He has a good set of eyes, Grond does."

Delain looked around the encampment. He could see more than a dozen figures, either resting around the fire or going about their business. Beyond the obsidimen he'd already met, and Julea, the majority were dwarfs. Some of these dwarfs wore armor and carried weapons—mercenaries, like the dwarf who'd fallen, Delain assumed—but most wore rich-looking robes and were armed with nothing more daunting than small belt-knives. Merchants, he guessed. He looked back to Tebar. "And Grond is. . .?"

The obsidiman turned and pointed. "That is Grond." Delain turned.

A massive figure entered the encampment from the direction of the plains. Even taller than Gaylear, he was, easily nine feet in height, his figure seeming almost as broad and muscular as a stocky-looking obsidiman. Huge muscles bunched and shifted under his piecemeal armor as he strode into the clearing on bare feet, each one bigger than Delain's head. In one hand, he carried a two-handed battle-axe, the large weapon looking like a mere hatchet in his huge grasp.

Delain felt his gaze drawn to the enormous figure's face. Weathered and wrinkled like old leather, it was, with a protruding, square jaw. A green-tinted metal ring pierced the broad nose, and hanging from the figure's left ear was an earring that could have served as a human's cloak brooch. For a moment, Delain struggled to figure out what race this Grond might be. A Name-giver, obviously—there was obvious intelligence in those dark, sunken eyes—but what race? Not ork, not obsidiman, not troll.. .

Then, yes, he realized suddenly. Yes, a troll. The figure's thick, black hair fell forward low over his brow, but didn't quite hide the stumps where horns had once sprouted. Delain shook his head slowly. From the trolls he knew in Kaer Moar, members of the race took inordinate pride in their horns. What happened to the individual who suffered the loss of those horns? he wondered suddenly.

Tebar turned to the new arrival. "What news, Grond? Are the enemies gone?"

The troll laughed, a harsh bubbling sound from deep in his chest. "All but one." He tossed a pot helm to the ground in front of Tebar. The metal was split—no, ruptured, Delain thought—like the skin of a seedfruit crushed under a bootheel. "He was slow," Grond remarked.

The obsidiman nodded his satisfaction. "Grond, meet our new companions." He pointed to the kaer-dwellers one by one. "Delain Evenstar. Karena Hearthrock. And Gaylear Cleareye clan Granitebone."

Grond nodded impassively to the human and the dwarf. Then his gaze settled on Gaylear, and something seemed to shift deep in those dark eyes. "Vod'arr," he rumbled.

Gaylear rose slowly to her feet. Delain could see her gaze drawn to the stumps of the other troll's horns. "Good day to you, goodman Grond/' she said politely, according to the ways of Kaer Moar. "Would you do me the honor of telling me your clan? Grond clan. . .what?"

Grond's weathered face turned white as parchment, then his cheeks flushed with rage. His knuckles whitened around the haft of his battle-axe. "Va!" he roared. "Do you hold your life of such little worth? Step forward, kava, and at least show some honor in your death!"

"What?" Delain was on his feet in an instant, trying to interpose himself between the enraged troll and his friend. "No!"

But Tebar had moved even quicker. His arm—thicker than Delain's thigh—shot out like a bar in front of Grond's chest, restraining him. "No," the obsidiman said firmly. Then he spoke on in his own complex, fluid tongue. Delain couldn't make out what he was saying, but it certainly seemed to be working. The flush of fury drained from Grond's cheeks, and he loosened the white-knuckled grip on his weapon.

Finally, when the obsidiman fell silent, he nodded once. Gaylear quailed visibly as his cold gaze shifted to her. "Explain her mistake," Grond told the obsidiman, "or my axe will do it for both of us." And with that he turned on his heel and strode away.

Delain felt the tension drain from him, and sensed the same thing happen with everyone in earshot. From the comer of his eye, he saw Julea the swordmaster shake her head with a mocking smile. "What just happened?" Delain asked.

Tebar sighed. "Your friend offered Grond a mortal insult," the obsidiman said grimly. He turned to Gaylear and explained, "But I explained to him where you'd come from, and that your ignorance of our ways here in the outside world was reason enough to spare your life. He was under no obligation to accept that excuse, but fortunately he did." His blue-gray lips quirked in a half-smile. "Our troll friend seems to be mellowing," he remarked. "A year ago, nothing would have stopped him from taking your head."

"But. . Gaylear shook her head in obvious befud-dlement. "But what did I do wrong? I only asked him—"

"You drew attention to his shame," Julea broke in, "that's what you did. You asked him about his clan. He has no clan, and no family. He's an outcast—er'ka'a'kul, he'd say, 'one who has sacrificed for honor.'

"His horns? They were cut off him when he left his clan. By shearing him of his horns, the village elders sheared him of his family, his clan. . .and, as they saw it, his honor too. He was cut off from all he loved, all he knew, and was cast out from the highlands where he'd lived his whole life." She shrugged. "Er'ka'a'kul are supposed to see no shame in their condition, but I've always thought that's a little much to expect from anyone.

"You reminded him of what he's lost," Julea said, "and in front of blood-sworn comrades, too—and so you shamed him. Personal honor—katorr, he'd call it—dictated that he should take your head for your rudeness. Do you understand?"

Throughout this explanation, Delain watched his friend's face grow paler and paler, and her eyes wider. "I didn't know," she stammered now. "I didn't mean to. . ." She chewed at her lower lip. "Should I go after him and apologize?"

"Better to pretend it never happened, I think." It was Ryann, the wounded skald, who replied. "Mention it—and apologize—only if Grond raises the subject first.. .which he won't, I think."

Gaylear nodded slowly, and sank back into tailor's-seat on the hard ground.

"You really didn't know about this?" Julea asked. The mocking edge of humor was back in her voice. "Are you sure you're really a troll at all?"

"Careful," Karena snarled. She looked up, whitefaced with anger, at the black-clad woman. "Insult my friend again and personal honor will dictate I should take your head. . .and I think I'd enjoy that, human."

Delain blinked at the fury in the dwarf's voice, totally out of proportion to the situation. What was the matter with her? he wondered, hurrying over, ready to interpose himself if things should come to blows.

Julea showed her empty hands. "Your pardon," she said calmly. "I meant no offense. Please accept my apology, both of you. It was a witticism, that was all." Gaylear nodded readily enough. Karena just looked sullen. "No insult was intended to you, blade-sister," Julea told the dwarf earnestly. "And I intend none now, but I'm not a human."

Karena just looked away, still struggling to swallow her anger.

Delain approached slowly. "You're not human, I know that, goodwoman Fiannen," he said politely. "But I'd like to know.. .what race are you?"

The blank look on Julea's face would have been comical under other circumstances. After a moment, she laughed uproariously, and patted him on the shoulder. "Very good, song-weaver, very good indeed. Excellent delivery. I could almost believe you didn't know."

"Fie doesn't," Karena said flatly. "And I don't either. Why don't you answer his question?"

"Since it was he who asked it," Julea said after a moment, "I will." She turned her gold-tinged eyes on Delain. "I am Raen, Master Troubadour. I am Reth, a listener of harmony."

"Which means?" he asked slowly.

Julea laughed musically. "Which means I'm an elf, friend song-weaver. What else could I be, do you think?"

"I've got some suggestions," Karena muttered under her breath, but nobody paid her any attention.

Delain frowned. An elf? That didn't make sense. He knew what an elf looked like, but it wasn't like Julea. He decided against pressing the point, though. At least, not now, he told himself.

The sun came up, a bloated ball of fire rising above the serrations of a distant mountain range. The three kaer-dwellers sat together, leaning back against the rough surface of a boulder, as they watched. Overhead, the stars had vanished, and the dome of the sky had taken on a delicate blue that Delain could never so much have imagined. To the east, strips of clouds glowed pearly pink as the sun's light touched them. He sighed with the wonder of it.

"'What greater mystery than the dawn?"' a deep voice rumbled from beside him. '"What deeper question can we ask ourselves than wither today?"'

Delain jumped to his feet and turned. Ryann, the obsidiman skald, was standing a few steps away, staring out toward the rising sun. The great wound in his chest was bound, but his face seemed drawn—with pain, perhaps, or with loss of blood. Still, the deep eyes held nothing but a seemingly preternatural calm.

"What was that?" Delain asked softly. "Obsidiman poetry?"

Ryann chuckled. "You could say that. I am an obsidiman, and it was my poetry." He paused. "Where you were trained in the Art, do troubadours compose? Or do they just memorize and recite old words?"

"We compose."

"Some of your work, then, Song-Brother Evenstar?"

The obsidiman's polite tone of voice contrasted so strongly with his daunting appearance that Delain had to smile. "Of course." He paused for a moment, then recited softly:

And on that day the horn will ring once more,

A true and limpid note of purest joy.

With gloried hearts we see the gate swing wide,

And feel the warming sun on skin that long

Has felt no touch but cold and ancient stone.

The horn, a song to rouse the soul,

Rings forth again, a timeless song to touch

The sleeping soul of ancient earth.

Ryann's eyes widened. "Fine," he pronounced. "Very fine indeed. I commend you on your talent." He paused. "Would it be considered rude to inquire what it means? What horn? What gate?" Delain saw Ryann blink and then answer his own question. "Your kaer."

"Yes, my kaer. Kaer Moar." Delain frowned. My kaer.. .what in the name of the Passions am I going to do about it?

"And you have no elves in Kaer Moar?"

"Hmm?"

"You must have no elves, otherwise you would have recognized swordswoman Fiannen."

"We have one elf," Delain said slowly. "His name is Kolban Darkways. . ." Something ice-cold seemed to touch his heart. "Julea—swordswoman Fiannen—she really is an elf."

Ryann shrugged. "Of course."

"And she doesn't look. . .different. . .in any way?"

"From other elves? No, her appearance is quite typical." The obsidiman smiled. "The ears, of course, that's what we notice first." In explanation, he touched the side of his own head with a finger. He had no external ears at all. "Did you know that one of our creation tales says it is the distinctive ears of the tealleniarethioneianatipetlian— 'those who listen to the harmony of the world'—that allowed them to hear the Four Tones only one day after we ourselves did?" The obsidiman's voice rumbled on, but Delain stopped listening.

Pointed ears are distinctive to elves, so the skald says, he told himself. Pointed ears.. .Yet Kolban's ears were not pointed. No, they were small, gnarled buds, low on the sides of his head. Yet he was an elf. . .

. . .Wasn't he? He claimed to be one, at least. . .

And then something the obsidiman had said penetrated for the first time. "Stop!" Delain snapped, raising a palm. "You said 'the Four Tones/ What are the Four Tones?"

Ryann blinked in surprise at being cut off. "Why.. .well, they are a part of one of my people's creation myths," he said slowly. "Symbolic, of course, like all creation myths, not to be taken as a true history of. .."

"Yes," Delain cut in sharply. "But what about the Four Tones?"

"The summons that called the first of my people from the Great Liferock. . .according to this version of the myth, of course. When the Spirit-That-Pervades-All determined that the time was right for my people to Emerge, the Four Tones sounded in my people's ears, and the Four Colors shone in their eyes. And they stepped forth from the Great Liferock onto the surface of the newly formed earth." He shrugged. "So the myth claims, at least."

"And what of the Four-Fold Way? And the stream of the ten thousand?" Delain demanded.

"All parts of our ancient myths." Ryann leaned down, to look into Delain's face. "Master Troubadour, where did you hear of these things? My little sister Gaylear told me you had no ago'al—no 'Rock-Brothers'—in your kaer."

"A parchment," Delain answered. "A parchment dating back to the early days of our kaer." He closed his eyes, and tried to remember the passage from the fragment. At last, the words came to him:

To follow the Four-Fold Way

And the stream of the ten thousand,

To see the Four Colors, to hear the Four Tones,

And to touch the weaving of the weaver.

The obsidiman skald smiled broadly and nodded. "Yes, the symbols are from the myths of my people. The words themselves, and the style. . .someone outside my race composed them, that's obvious. A little brother, perhaps?" He shrugged. "I might be able to tell you. May I read the parchment?"

"Someone stole it from me. Otherwise you'd be welcome."

Ryann blinked. "You were robbed for poetry?" he rumbled doubtfully "What is life like in your kaer?"

Delain sighed. How do I even start telling you?

"Delain."

He glanced over at Gaylear. "Yes?"

"Show him the parchment, Delain. The one you found in the caisson."

"Oh yes," Delain said quickly, wondering how he could have forgotten.

"What 'caisson,' if I may ask?"

"I'll tell you about it later," Delain promised. He brought out the horn scroll-tube he'd found on the way out of the kaer, and pulled the parchment from within it. Carefully, he unrolled the upper portion of the scroll and held it out for Ryann to see. "'Twelve longnights since Poliphan's chariot was hidden from my eyes, and fear that Thebal's lover stalks us grows in our hearts,"' he read aloud. "Maybe you can help me make sense of this."

"Hmmm. . Ryann rumbled.

When he looked up, Delain was surprised to see the obsidiman's face creased with concern. "What is it?" he asked.

"Where did you find this, Delain? It's important, I fear."

Delain blinked. "In the caisson, when. .."

The obsidiman cut him off sharply. "Inside or outside your kaer?"

"Inside." He felt the chill touch of fear on the back of his neck. "Why?"

"This is why." Ryann reached out a thick finger and tapped the first line of the scroll. "This. 'Thebal's lover.' Thebal's lover might be within your kaer."

"And what is 'Thebal's lover?"' Delain asked, all the while fearing he already knew the answer.

"A Horror," the obsidiman replied quietly.

"What?" Delain shrieked. Beside him, Gaylear and Karena were on their feet as well. He saw the naked dread in their faces, and knew it must be a reflection of his.

"A Horror," Ryann the skald repeated grimly. "The story of Thebal dates back to the last Turn of the Great Cycle—the Scourge before this one. Thebal was a great dragon who was smitten by a human maid. Changing himself into human form, Thebal wooed and won this maid, taking her back with him to his mountain eyrie. So smitten was he that he missed—or consciously ignored—the clues that would have shown her true nature. She was a Horror, and she possessed Thebal—so the stories say—using his love as a channel to penetrate his defenses. Thebal and his lover—a Horror-ridden dragon, the most terrifying of foes!—survived the Scourge before this and, if the myths are to be believed, continued to exist long into the third Age, when all the other Horrors had been banished from this world." The obsidiman turned his dark eyes on Delain. "'Thebal's lover' is a poetic term for a Horror," he said.

The black pits of Ryann's eyes held Delain fast. "It means there is a Horror in your kaer."

17

"Or so this suggests," Ryann amended carefully, tapping the parchment again.

"A Horror in the kaer? But. . .how?" This from Gaylear.

"All too simply, I fear," the obsidiman said grimly. "Many kaers died because they were closed too late— after a Horror had already penetrated them." He paused, then asked quietly, "Was your kaer among the first to close. . .or one of the last?"

"How would we know that?" Karena snapped.

Ryann shrugged. "Records."

"I'm afraid that many of our records were destroyed in the early years," Delain said. "Perhaps more than we suspected." He shook his head. A Horror in the kaer. . .

"Quaalzl" Karena shouted. "Pure, unadulterated Cjuaalzl If there was a Horror in the kaer, we'd be dead, all of us."

"Not necessarily." It was Gaylear who spoke.

Delain turned to her in surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked.

The troll lowered her gaze, embarrassed to be the sudden focus of attention.

"My little sister is right," Ryann said, coming to her rescue. "Not necessarily. The old tales tell us this, and personal experience bears it out: only some of the Horrors were interested in causing death.. .directly, at least. Some did feed off the passing of life—the elves fear that some Horrors actually consumed the soul itself, preventing it from traveling to Tesrae ke'Mellakabal, the Citadel of the Shining Ones..." He hesitated, and swallowed visibly as if reading impatience in Delain's eyes.

"To be brief," Ryann went on hurriedly—or as hurriedly as an obsidiman ever seemed to speak—"many Horrors seem to feed on emotions like fear and despair much more than they do on death itself."

Delain nodded slowly. Fear and despair, he thought. Certainly, Kaer Moar has generated enough of that.. .

"Then why wouldn't the Horror just destroy the wards and crack open the kaer?" Karena shot back, then loaded her next words with irony. "If I was a Horror and wanted to cause fear and despair that would be a fralkh of a good way to do it, wouldn't it?"

"But then you'd have to share," Delain said softly. "Wouldn't you?"

Ryann smiled. "You understand, Master Troubadour, don't you? Yes, of course—the Horror within your kaer would have had to share. With Horrors of much greater power.. .and greater hunger. Unless your kaer was exceptionally late in closing, only the lesser Horrors would have been abroad in the world. Small ones, if we can use that word in this sense. The greater Horrors—Verjigorm, and Chantrel's Horror, and Aazhvat had yet to appear.

"Think of yourself as a small scavenger, friend dwarf—a crakbill, perhaps. If you had a source of food that would sustain you indefinitely, would you let a flock of griffins drive you away from your prey?"

Delain nodded and looked over at his friends.

Although Karena still obviously wanted to argue, he could see in her eyes that she believed the obsidiman, and that his words scared her to the core of her soul. And why not? A Horror in the kaer. . .

Squaring his shoulders, he looked up at Ryann. "Brother skald," he said formally, "may I ask for your help in deciphering this scroll?" He sighed. "There are things we need to know."

The sun was still an hour short of the zenith, hanging in a copper sky, when Delain sat back and rubbed at aching eyes. Between them, he and the obsidiman skald had experienced little difficulty in deciphering the ancient parchment. Why couldn't Ryann have been around a year ago when he and Grais had first begun trying to decipher the fragment? The skald had made short work of the sections that had so confused Delain, and had even refined his understanding of those passages Delain had thought he'd comprehended fully.

While the rest of the caravan was sitting down to their noonday meal, Delain led his two friends aside. He sat down on a convenient boulder and gazed into their eyes while trying to order his thoughts.

"All right," Karena snapped after a long moment. "What is it?"

Delain took a deep breath, struggling to force the churning fear from the forefront of his mind. "There is a Horror in Kaer Moar," he said quietly. "It's been there since the day the kaer was closed. No one knew at first or they'd never have closed the kaer and established the wards.

"But they found out soon afterward." To his own ears, his voice was bleak, as cold as the wind that flowed down from the mountainside behind them. "They started to suspect a dozen years after the kaer was closed. But there was no way of knowing for certain. The Horror had hidden itself well—protected itself well. It controlled at least one influential person within the kaer, had taken over his mind." Then he corrected himself "No, not taken over his mind—more like completely corrupted his soul."

"Then why didn't they kill him, whoever he was?"

Delain smiled humorlessly. "Because he'd protected himself, Karena," he said. "Not only physically, but socially as well. He'd made himself important to a major faction of Kaer Moar's people—indispensable to them. As far as the majority of people were concerned, he was a true guardian of Kaer Moar. Nobody could speak out against him without drawing the wrath of the kaer.

"Still," he went on, "there were some who suspected what he was, what he represented. And they moved against him. They gathered their own supporters, and they fought against the supporters of he who was Horror-ridden. They fought throughout the kaer, but the major battle took place in 'Troubadour's Hold'—the Harper's Gallery, once known as the Gallery of the Harp.

"And there they lost. The supporters of the one tainted by the Horror—the one described as 'Trian's son'—triumphed. The victors killed those who challenged the power of 'Trian's son.' And then they suppressed as heresy anything that might convince people of the truth.

"The supporters of Trian's son didn't realize what was happening, of course. They'd been told—they believed—that it was the enemies of Trian's son who were Horror-touched. And so the civil war raged, maybe two decades after the kaer was closed. And when it was over, the Horror had almost complete control of the kaer."

Karena shook her head. “Quaalz," she spat. "I've never heard any of this."

"The victors write the histories."

Delain turned to Gaylear, and smiled. "Precisely," he said. "The victors always write the history books. And it was Trian's son who was the victor."

"Fine," Karena growled. "And just who is this Trian's son, anyway?"

Delain closed his eyes. He should have realized this months ago, he told himself. And if he had realized. . .

I'd probably have set the stage for my own murder, he told himself grimly. As Grais did.

"An old man," he said quietly. "A man who was already old when the kaer was sealed, but who survived to enforce his influence on the entire society. A member of a long-lived race. A nethermancer—that's what 'Trian's son' means."

"Kolban," Gaylear breathed. "Kolban Darkways."

Delain nodded.

"Fralkh!" Karena shook her head. "That reed-necked elven bastard. . ." She stopped, and her eyes widened. "But he's not an elf, is he?" she asked.

"Perhaps once he was." Delain closed his eyes, letting an image of Kolban Darkways build up in his mind. Yes, there was a strong basic resemblance, but the details were perversions of the way Julea Fiannen looked.

"And that's why Kaer Moar's population dropped, isn't it?" Karena said angrily. "He killed off anyone who didn't consider him the Passions-supported savior, didn't he?"

Delain nodded helplessly.

The dwarf shook her head. "But they must have tried something!"

"They did," he agreed. "The leader of the faction opposed to Kolban tried to draw mana from Azhun, the keystone, to power a ritual to detect, and perhaps block, the influence of a Horror within the kaer. Kolban couldn't allow that. He convinced his followers that members of the other faction were traitors to the kaer, that they were trying to bring down the wards to let the Horrors in.

"And that was it," Delain said. "The followers of Kolban went forth, and they killed anyone who didn't agree with the 'accepted' viewpoint. Knowledge of what Kolban was—how to prove it, and perhaps how to combat him—died with them. And the Horror controlled the kaer, and could feed undisturbed, at its leisure."

"Fralkh/" Karena spat. "You're telling me Kaer Moar is a Horror's larder?"

"Isn't it?" Gaylear asked quietly. "Fear and despair.. .The Horror must be feeding well these days."

"That's what I don't understand!" Karena shouted. Delain knew she was fighting against the realization, grasping at anything to keep from having to face the truth. "If you're right, why's the Horror tearing the kaer apart? Why not just keep everything calm and quiet?"

"Because the kaer will open," Gaylear answered. Delain nodded, seeing the calm understanding in her eyes. "The years of control are coming to an end. One way or another, the kaer will open. . .the larder will empty. Better to feast now."

The dwarf covered her face with her hands, and Delain knew she'd accepted the truth at last. After a long moment, she dropped her hands, and gazed bleakly into Delain's face. "What do we do, then?" she asked.

He drew himself up to his full height. "We open the kaer," he said quietly. "We free our people. And we hunt down and destroy the Horror and its tools."

"Big words," Karena mocked. "How, song-spinner, tell me that? Passions, what do you want to do—walk up to the Dawngate and knock?"

"I have some ideas," he told her. "But after the gate opens, will you stand with me, Karena? Will you hunt the Horror with me?"

It was Gaylear who answered him. "I will, Delain." Her voice was matter-of-fact, as if she'd committed to nothing of more import than a casual meeting.

Delain hadn't taken his eyes off the dwarf. "Karena?"

"Just the three of us, song-spinner?" she demanded. "The three of us, against a Horror?"

Delain paused. He was sure some of the caravan guards would join them. Ryann at the least, possibly Grond. . .and Julea, too. But even if they didn't.. .

"If need be," he said. "Are you with us, Karena?"

She spat on the ground. "Of course I'm with you, you quaalz-headed fool!" She shook her head. "The Horror's going to eat our brains. You know that, don't you?"

"If that's how it turns out," he responded calmly, "at least we'll know we died trying."

It wasn't too difficult for Delain to draw aside the people to whom he wanted to speak. After the scorcher attack, the merchant leading the caravan, a dwarf by the name of Tris Darnaman, had decided to rest for a day before moving on. Delain, though, had his doubts about the wisdom of this tactic. He wasn't as certain as Darnaman that the raiders wouldn't be back, perhaps with reinforcements, but he certainly wasn't going to take issue with it. It was mid-afternoon when he faced the people he thought might help them: the three obsidimen, Grond the troll, and Julea the elven swordmaster. Gaylear and Karena were present as well, of course, but they stayed to the back of the group, leaving the talking to Delain. He smiled a little at that, wondering whether Karena could hold to it.

He drew himself up and took a deep breath. "I have a proposition for you all," he said as calmly as he could manage. "We need your help—the three of us. I don't know if Ryann has told you, but.. ."

"He told us," Tebar spoke up. He gestured at himself and Falen. "He spoke to his brothers, at least. We know there is a Horror in your kaer."

"A Horror, hmm?" Grond rumbled. His weatherbeaten face settled into a thoughtful cast as his thumb tested the edge of his weapon. "My axe has never blooded a Horror."

Beside the outcast warrior, Julea smiled archly. Delain expected a comment—a question, maybe—from her, but she held her peace.

Delain gestured at Karena and Gaylear. "We intend to open the lost kaer," he said. He looked around him, taking in the sun and the clouds, the sky and the distant horizon. "If I'd been born Outside, under the sky," he went on quietly, "I'd consider all this to be my birthright, as I'm sure you all do even if you've never really thought about it." He saw two of the obsidimen nodding agreement. Julea's aloof smile was unchanged, but he didn't, couldn't, let that break his stride.

Slowly, one by one, he looked into the faces of his listeners. "This could have been my birthright, too. My people's birthright—the birthright of all those who lived and died in the chambers and corridors of Kaer Moar though the Scourge had already ended beyond its walls. The Horror denied them—denied us—that birthright. Will you help me right that wrong?

"Will you stand with me?"

"I will. I will stand with you." Grond the troll smiled. "My axe would like to blood a Horror."

The three obsidimen traded glances. No words were exchanged, but Delain couldn't help but feel they knew each other's thoughts so well that words weren't necessary. "And I too," Ryann the skald said. "My brothers must stand guard on the caravan as they are blood-sworn to do, but my wound excuses me from that duty. If you will have me, Master Troubadour, I will stand with you."

Finally, Delain turned to Julea. "And you?" he asked softly.

The elf chuckled ironically. "And if I do?" she asked, raising a slender eyebrow. "My name will be immortalized in your songs, is that it?" She strummed at a nonexistent harp, and declaimed, "'And now, gentle folk, I give you the Saga of Julea Fiannen, Kaer-Opener.' Is that it?"

Delain shrugged. "If that's what you want."

Julea shook her head. "It's not."

"What, then?" Karena strode forward from her place at the back and glared up into the elf's face. "Money? Treasure? Do we promise you that you can loot the kaer once we've opened it? Would that change your mind, turgma?” She spat on the ground to her left, and turned to Delain. "Forget her, Troubadour. We don't need her."

Slowly, Delain looked from the flushed, angry visage of Karena to the calm, distant smile of Julea. He shook his head wearily. "Another sword, Karena," he told his friend gently. "Against a Horror, we could certainly use another sword."

Then he turned to Julea. "You won't join us for fame," he said. "And you won't join us for wealth.

"Would you join us because I asked you too?"

The elf's smile broadened. "Yes," she said at last. "Because you ask me to, Delain. . .I'll stand with you."

Delain nodded in satisfaction, all the while trying to ignore Karena's muttered curses. "We have the people we need. Now the only thing we still have to figure out is how to open the kaer?"

"I might be able to help with that, Master Troubadour," Tebar said after a moment. "If you would take me to the. . .the caisson, you called it—I think there's something I can do."

18

Delain led the way across the boulder-strewn slope to the mouth of the sloping tunnel. Tebar was with him. . and Karena too. While Gaylear, Julea, Ryann, and Grond had been glad to stay at the encampment and discuss what their tactics would be when, and if, they penetrated the kaer, the dwarf had refused to be left behind. "The caisson's dwarven technology," she'd argued vehemently. "You need me." Delain had agreed eventually. We need to talk, Karena and I, he told himself. Maybe this will be our chance.

But, first things first. "You have some ideas, Tebar?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Perhaps," the obsidiman rumbled. "You make a good case that this.. .caisson.. .was built to allow scouts to leave the kaer. A logical enough idea. But what use would it be if there were no way of communicating to those left behind? Communicating," he stressed, "not reentering the kaer. That seems obvious, too."

Delain nodded. You couldn't let a potentially Horror-ridden scout back into the kaer again.

And that raised another thought. "There'd have to be something special about the channel of communication, wouldn't there?" he mused. "Some way of confirming that the person sending the message was telling the truth."

Tebar smiled. "I wondered if you would realize that," he said with some satisfaction. "You'd need some way of gauging the words, or maybe the mind, of the scout reporting on conditions outside the kaer."

"How?"

The obsidiman stopped, and his smile faded. "Delain, I have to say I find it surprising that. . ." He hesitated, as if searching for the least offensive way of saying something difficult. . .that you did not. . ."

Delain came to his rescue. "That we didn't think all this through before we left the kaer?" Tebar nodded.

Delain sighed. "We should have, of course. But we rushed into it, without fully considering all the possible consequences. We're just lucky it isn't worse. All that's in the past. It's done. . .and now we have to figure out how to tell the people inside the kaer what we know."

"And get them to believe us," Karena put in gruffly.

Tebar nodded. "A key issue," he agreed. "If I were arranging something like this," he went on slowly, "I think I would establish some way of making mental contact between the scout and someone within the kaer. Not just the exchange of mental messages, but a complete sharing of minds—preferably between friends, or even brothers, who know each other exceptionally well."

"Why?" Delain wanted to know.

"Think it through, Delain,'' the obsidiman said. "A Horror-tainted scout would lie about the Scourge being over. He would do whatever he could to persuade the person still within the kaer to lower the wards. Correct?" Delain nodded. "So the obvious task is to confirm that the scout is not Horror-tainted," Tebar continued, "that his mind is still his own, uncorrupted.

"How to do that? Open it—open his mind to someone who knows his beliefs, thoughts, likes, dislikes.. .If everything is unchanged, the scout is telling the truth, and is not Horror-ridden. Otherwise.. .well, I do not believe that ,i person could be corrupted enough to betray his friends ,tnd comrades to the Horrors without there being some sign in his mind, discernible to one who knows him well."

"Clever," Delain said, impressed. "That makes sense to me. But is it possible?"

"Possible," Tebar confirmed. "But I think difficult. I have some training in the discipline of the illusionist— useful, sometimes, for a scout such as myself," he explained with a smile—"and I have some ideas about how to go about weaving the threads of a pattern item to permit the kind of contact we were discussing."

"You could weave the pattern of something like that?" Delain asked, startled.

The obsidiman chuckled softly, the sound like pebbles clashing together in his chest. "I? I have nowhere near the talent required for something like that. But," he elaborated, "I do understand the principles enough to know what to look for. If such an artifact is in place—perhaps outside your caisson, perhaps built into its structure—I might be able to find it."

"And figure out how to use it?"

Tebar smiled. "One thing at a time, Master Troubadour. I know you are a human, but that's no reason to be quite so hasty, is it?"

To the west, the sun was setting behind a jagged range of mountains. Tebar was still down in the tunnel, examining the magical threads woven to and through the outer door of the caisson. For more than an hour, Delain had sat with the obsidiman, holding the light quartz for him—more for simple moral support than because he thought he could actually do something to help—but eventually Tebar had explained politely that he'd actually rather be alone. That was fine with Delain. After less than twenty-four hours under the open sky the corridor—which wouldn't have seemed unusually small to any resident of Kaer Moar—made him feel claustrophobic. Besides, he wanted the chance to talk to Karena.

She was standing a dozen yards from the mouth of the tunnel when Delain emerged. By the change in the set of her shoulders he knew she heard him approach, but she didn't turn to face him. Instead, she picked up a fistsized rock and hurled it at a distant boulder. It hit hard enough to strike sparks.

"Tebar thinks he's making progress," Delain said after a moment. He stood beside her, and together they watched the sun sinking behind the ragged peaks. "He thinks there is something there to send messages back inside the kaer."

Karena snorted. "Do you trust him?" she asked roughly, bending to pick up another rock. "Are you sure he's not lying to us—not Horror-ridden himself, and using us to get into the kaer?"

Delain didn't bother answering that. He knew Karena well enough by this time, knew how she'd often say outrageous, argumentative things to conceal what she was really feeling. Still not looking directly at his friend, he settled himself down on a small boulder.

After a long pause, he said softly, "Things are changing, Karena."

"I know it." She flung the rock, missing her intended target by yards. "It's all changing, isn't it?"

"All the things we took for granted. All the things we thought were unchanging." Delain shook his head. "What in the name of the Passions can we depend on anymore?" He sighed. "Just ourselves, I suppose," he said, answering his own question.

"Not even that." Karena's response was so quiet he almost missed it.

Ah hah, he thought, now we're getting down to the root of the matter. "Friendships don't change," he remarked. It was an exploratory comment to see what response he'd get.

Karena picked up another rock, drew back her hand lo throw it, then stopped. Instead, she looked down at the chunk of stone and, with a deep sigh, simply dropped it at her feet. "Maybe not," she said, and there was a strange tone to her voice that Delain couldn't decipher. "Maybe they don’t change, at that." She sighed again. "Not in ways that count, at least."

Delain shook his head slowly. Judging solely by her words, Karena seemed to be agreeing with him. Yet her tone of voice told him they were talking about totally different topics.

"Do you trust them?" Karena's sudden question was sharp.

Delain paused, then, "Yes," he answered quietly. "Yes, I think I do. They seem. . ." He searched for the words to communicate the way he felt. ". . .they seem open," he said at last. "Don't you feel the same thing?"

"Yes." For the first time, Karena turned and looked into his face. "But I don't know if I should trust my judgment."

Delain blinked. "You've always been a good judge of character, Karena."

"I always thought so, too. But that was before. That was in there." She pointed to the mountainside, rising above them toward the sky, where the first stars were already beginning to twinkle. She shrugged. "Out here? I don't know."

"It is... different," Delain said judiciously.

And Karena laughed, a harsh bark of bitterness. "Have you been studying the art of understatement, Troubadour? Or does it come naturally? 'Different' doesn't even begin to cover it.

"How do you think they'll handle it?" She gestured again toward the mountain. "If we do open the kaer, will they be able to adapt. . .or will they be overwhelmed by the differences between this world and the one they've known all their lives?"

"The people of other kaers adapted well enough," Delain pointed out. "And we aren't doing such a bad job ourselves."

"That's different. Those other kaers didn't have a Horror in their midst. And they opened a century ago. A century, Delain, think of that." She sighed again, a sound that spoke eloquently of pain. "We're footnotes to history, Troubadour," she whispered. "You, me. . . them."

"Karena..." He reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

But she spun away. "Don’t," she snapped. "You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you, Troubadour? You don't understand what I'm feeling."

"I want to understand."

She turned back to him, her fists planted on her hips. "All right, Troubadour," she growled. "I'll tell you.

"The wards that protect Kaer Moar have a keystone, Troubadour. So does every life—a keystone that everything else is built on, that supports everything else. Mine has always been this." She slapped the hilt of her sword. "I'm a swordmaster, Delain. That's the discipline I've followed since I was old enough to walk. That's what I am. Everything else in my life is built on that foundation—the knowledge that I am a swordmaster, the knowledge that I'm competent.

"So what happens to the person when that keystone's ripped away? Tell me that, Troubadour. What?" She shook her head fiercely. "Last night," she went on after a moment, her voice quieter. "When the ork scorchers attacked. It was my chance to prove to myself, to the Outsiders—and to you too, maybe—what I could do. I took my sword, and I went to where the fighting was thickest.

"I almost died, Delain. In the first minute, I almost died. I used the techniques my master taught me, all the classical forms that so impressed people in the kaer. The ork I faced, he had no technique, he knew none of the classical forms. When I saw him wielding his sword like a meat cleaver, I laughed.

"But he almost killed me, technique or no, forms or no. It was so fast, Delain. Everything happened so fast. There was no pause between passes, like there always is in training bouts. He didn't follow a single line, like we do in training. He moved to the left and to the right, trying to get around behind me. He tried to throw dust in my eyes.

"And he was really trying to kill me, Delain. Not just score a touch and win the bout. He was trying to cut my head off. And he would have, too, if your friend the elf hadn't cut his spine in two from behind." She shook her head. "From behind!"

Delain nodded slowly, remembering when the creature had attacked him and Gaylear in the base of the kaer. Remembering how the archer couldn't adapt to the pace of real combat. "I understand," he said gently.

"Do you? Fralkh!" She picked up another rock, and scaled it off into the gathering night. "If you do—if you do—then you know what I'm feeling: that the foundation of my entire life has been built on shifting sand, rather than on hard rock the way I'd thought."

"Not on sand," he responded quietly. "Maybe the foundation isn't quite what you believed, but it's still strong, Karena Hearthrock. It's still strong enough to depend on."

For an instant, in the dying light of the day, he saw gratitude in her gray eyes. Then she snorted with feigned disgust, and turned away. “Are you never without something to say, tale-spinner?" she grumbled.

"Master Troubadour."

Delain and Karena both turned as the obsidiman's voice rang from the mouth of the tunnel. "Tebar," Delain replied. "What news?"

"Success," Tebar announced. "Come, I'll show you."

The door into the caisson was closed, flush with the rock wall at the end of the tunnel—that was the first thing that Delain noticed. It must have shut soon after they'd left the caisson, he realized. They'd had so many other things on their minds that they didn't notice. "What's that?" he asked, drawing closer to the door.

In the illumination of the obsidiman's light quartz, he saw intricate symbols carved into the cold iron of the door. There was something strange about those symbols, he thought, something very different from those that had embellished the circular frames within the kaer. "Bring the light closer," he suggested.

"Delain, I don't think. .." the obsidiman warned.

But it was too late. The young troubadour had seen the symbols in their entirety. Fear—reason-killing, unreasoned—washed through him like a wave. His bowels knotted, and he emptied his stomach on the cold ground. With a despairing cry, he staggered backward, covering his face with his hands. He tripped on something, and fell back, his head striking the stone floor hard enough to stun him.

"Delain!" Through the churning terror, he heard Karena's voice. "Delain! What is it?" With an ultimate effort, he focused on that voice, like a drowning man clutching desperately at a floating reed. “Delain!"

Slowly—painfully slowly—the tide of unreasoning terror ebbed. An unmeasured time later, he took his hands from his eyes, and looked up into the concerned faces of his friends. "I'm all right," he told Karena. Then he turned to Tebar. "What...?" he began.

"A Horror." The obsidiman's voice was bleak. "A Horror was here, trying to defeat the wards protecting the kaer."

"It's gone, isn't it?" Delain asked, the words almost catching in his throat.

Tebar nodded. "But its works remain."

"How long. . .?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the question.

"'How long did the Horror work on corrupting the wards?' Or 'How long would the wards have survived?"'

"Both."

The obsidiman shrugged. "My guess is that the Horror worked for years—maybe a decade, maybe even more—to do this. As for how long the wards would have survived, had it continued?" He shrugged again. "I have no way of knowing." He reached down with a massive hand, and helped Delain back to his feet. He looked the troubadour up and down searchingly. "We can come back and discuss the message system later, if you wish to rest..."

Delain shook his head. "No. No, I'm all right." He wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his brow. The fear that had crippled him had faded, but not totally vanished. It still twinged at the periphery of his mind, and made his skin feel icy. He gestured toward the iron door, being careful not to look at it, of course. "Go ahead," he suggested.

Tebar hesitated. Then the obsidiman spoke a single, soft word and the light quartz he held faded to darkness.

"What. ..?"

"Wait a moment," Tebar suggested.

Delain blinked. Without the light quartz, and with the sun gone from the sky outside, the darkness in the tunnel should be impenetrable. But it wasn't, he realized. He could still see Tebar and Karena as ghostly outlines. Curious, he turned toward the iron door.

And what he was stunned to see were the wards that protected Kaer Moar. A shimmering network of hair-thin blue lines covered the door, a staggeringly complex matrix of magical threads.

Karena had noticed it too. "Beautiful. . ." she breathed.

Moving a little closer, Delain realized he could see the work of the Horror. In a patch about the size of a human head, the fine lines changed from delicate blue to a raw, bloody red. Just where the carved symbols are, he realized. For a moment, the fear threatened to take him again. But once more he managed to fight it back.

"You said you'd found something," he reminded the obsidiman. "The message system, you called it."

In the ghost-light of the wards, Delain saw Tebar smile. "Yes, Master Troubadour," he agreed. "I found it. Woven in with the wards itself—a wonderfully complex job, a work of art in its own way."

"What does it do?" This from Karena.

"Just as I suggested to you earlier, as it turns out," the obsidiman explained, with a trace of satisfaction. "A way for someone outside the kaer to open his mind—share his thoughts, and to some degree his memories—with someone inside the kaer."

"Who?" Delain asked. "Someone specific?" He braced himself for bad news. Wouldn't that be ironic, if the only person this magic could contact had died a hundred years ago. . .

"Not anyone specific, Master Troubadour," Tebar replied. "Anyone. All you need to know is his true Name." He paused, and his voice took on a cautioning tone. "One thing, Delain. Time, and the work of the Horror, have weakened these wards and the magic that allows a message to be sent. The communication will be brief, and perhaps not as distinct as it should be. And it will only work once.

"Think about the message you want to send, Delain Evenstar," the obsidiman said grimly, "and to whom you want to send it. Think carefully. You have only one chance."

“Who, then?" Karena asked for the dozenth time.

The three of them—Delain, Karena and Gaylear—sat in the darkness beyond the encampment. Ryann, Julea, and Grond were seated around the encampment's firepit, waiting for the kaer-dwellers to come to an agreement.

"I still say Master Corbyan," Gaylear repeated softly.

"No." Karena shook her head in frustration. "Am I the only person who's thinking? We need someone who's true Name we know—granted, Corbyan does fit that bill—but we also need someone who'll do something about what we tell him. Someone who'll act. Will Corbyan?" She spat on the cold ground.

"There's more," Delain said, his voice quiet. "We have to be able to prove that it's us."

"You're right. So we need someone we know; who knows us well enough to believe us, and who'll do something when we tell him to.

"So back to my question: who, by all the Passions?"

"Delain."

The troubadour turned from his contemplation of the distant horizon. "Yes, Gaylear?"

"You have someone in mind, don't you?"

Delain smiled and nodded slowly.

"What?" Karena snapped. "Then tell us, Scourge it! Here we've been wracking our brains, and you. . The dwarf's voice trailed off, and her gaze fixed on his face. "Who is it?" she asked at last.

"Marta Aravey," he said.

“Who?"

"Marta Tethys Aravey," he repeated calmly. "She's a troubadour."

He saw recognition dawn in Karena's eyes. "One of those stormcrows, you mean?" she snarled. “Fralkh, Troubadour, why don't you just get in touch with Kolban Darkways directly, hmm?" she demanded scornfully. "We know his name, and I'm sure he'd be glad to hear from us."

"Can you think of anyone better?" Gaylear asked, her voice and expression thoughtful.

"Not yet, I can't," Karena snapped back. "But give me time."

The troll turned her gentle gaze on Delain. "Tell me why you think Marta would be a good choice," she said.

"She meets all the criteria," he said simply "I know her true Name. I know how to prove to her it's me—I think I do, at least," he corrected.

“Fine," Karena growled. "Maybe you can convince her you're you, and you're telling the truth. But what's she going to do about it?"

"I have some ideas about that," Delain replied.

Karena threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine," she snarled again. "Have it your way, Troubadour, trust to the stormcrow. It's your choice, and your responsibility."

Delain nodded acceptance. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he said. He climbed to his feet. "Get the others together," he told his friends. "I'll go with Tebar to send the message. There's no reason to wait any longer."

19

Marta Tethys Aravey's eyes snapped open, and she gasped with the shock of waking so suddenly. For a moment, she just lay back, staring into the darkness above her, breathing deeply and trying to rid herself of the aftereffects of the dream.

Strange, she thought muzzily. She never remembered her dreams. Yet the memory of this one was so clear. . .clearer than her recollection of what she'd done earlier that evening. And why, in the name of the Passions, would she dream of Delain Evenstar? She rolled over, and pulled the blanket up around her ears.

And it was then she knew—knew—she wasn't alone in the room.

With a muffled curse, she bolted upright in bed, wide eyes scanning around, straining to penetrate the darkness. Yes, there was someone there, she knew it, she could feel it. She couldn't hear or see any signs of the presence, but she knew it just the same, as if she'd suddenly grown a new set of senses. And she knew who it was.

"Delain?" she whispered. Then she snorted. Foolishness, fuzzy-minded foolishness. He's dead. . .or worse. Yet still the sense of presence persisted. She reached slowly for the small bedside table, touched the light quartz resting there, and with a word brought it to life.

Empty. The room was totally empty.

Well, of course it's empty.. .But then why couldn't she shake the feeling that the young Delain was there with her?

—Marta.

She yelped aloud at the voice. . .no, it wasn't quite a voice, was it? It wasn't sound, as such, instead more like a. . .well, a thought. Yet, thought or sound, it was still familiar.

"Delain...?"

—Marta. The voice/not-voice sounded again.

"No." The woman shook her head. "No," she repeated. This isn't happening. I'm losing my mind.

—Marta, I’m here. It's Delain Evenstar. I'm outside the kaer, Marta. I'm outside the kaer.

"No!" She could feel his presence in her mind, sense his concern, his urgency. Or is it him I feel? she asked herself suddenly. There's something in my mind... But was it Delain Evenstar?

—Marta, I'm outside the kaer. The Scourge is over. It's been over for a hundred years.

"Impossible!"

—It's the truth, Marta. Look into my mind, you'll see it's the truth.

—What are you saying?

It took her a moment to realize that the second mental voice she heard was her own.

—My thoughts are open to you, Marta. My memories — what I've seen, what I know. Look at them.

—How do I know it's you?

She felt a strange mental tingle that could only be a laugh.

—I knew you'd ask that. Remember what you told me you'd read, Marta—what you'd read in the books of your greatgrandfather. The Canon of Ages. A reference to aging: loss of memory and the realization of mortality.

The mental "voice" recited:

—Stillness at last, and stillness ever more At the end as at the beginning. And when the All-encompassing pattern comes to crack and shatter And the laughter of childhood is but a memory,

Then the cold wind blows through the soul.

And darkness at last shall fall, and the temple crumbles, And the night shall be forever.

—Remember, Marta?

She brought her hands to her mouth, and closed her eyes.

—Delain.

— Yes. Delain. Look into my mind, Marta. See what I've

seen.

—I'll try.

And then her mind was filled with churning, disjointed images—unfamiliar, but with the immediacy of personal memories.

A narrow corridor, sloping up away from her. . .

.. .distorted figures reaching out toward her...

. . .an encampment, on a stony plain, under the open sky...

.. .Karena Hearthrock and Gaylear Cleareye, bundled in bedrolls, asleep in a tent. . .

. . .the chaos of combat, figures and fire in the darkness, the feel of a weapon in her hand. . .

. . .a reassuring smile on the face seemingly made from stone...

.. .the grip of a friendly hand...

.. .and, last of all, the stars. Myriads of them, scattered like chips of white fire across a black background, across the great dome of the sky.

"Outside. . ." Marta breathed.

—The Scourge is over, Marta. The kaer can open at last.

A pause, then the mental "voice" came again.

—I need your help, Marta. We all do.

She took a deep breath.

—What do you want me to do?

In the darkness of the tunnel, Delain opened his eyes. Both Tebar and Karena, the latter having, predictably, insisted on coming along, were watching him. It was Karena who spoke first.

"Well?"

Delain took a deep breath to clear his mind of the last vestiges of the magical disorientation that had possessed him. "I think I got through to her."

"You think?"

He shrugged. "I'm sorry, Karena, that's all I can say." He shook his head again. Already the sensations, the memories—vague and confused to begin with—were starting to fade. He thought he'd been in contact with Marta Aravey; he thought he remembered flashes of memories—words, images, emotions—from her mind. But what if it was only some artifact of the magic? Wishful thinking, made to seem real?

"And you passed on your message?" This from Tebar.

"Yes, I passed it on."

"Good," the obsidiman rumbled. A vague outline in the darkness, he gestured toward the iron door. "The power is drained from the thread pattern."

Delain blinked. "Does that mean there aren't any wards on the caisson anymore?" he asked hopefully. But then he saw the shimmering spider web of blue threads, still limning the iron and stone.

"Only from that portion of it that sent the message," Tebar explained. "If this attempt didn't work. . ." He shrugged.

"All right, so you think you got the message through," Karena said. "Do you think your stormcrow friend's going to do anything about it?"

Delain turned to face her. "Yes," he said firmly, trying to put into his voice more confidence than he actually felt. "Yes, I do think so."

Tebar nodded his satisfaction, but Karena couldn't leave it be. "And if you're wrong?"

"Then we'll have a long wait outside the Dawngate," Delain said.

What in the name of Astendar am I doing? Marta shook her head, crossing her arms over her breasts to control her shivering. A dream—a Horror-touched dream, and I'm. . . She cut that thought off. It was too terrible to even contemplate. Yet she was more than contemplating it, wasn't she? By the Passions, she was going to do it. What was she thinking?

It was the small hours of the morning, and the corridors were as close to deserted as they ever got. A chill breeze seemed to blow from the depths of the kaer as she walked slowly toward the Scytha Stair, but might that not just be her overactive imagination? The same overactive imagination that had conjured up Delain Evenstar in a dream? Passions!

But, no, she told herself firmly, it wasn't a dream. She didn't know what it was, but it wasn't that. Which means. . .

Which meant she really was going to go through with it, wasn't she?

"Goodwoman Aravey."

Marta froze in her tracks at the soft voice behind her.

Slowly, she turned and forced a smile onto her face. "Good day, Master Darkways," she said politely.

Gaylear and the others were waiting for Delain, Tebar, and Karena at the mouth of the tunnel. All were armed and armored, grim-faced and ready.

"Did it go well?" Gaylear asked as she handed him the same short bow he'd carried during the ork raid.

"As well as could be expected, I suppose," Delain answered quietly. He slung the bow across his shoulders. She passed him a quiver full of arrows, and he secured it to his belt.

"And now what?" Grond rumbled.

"And now we find the Dawngate," he replied. "And we wait."

Ryann looked skeptical. "If there'd been a gate in the mountainside, we'd have found it."

"Unless it was magically concealed," Tebar said, "by the same wards that protected it from the Horrors." He looked questioningly at Delain.

"That's what I think," the young human agreed.

"You mean we have to find the Dawngate?" The outrage in Karena's voice was almost comical.

"It shouldn't be too difficult," Delain said. He smiled at his friends. "We've got, what, a hundred years of experience between us? I think we can figure out where the gate must be." He turned to the others, and raised his voice slightly. "And I think we should be about it."

Around him, his comrades shouldered their weapons, and waited for him to take the lead.

Marta smiled, though smiling was the last thing she felt like at the moment. The slight figure seemed to float toward her in his simple white robe. His brilliant eyes regarded her curiously.

"Rather early for you to be abroad, isn't it, good-woman Aravey?" Kolban Darkways asked.

She shrugged lightly. "I couldn't sleep," she answered—truthfully.

The elf raised a thin eyebrow. "Bad dreams?"

Marta nodded. "And I thought a walk might clear my head."

"A good idea." Darkways nodded, stroking a bulbous ear with a slender forefinger. "I find myself in much the same position. Would you mind if I joined you?" he asked ingenuously. "Just for the company, of course."

Scourge. . . She searched her mind for an excuse. She shrugged again, and tried to smile.

And that was when something changed in Kolban's bright eyes. Marta felt that change like a distant click inside her mind. In an instant, the smile faded from the elf's face, leaving. . . nothing. No emotion at all, as on the face of a dead man.

Passions, he knows!

Inhumanly fast, Kolban's hand lashed out, clawlike fingers clutching for Marta's throat. But she was already moving, already turning to run, and that was the only thing that saved her. Kolban's hand closed on emptiness, an inch from the back of her neck. With a shriek of terror, Marta darted into the Scytha Stair, and sprinted downward.

She didn't hear any sound of pursuit, but she knew that would soon change.

"If I built something called 'the Dawngate,"' Karena groused, "I'd build it so it faced the east."

Julea Fiannen flashed her aloof smile. "Are dwarfs always so literal?" she asked nobody in particular.

Delain pointedly ignored them both. The Dawngate

was around here, he was sure of it. But where, exactly?

It should have been relatively easy, using the mouth of the caisson tunnel as a landmark. Working backward— and keeping in mind the absolute boundaries set by the shape of the mountainside itself—it should have been just a few minutes' work to figure out where the gate had to be.

It wasn't quite that simple, though. All they had to go on were rough estimates of the length of the tunnels—the one leading from the kaer proper to the caisson, and the one leading to the surface—and their angles of ascent. And it wasn't as though he and his two friends had had nothing else on their minds while navigating them. Based on the variations in their estimates, and then mentally working backward from those estimates, they could calculate the location of the Dawngate only within about a quarter of a mile in either direction. At least they knew one thing, that it was on the west side of the mountain. That thought made him shoot an amused glance at Karena.

The little group was spread out over a quarter of a square mile of mountainside. Looking for.. .well, that was the problem, really. Nobody knew quite what they should be looking for. "Something that might be a magically concealed gate" was the best anyone could come up with. How in the name of all the Passions did you find something that someone else had successfully hidden?

It didn't help, of course, that the western slope of the mountain was still in shadow. The sun had risen an hour ago, but its rays wouldn't strike this area for hours yet. Where had the night gone, Delain wondered momentarily, looking up at the dust blue sky. It was cloudless, giving its own light to the scene.

"Delain, here!" Gaylear's voice rang out over the rocky slope.

He hurried up the hill to join her.

"Here," she said again, gesturing about her. "This is it, I'm sure of it."

She stood on a broad ledge, an area of flat ground more than two dozen yards across, and—he quickly estimated—about two hundred feet above the level of the plain below. Directly in front of her was a vertical rock face, about fifteen paces wide, and an equal distance in height. Black, unrelieved basalt.

"Here?" he asked. But then he built up an image in his mind of the Dawngate, and "mapped" it onto the rock face before him. Yes, this was almost exactly the right size.. .and in almost exactly the right place. He smiled, and patted Gaylear on the shoulder. "You're right," he told her. "This is it."

Still no pursuit—or none that Marta could hear, at least. Heart pounding, the cold air of the kaer's depths stabbing at her lungs, she forced herself on. Into the Unnamed Levels, the Scytha Stair descended, and then still deeper, into the Closed Levels. By the time she reached the bottom of the Stair—Kha'averen, was its name, "the Foundation"—the muscles in her legs were on fire, and her pulse was a trip-hammer beat in her ears. Still she forced herself on, holding high the light quartz she'd kept hidden in her belt pouch.

Her footfalls echoed from the cold basalt around her, sounding like a thousand pursuers. When the building echoes grew too loud, she stopped and listened, wondering if they might actually be the sounds of pursuit, until they pattered away into the stillness once more. Then she forced her aching legs onward.

She almost missed it, almost blundered right past the archway with its deep-carved inscription. Panting, her body slick with sweat, she stopped and carefully picked out the words. As I stand, then let the World stand. Grand sentiments.. .Or maybe a veiled threat, she thought grimly. Then she passed through the archway.

And there it was ahead of her. Azhun. The keystone. The artifact that held the threads of the kaer's wards together. Four interlinked arches of white marble, their fine veins of gold glinting in the glow of her light quartz. Beautiful, she thought. More beautiful than anything built by the hands of man had a right to be. Pure. Delicate.

Sounds, behind her. She spun.

Yes, there was no mistaking it this time. Pursuit. Running footsteps. Yells of outrage. Above them, the high-pitched voice of Kolban Darkways. The elf was still too distant for her to make out the words, but then, she really didn't have to make them out, did she?

For a moment, Marta Aravey closed her eyes. "Passions," she whispered. "Please let me be doing the right thing."

Then she reached into her jerkin, and her hand closed on the grip of her weapon.

The others quickly joined Delain before the featureless rock face. "This is it," he told them again. "This is the Dawngate." From the corner of his eye, he saw Karena draw breath to argue. . .and then decide against it with a shrug.

"So now we wait?" Julea Fiannen asked. Delain nodded. "And when it opens?"

The troubadour smiled, glad the elf had said when, not if. "We go in."

"This Kolban you've talked about," Julea said. "When the gate opens, how will he react? And how will the Horror react?"

Delain's smile faded. He'd already thought about this, and didn't like the answer he'd come up with. "The Horror's losing its larder," he said quietly, flashing a glance at Karena. "When it realizes that—" He broke off, his mind balking at the thought of the orgy of destruction that surely must follow.

"So we have to stop that," Julea said.

He nodded. "Yes. We have to stop that."

"How?" Karena demanded.

Delain sighed. "I know it sounds strange," he said slowly, "but I think the greater danger to the kaer is Kolban. When the gate opens, the Horror can kill any people it can get to, but Kolban has the potential for driving everyone to suicide. Everyone," he repeated, expression grim. "That's why I want you"—he looked around—"all of you, to hunt down Kolban. . .and his doomsayers."

"And kill him?" Karena asked hopefully.

"Only if he gives you no choice," Delain said firmly. "I mean that."

"But he's Horror-tainted, Delain."

"And if there's some way of freeing him from that taint, I want to do it." He fixed Karena with a firm gaze. "I want your agreement on this, Karena."

The dwarf dropped her gaze. "You have it," she muttered.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it. Then, "You'd probably do better if you split up into two groups," he went on. "But I don't want any of you going it alone. It's just too dangerous."

He felt Gaylear's eyes on him. He turned slowly, to look into his friend's concerned face. "You keep saying 'you,' Delain," she said. "You do this, and you do this. As if you're not going to be with us."

He smiled grimly. He should have known Gaylear would be the one to notice. "I won't," he said.

"Then. . ." She stopped, and from her expression Delain knew she'd answered her own question.

"You look for Kolban," he told her. "I'll be looking for the Horror."

Slowly, Marta drew the weapon from her jerkin. A small mace, it was, intricately worked, with a blunt hammerhead on one side and a spike for punching through armor on the other. She hefted it in her hand. It didn't look like much, but she knew this was an enchanted pattern item, passed down from her weaponsmith greatgrandfather to his son, and to his, finally coming to her. She adjusted her hand on the leather-bound grip.

The sounds of pursuit were almost upon her. Now was the time. She turned to look at the delicate arches of Azhun. . .

 * * *

And with all her force, she brought the mace down on the fragile white marble.

"Not alone, you won't be!" Karena shouted. Gaylear too was ready to argue.

Delain raised his hand, palm out—a calming gesture. "Please," he said quietly. Somebody has to find the Horror, and kill it, but we've also got to save the rest of the kaer from Kolban. I need you to do that."

"Join us, then," Gaylear suggested. "When we've dealt with Kolban, then we'll all—"

"It might take too long," Delain cut in. "Don't you see?" He looked around at the others, Julea, Ryann, and Grond. He saw understanding, and agreement, in their eyes.

It was the obsidiman skald who spoke. "Delain Evenstar is right," he said calmly. "We have our task to perform; he has his."

"Quaalz!" Karena spat. "This doesn't make any sense."

"It does," Delain said, his voice little more than a whisper, "and you know it."

"Pah!" The dwarf slammed her fist into a rock. "Where are you going to look for this Horror of yours, Delain?" she demanded. "It's one fralkh of a big kaer. Where are you going to find it?"

He'd already thought this out, and now, as he spoke his answer aloud, Delain was even more certain he was right. "Where nobody would ever think of looking for it."

Under the first blow of the mace, the white marble rang like a crystal bell. Under the second, it cracked. Under the third, the cracks spread, propagating themselves throughout Azhun. Under the fourth, the keystone shattered. With a cry, Marta flung herself backward, stone fragments lashing her face.

The light quartz, which she'd set down beside Azhun, waxed in intensity, its brilliance doubling, then redoubling. Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw that the enchanted mace in her hand was starting to glow with a hard, blue radiance. She flung it from her with a wordless yell.

The upper spans of Azhun's four arches were gone. Only the arch bases remained, and they were crumbling as she watched. For the first time, she heard a high tone, like the highest-pitched of flutes, just barely audible.

It's coming from Azhun, she thought at first. But, no, she realized. It was coming from all around her, as if the kaer itself were vibrating. And it was growing louder and louder.

In front of her, the crumbled chunks of marble were fragmenting even further, shattering to become grit, and that grit becoming dust. And now that dust was beginning to glow, with the same hard, brittle light as the light quartz and her great-grandfather's mace—every mote of marble dust was burning like a star. The brilliance was blinding, agonizing. She threw up her hands to shield her eyes.

And then a silent concussion of light assaulted her, shining blood-red right through the hands covering her eyes. The sheer intensity of the light drove her to her knees.

Then all was black—black and silent. Slowly, fearfully, she peeked through tiny cracks between her fingers. The burning glow was gone. Her great-grandfather's mace was dull iron once more. And her light quartz had returned to its normal intensity.

Wiping away tears, she got to her feet. And she forced herself to look at Azhun.

There was nothing left. Nothing. No rubble, no grit, no dust. Nothing. Where the keystone had rested there was a jagged gap in the smooth floor, a pitch black cave into the heart of the rock on which the kaer rested.

And in that darkness, something moved.

It happened in an instant, with no warning whatsoever. One moment, a featureless rock face rose above the six companions. The next, they were standing before a huge set of double gates. Metal and stone, they were, carved with runes and symbols of warding, and of concealment.

"The Dawngate," Delain breathed.

He and his companions took an involuntary step backward as the great gates began to swing silently open.

20

"Astendar, help me," Marta Aravey whimpered. Through streaming eyes, she saw the. . .the shape. . .that was stirring in the darkness where once Azhun had stood. Saw its questing, slug white snout emerge from the rock. Saw its circular mouth open, to reveal its multiple ranks of dagger-sharp teeth. With a shriek of terror, she turned and ran.

Blindly she sprinted from the circular chamber, as though Death himself were at her heels.

Delain drew his shortsword from its sheath, and held the silver-chased blade aloft. The polished metal seemed to flare with its own inner light. He looked around at his comrades, his friends. In their eyes, he saw the same burning exaltation he felt in his own chest.

I should say something—make some exhortation, like a general of old. But it wasn't necessary, he realized. All knew what they had to do. And where would he find words worthy of the moment anyway?

He turned and began to run toward the opening Dawngate. He felt, more than heard, his friends following him.

Marta rounded a corner at full sprint, and slammed into a yielding shape. Strong arms grabbed her and flung her to the ground. Desperately she fought, but she was quickly immobilized. Held flat on her back by the weight of three erstwhile colleagues—Jerrani Kaerkeep and two others she'd numbered among her friends—she saw Kolban Darkways standing above her.

The nethermancer shook his head. "So you really did it, Troubadour Aravey," he said in his reedy voice. "I wouldn't have thought you had the courage."

Marta thrashed, throwing all her strength against the hands holding her down, but to no avail. "Let me go!" she screamed.

"I'm afraid not, Troubadour Aravey," Kolban said, a hint of amusement coming into his voice. He tossed a length of rope to the ground beside her. "Here," he told the others. "Secure her, please. So she can't do any more damage."

Quickly, her one-time friends bound her wrists and ankles. When they were done, they stepped back.

"Leave her here," Kolban said quietly.

"No!” Marta fought, the ropes cutting viciously into her flesh. Over the sounds of her own struggle, she thought she could hear movement from the direction of Azhun.. .or what had been concealed beneath Azhun. Her stomach twisted with fear of worse than death. "No!" Her panicked gaze lighted on Jerrani Kaerkeep. "Jerrani!" she cried. "Go and look at Azhun! Go and look! See what it is we've been aiding all these years. What we've been serving. Look, Scourge you!"

For an instant, she thought her words might be getting through to him. But then his expression hardened, and he looked away.

"Leave her' Kolban said again. He paused, cocking his head to one side as if listening to something. "Come," he said, "we must hurry. The Horrors are breaking into the kaer. Go." He urged the three troubadours back the way they'd come, back toward the Scytha Stair.

Looking back at Marta one last time, the nether-mancer smiled. "Fare you well, Marta Aravey," he said softly. And then he turned and hurried away, leaving her alone in the darkness.

No, not quite alone. . .The shape that had hidden beneath Azhun was stirring. She could hear it.

The great gates were only half open when Delain and his friends reached them and darted inside. For a moment he paused, blinking, letting his eyes adapt to the relative darkness within the kaer.

The Hall of the Dawngate was a scene of churning chaos. Attracted by the sounds as the gate had opened, more than a hundred kaer-dwellers were now running wildly about, screaming in panic as they sought shelter from the "invaders".

Beside him, Karena Hearthrock was shouting, "Stop, you quaalz-headed fools! It's me, don't you recognize me? Stop running, you night-worms!" Nobody stopped. If anything, even greater panic overcame those who saw her with the naked blade in her hand.

Gaylear gripped Delain's arm. "Where do we find Kolban?"

He hesitated. He could he anywhere.. .But then he felt a smile spread across his face. Yes, he thought, it only makes sense. "The Harper's Gallery," he told his friend. He gestured toward Ryann, Grond, and Julea. "Show them the way."

Gaylear nodded. "And you still won't come with us?" she asked after a moment.

He shook his head wordlessly.

Gaylear sighed. "May you touch the hand of Astendar, Delain Evenstar."

"May you also, Gaylear Cleareye clan Granitebone." Tightening his grip on his shortsword, he sprinted for the Scytha Stair.

Madness! Karena spat with frustration. Absolute Horror-touched madness/ The corridors were full of screaming, panicking people, as often locked in combat with each other, it seemed, as trying to find places to hide from the "invaders." Idiots! If we were Horrors, we'd be at their brains before they could do the first thing to stop us. No coordination, no organized defense. . .She'd seen more reasoned reaction from a nest of ants kicked into oblivion.

Her anger blazed and churned in her breast—and she let it, not making the slightest effort to control it. After all, if she suppressed the anger, she'd have to think about the frightening number of wounded, dying, and dead scattered around the corridors of the kaer. No, she decided, anger was safer than introspection at the moment.

The "rescuers" ran on, Gaylear and Karena in the lead, the other three following along behind them. The troll was making for the Great Gyre, Karena realized. That was the quickest route.

But it was also the most crowded. The vast majority of people would do anything to get out of the way of the "invaders," but some were too wrapped up in their own concerns—fist- or knife-fights with others, mostly—or too confused to clear the path. That was fine with Karena. It felt good to plant a shoulder under some straggler's ribs and drive him out of the way. It felt as though she were doing something. May the Passions damn you, Delain.. . .

Up the Great Gyre they pounded, around and around the sweeping stair, to the Level of Astendar. About them, the kaer rang with shrieks and howls, with the footsteps of running people, with the thud and clash of weapons. Gaylear led the way now, Karena struggling to keep up with her long troll strides. Gaylear was heading west, picking up her pace even more as she turned down an almost-deserted hallway.

Ahead of them, Karena could hear a high-pitched voice echoing from the stone.

Down the Scytha Stair Delain ran. Even now—even when the kaer was broken, "invaded"—the narrow, winding stair was deserted.

He'd slipped his shortsword back into its sheath, not wanting to risk a fall with a naked blade, but his hand kept touching the hilt, as if he could draw the reassurance he needed from the familiar object. The short bow slung across his shoulders kept catching on the walls of the stair, threatening to knock him off balance. Every few steps he seriously considered cutting the string and tossing the encumbrance aside, but then he told himself he was going to need every bit of help he could get.

The light quartz crystals mounted in the walls of the Stair started to fade by the time he'd reached the Level of Raggok. Pausing only long enough to pull his own crystal from a belt-pouch, he ran on.

What if I'm wrong? What if the Horror's not where I expect it to be? The doubts nagged at the periphery of his mind. With an effort, he forced them away. No. I have to be right. Where else could a Horror hide for four centuries? Where else would it feel safe, but in the one place where people would never dare to disturb it?

He reached the bottom of the Stair—Kha’averen. Holding his light quartz aloft in his left hand, he drew his sword with his right. As he ran headlong into the empty corridors, ahead of him he heard a scream.

Karena snarled as she recognized the voice that had screamed down the near-deserted passage. Kolban Darkways. Gaylear had guessed right in coming down this way, but the troll had suddenly slowed her pace. Now we've found him, she doesn't know what to do, Karena thought, but I do. She pushed past Gaylear to take the lead.

"The prophecies have come true, as you knew they would." Although distant, Kolban's voice rang clearly down the corridor. "The guardians of truth have told you, and now you've seen for yourselves. Traitors to the kaer have brought down the wards, and opened the Dawngate to the Horrors outside—to the Horrors to whom they owe allegiance. They have betrayed us—not to death, but to eternal torment and corruption!"

For the first time, Karena heard other sounds forming a disturbing counterpoint to the old man's words—weeping, wails of fear, the muttering of a desperate crowd. She forced herself into a dead run, hearing the others pick up their own pace behind her.

In a tight group, the five emerged in the Harper's Gallery. Standing at one of the intricately carved archways that looked down from the Gallery onto the High Concourse was Kolban Darkways. His stick-thin arms were raised, as if calling down the powers of the Passions to come to his aid. Arrayed behind and around him, were a ragged honor guard, a half-dozen young humans, men and women. Troubadours, Karena saw, the ones Delain always called the "doomsayers." She looked for the face of Marta Aravey, but didn't see it. Was that a good sign, or bad?

There were others in the Gallery as well, knots of ter-rified-looking kaer-dwellers, listening to Kolban with rapt attention. The nethermancer's posture made it obvious his main "audience" was below, in the High Concourse, but he wasn't ignoring the others entirely.

"Kolban!" Karena screamed at the top of her lungs. We're coming for you, Kolban! she thought in glee. Delain had said he wanted to give him a chance—to repent, or whatever the fralkh he was thinking. But Delain wasn't here now, was he? She grinned nastily. Anyway, if some of the old Throalic myths were right, Kolban would have plenty of time to repent where he was going—all the time in the world, as a matter of fact.

Troubadours and "spectators" alike turned as Karena's voice echoed from the basalt ceiling. Kolban's "honor guard" flinched back in the face of the five well-armed figures—no longer running now, but approaching slowly and inexorably, like harbingers of death.

Kolban himself turned slowly, his face twisting—not in fear, as Karena had expected, but in a kind of wild satisfaction. He pointed with a quivering forefinger. "There!" he cried out. "There they are: the betrayers of Kaer Moar! And see? They bring their master with them."

Karena hesitated in her approach. Master? What master? Beside her, she heard Gaylear gasp in alarm. She turned.

There—walking with them, like an integral part of their group—was something that could only be a Horror. A misshapen travesty of a human form, it was, almost as tall as Ryann the obsidiman, but thinner than a malnourished child. Its skin was a dull, dead, gray, hanging in limp rolls and sheets from the body. But it was the head that was most horrific: a twisting, writhing mass of maggots, from which blood-rimmed eyes burned, filled with unholy glee.

"Passions!" Karena backpedaled away from the monstrosity, instinctively bringing up her sword.

"See what the betrayers bring for you?" Kolban cried.

"It comes for all our souls. It comes to feed!

"Will you let it have your souls? Or will you deny it its feast?"

And then the screams came, an almost physical assault of sound, ripping at Karena's sanity. "No!" she shouted. "No, he brought this forth, not us!" But her voice was lost in the echoing screams.

The Horror walked on—not toward Karena, but toward Kolban Darkways. As it passed her, it turned its writhing "head," and in its bloody eyes she saw the same wild satisfaction that had filled Kolban's face a moment before. Passions!

"It's not real!" she bellowed. "It's not real, Scourge you!" With a shriek of pure rage, she lunged forward, swinging her blade in a hissing cut at the terrible figure's back. Instead of cleaving its spine in two, the blade passed unhindered right through the image, as if nothing at all were there. And then, shockingly, nothing was there. As suddenly as it had appeared, the "Horror" was gone.

Gasping, head hanging—inexplicably as exhausted as if she'd fought a real fencing bout, Karena dragged a hand across her brow, and felt the chill of icy sweat on her skin. Then slowly, she looked up, and she felt her lips draw back in a killing smile. "Kolban!" she cried again even as she charged forward.

She'd taken no more than a single step when something terrible happened.

Ahead, he saw the figure huddled on the ground. No, not huddled—bound. The figure looked up, and he saw wide, rolling blue eyes in a parchment face. "Delain!" she called out weakly.

He darted forward, dropped to his knees beside the dark-clad shape. "Marta, I—"

"Delain. . ." Her words tumbled over each other in her desperation. "I did what you told me, I broke Azhun. I broke it, Delain.

"And there's a Horror there! Underneath Azhun. Under the keystone!"

"I know," Delain said. "I know."

Karena was alone. Alone, that was the terrible thing— dying alone. Beyond the door to her small room, she could hear conversation, laughter—the sounds of friends greeting friends. Yet none would come to visit her, she knew. She didn't know why, but it was true just the same. The only company she had—she'd had, these last months— was the disease eating away at her flesh, sapping the strength from her body, clouding her mind with fears. And worse than fears—regrets. Not for what she'd done, but for what she'd left undone.

The bitter pain was familiar, these days, almost like a friend. The one friend that still remains true to me, she thought sadly. A long, full life, dedicated to the service of others—of family, friends, and kaer—and to end like this? It was, quite literally, unbearable.

She coughed, tasted the tang of her life-blood in the back of her throat.

What am I waiting for? the ancient dwarf asked herself. The knife was there, on the table beside the bed, within easy reach. Better to do it now while I still have the strength. With a sigh that was almost a sob, she reached out gropingly. Yes, there was the hilt of the knife: toughened leather ribbed with fine wire. It felt familiar in her hand. Perhaps I have two friends, after all. ..

But. . .no. This was wrong. The knife in her hand. . .it was no knife, it was too large for that. The hilt of a sword, not a knife. A sword. . .

"Here." Delain pulled Marta to her feet, and slipped his small belt-knife back into its sheath. The woman quickly tore away the scraps of her bonds still remaining. He smiled into her fear-bleached face. "Thank you, Marta. You. . ." His voice trailed off, and he just shook his head. Again, he found no words worthy of the moment. "Thank you," he repeated. Then he turned toward the center of the kaer.

He felt her hand on his arm. "I don't have a weapon."

 * * *

He hesitated. Her eyes, her face, showed terror, but he could also sense her determination. "No, Marta," he said, shaking his head slowly. "This is my task."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why you? Scourge it, Delain, you were right! If it's anybody's responsibility, this should be mine. It was me who. . .who. . ." Her face twisted in self-imposed torment.

"No." He grabbed her by both shoulders, and held her at arm's length, his gaze steady on her face. "No," he said again. "You can't think that way. You can't." He watched as she brought herself back under control. Finally he released her, and stepped back.

Marta nodded, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "You're right, Delain," she whispered. She looked up into his face, and he felt her blue eyes score him to the soul. "But I still need a weapon."

"Karena." Gaylear's voice. Loud. Close. "Karena."

The dwarf opened her eyes. Air hissed through her lips, a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She turned, looking up at her big friend. Concern was written in the troll's dark eyes. "What. . .?" Karena mumbled. "I was. . ." No. With a massive effort, she forced the memories away. More illusions. Her sword was still hanging loosely in her hand as the other "invaders" continued their advance on Kolban Darkways. A heartbeat or two, she thought, it could only have taken a heartbeat. With a vicious curse, she tightened her grip on the sword.

Kolban hadn't moved, but there was a hint of fear on his face now. Most of the "spectators" had fled the Gallery. Apart from the "invaders," only Kolban's "honor guard" remained, and even they had backed away from the white-clad elf. Or whatever he is, Karena amended grimly.

Hefting her sword, she stepped forward. Two massive shapes flanked her—Gaylear to her left, Grond to her right.

Kolban took a step back from them, bumping into the stone railing along the edge of the Gallery. Looking quickly around her, Karena saw that she and Julea the elf had obviously just been struck by the same thought. In a sudden, flickering run, Julea had already moved around to flank Kolban, to cut off his escape route. Ryann the skald joined her a moment later.

"There's nowhere to run, Kolban!" Karena called out.

The man's thin face twisted as fear strove with rage. With a fierce hiss, he pistoned his arms out to the sides, flinging his head back as if to glare at the sky. He opened his mouth wide.

And mist from it poured, a slate gray, viscous fog. Heavier than air, it poured down over the man's sunken chest like a slow-moving liquid. When it struck the floor, it spread out, rolling outward and away from him. It seemed almost alive, Karena thought suddenly, the way it reached out toward them.. .as if it knew they were there, and where they were. She shrugged. Did Kolban really think a little fog was going to stop us? She strode forward confidently.

But Grond grabbed her shoulder and held her back. "No," he rumbled. She fought against his grip for a moment, but it was as immovable as the mountain that surrounded them.

She glared up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Are you so keen to die, dwarf? Touch that fog, and that's what you'll do."

In the midst of the spreading cloud of vapor, Kolban turned, and vaulted with the agility of a young man over the parapet. Karena heard him land in the Concourse below.

"Tell me about it," Delain said quietly.

Marta shook her head. "I..She covered her eyes. "I can't." He nodded in understanding. "Delain..."

"You must have used something to smash Azhun," he temporized.

She shrugged, embarrassed. "I threw it away."

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, "Here, take this." He drew his shortsword from its sheath, and handed it to her. Then a sudden thought struck him, "Can you use it?" he asked.

She weighed the weapon in her hand, testing its balance. And she smiled. "I can use it."

Better than I can use this, I'd wager, he thought, unslinging the bow from around his shoulders. Trying not to fumble too badly, he drew an arrow from the quiver and nocked it to the bowstring. He tested the weight of the bow, drawing it partially, then letting it down again. Remember what Gaylear told you, he reminded himself, a drawn bow is seven-eighths broken. Bow at the ready, he flashed Marta a smile that was, he hoped, more confident than he actually felt. Together, they advanced toward the chamber of Azhun.

“Fralkh!" Karena turned and sprinted toward the rail, not to where Kolban had gone over, but further up the length of the long Gallery. The cloud of vapor still seemed to be spreading, but—as if it needed the mind of the nethermancer to control it—it no longer seemed to be reacting to the "invader's" presence anymore. Gaylear joined her an instant later.

"There!" Karena pointed. The Concourse was packed with the people Kolban had been addressing, but she could see the nethermancer clearly, his white robe standing out against the muted tones of the kaer-dwellers' daily garb. He was fighting his way through the crowds, heading for the nearest passage that led away from the High Concourse and into the depths of the kaer. Scourge it! If he gets away now, we’ll never find him. "Gaylear, can you..." she began.

But the archer had already nocked an arrow, and was drawing her great bow. Karena kept her arm leveled, finger tracking the white-clad figure of Kolban. The bow was at full draw, and the dwarf could almost hear the tension in its recurved limbs.

It was as if Kolban could sense it, too. He stopped suddenly in his headlong flight, and turned. Karena saw his eyes widen. With a fierce curse, the old man reached out and grabbed for the kaer-dweller nearest to him—a human woman in her middle years. She screeched as he grasped her and dragged her toward him, to use her as a living shield.

An instant too late. The bowstring sang, and the arrow leapt from the bow. The image of the shaft would always be graven on Karena's memory, its vicious, razor-vaned broadhead streaking across the intervening distance. She'd never forget the sound as it drove into Kolban's chest.

Nor would she forget what came next.

The shapes burst from the darkened doorway. Smaller than the thing that had attacked Delain and Gaylear in the Closed Levels, but there were more of them, too. Chittering and keening they charged, a half-dozen of them, hooked claws clicking on the basalt floor, mandibles clashing.

Quite literally without thinking, Delain brought the bow up, drew, and loosed, in a single smooth motion. In that instant, he could feel the music, the flow—the magic of the archer. And also in that instant, if anyone had asked him where his consciousness was, he'd have truthfully said, "In the point of the arrow."

The shot flew true. It drove deep into the first of the scurrying creatures, ripping the life from it, driving its corpse back into its fellows.

Before the vibration in the bowstring had died, Delain had another arrow out and nocked. Again, he felt the magic flow through him. It was almost as if the arrow chose its own point of aim, its own moment of release. The bow thrummed, and another of the creatures died.

Then Marta Aravey was among them, slashing and thrusting with the silver-chased sword. He knew he couldn't risk another shot with her so close to his targets. The last two shots were just as true. But the next one was as likely to be through his own foot.. .or through the back of Marta's neck.

It didn't matter anyway. The battle, such as it was, was over in moments, and the small, scurrying creatures were dead.

Together, Delain and Marta walked forward.

Kolban screamed. He staggered backward under the impact of the arrow, releasing the woman he'd tried to use as a shield. Somehow he managed to keep his feet. As he turned his fierce glittering eyes on the figures in the Gallery, Karena could feel his hatred. And then he began to change.

His flesh seemed to flow like water, rippling and shifting. As Karena watched in horror, he stretched, growing more than a foot in height, and broadening across the shoulders. Even over the suddenly renewed screams of the people in the Concourse, she could hear his skeleton changing, a protracted wet crunching, like the sound of tearing gristle. The white robe tore, and fell away from a body no longer even vaguely human. Only the eyes were unchanged, piercing blue. . .almost crackling with rage.

In that instant, Karena dropped her sword, her right hand flashing for the dagger sheathed at the small of her back. She drew it, flipping it around so she could grasp it by the broad, leaf-shaped blade. She brought the weapon back behind her ear, then snapped her hand forward and down, angled across her body. The throw was away even before she was fully aware of what she had done.

The Horror glowed with its own light, the pale, corrupted light that would sometimes limn a decaying corpse. It seemed to fill the room where Azhun had once stood, swaying slowly, its eyeless snout seeking blindly— for prey, perhaps. For an instant, the glow dimmed to nothing, and then shimmered to life again. The air reeked of putrefaction.

Delain tasted bile, mixed with the bright copper taste of fear. The thing was larger than he'd imagined, bigger than an obsidiman, bigger than a troll. Its shape was unimaginable, almost beyond his ability to conceive such an unknown thing. Perhaps the only facets of its appearance for which he had points of comparison were its teeth.

"Astendar, give me strength." Beside him, Marta was quivering as if with the ague, but still, somehow, she managed to keep her sword poised and ready.

Delain gasped at the cold, feather-touch in his mind. And then the sharp, ringing words formed inside his head.

— Delain Evenstar. Delain Evenstar.

The mental "voice" seemed to relish the name.

"No/" Delain shrieked. Marta jumped in alarm. She couldn't hear it, he realized, it was speaking only to him.

— Your struggles have been entertaining, Delain Evenstar. As have those of your friends.

Delain tried to close his mind, tried to wall off from it his memories and thoughts, his dreams and emotions. But he felt the Horror's thoughts, like a cold thread, work their way deep into his mind.

— Your friends. Such close friends. Karena Hearthrock— dead of course, already dead. She died cursing you, Delain Evenstar. And Gaylear Cleareye—not dead yet, though she wishes she were. And she too curses your name.

Delain shook his head fiercely. No, it was all a trick.. .

-Is it?

Beside him, Marta's face was twisting in torment. Maybe she couldn't "hear" what the Horror was saying to him, but judging by her expression, it was carrying on its own conversation with her.

—I have no need to lie to you, Delain Evenstar. The Dawngate may be open, but the people of the kaer are paralyzed by their fear, as they have always been. They will never leave by it. My pawn will see to that.

"No!" He shook his head. It couldn't be true...

—Of course it can be true. The people of Kaer Moar may wish for freedom—may think they wish for freedom—but none have the courage to take it when it is offered. You think it is walls and gates that imprison the people of Kaer Moar? Far from it, Delain Evenstar. It's their minds. Open the gates, and the prison still remains. And that is why you've lost.

"No! They have more strength than you give them credit for."

—Do they? For how long have you known them, Delain Evenstar? Twenty-five years, perhaps. For how long have I known them? Four centuries. I told them what I wanted them to hear. I taught them what I wanted them to know. I mu thru father, their mother. You open the Dawngate, and you show them the sky. But the sky terrifies them. They will never leave.

Delain felt the strength drain from his muscles—from his mind. No, he said silently. You're wrong. But he couldn't bring himself to believe it. The bow fell from nerveless fingers, clattering to the ground.

The blade caught the light as it turned end for end once, twice. Instinctively, Kolban—or whatever he'd become—raised a hand to block the projectile. Again, he was an instant late. Laying open his forearm as it passed, the blade drove deep into his chest. Ichor—blue-green, steaming—burst from the wound, and sprayed from his mouth as Kolban screamed. Beside Karena, Gaylear's bowstring sang again. An arrow, blazing like a comet, drove through Kolban's throat, the blades of the broad-head almost tearing the head from his body. With a final, despairing shriek that seemed to come not from Kolban alone, but from every fiber of the kaer's structure, the body collapsed and was still.

Above, on the Gallery, Gaylear lowered her bow. Karena looked up into her friend's face, and she smiled.

"See to them, Gaylear," Karena said, gesturing to the people below, staring in dawning comprehension at the body that had once been Kolban Darkways. "Tell them it's over." She patted the troll's arm, and turned away.

"Karena."

The dwarf turned back to Gaylear.

"Where are you going, Karena?"

Karena felt herself smile—an expression of joy and relief, this time, not of killing rage. "I have something else to do," she said.

It's over. Delain stared at the Horror. It's over. After all of this. The fear he'd felt minutes ago was gone, burned out of him. All that remained was despair. It's over. . .

— Your people will never leave.

There was a new tone to the Horror's mental "voice." He waited for it to continue.

— Yet you can leave, if you wish, Delain Evenstar. You and your friend here.

He stared at the thing dully. There was something different about it, part of his mind registered, but he couldn't bring to the forefront of his thoughts just what was different. "What?" he asked blankly.

— You may leave, Delain Evenstar. You and Marta Tethys Aravey may leave. I will grant you your lives, in return for the amusement you bring me.

"What?" Delain repeated, his voice that of a drunken man.

—Go, Delain Evenstar. Go now. Take your friend and leave this place. Save your lives. Otherwise, both of you will curse the day your parents met. I promise you that.

The despair, the black depression, was almost enough to make Delain cry. Yes, he thought. Yes. Leave now, save our lives. We tried. . .but we failed. Nobody can blame us for that.

"Delain!" Marta's voice jarred him. "Delain!"

He turned to her, his eyes asking the question he couldn't bother to voice.

"Delain. Look." She was pointing at the Horror.

He looked, tried to pay attention to the information his eyes were feeding him. But it was difficult, so difficult. He shook his head. What does it matter anyway? Then he saw.

The Horror was smaller than it had been a minute before.

No, not smaller. It was drawing away from them, deeper into the cave where it had sheltered for almost half a millennium. Cowering away from them.

As if it feared them.

He blinked.

As if it fears us.

—Leave now, Delain Evenstar. I grant you your lives. Take them, before I change my mind.

He shook his head sharply. The black despair still clouded his mind, but for an instant a flash of clarity penetrated, like light when a curtain is drawn back a fraction of an inch. "Why?" he asked slowly. Then, with more intensity, "Why? Why let us live? Maybe you're right about the people of the kaer. Maybe they won't leave unless they're led.

"But if you let me leave here, I can always come back. We can come back. And bring more friends this time. Enough to sweep away every trace of the pain you've caused. How can you risk that?"

Marta was watching him, her mouth hanging open dully. He saw the instant of comprehension, the flash of understanding in her blue eyes.

—Go now.

"No." He said it calmly—not an argument, but a simple statement of fact. "No.

"You can only risk letting us go.. .because you have no choice.

"You can cloud our minds. You can play on our fears. But that's all you can do. You can't kill us.. .otherwise you would have done it." Slowly, he bent down and picked up the bow he'd dropped.

—Go now.

There was a definite tenor of urgency—of fear—in the Horror's mental voice now.

Delain felt a smile spread across his face as he nocked an arrow to the string. Before him, the Horror was retreating, oozing back down into the dark chasm in the floor. But slowly—too slowly. He drew the arrow back to his ear. And for a moment, he held the bow at full draw, reveling in the tension in his muscles. His entire existence focused down to a single point, a single mote of consciousness—the tip of the arrow. He loosed.

The broadhead tore into the soft flesh of the Horror, the shaft driving so deep that only the fletching remained visible. The Horror thrashed, and a wordless screech lashed at Delain's mind. Pus and tissue gouted from around the shaft, pulsing from the wound channel that seemed as thick as a man's arm.

Delain slipped another arrow from the quiver. Nocked, drew, released. And another, and then a third.

The Horror was screaming aloud, now, a mind-numbing shriek that went on and on. Half in and half out of the pit that lay beneath Azhun, it thrashed and flailed, spraying fluid and tissue across the basalt floor. The air was filled with a reek that didn't smell like corruption, but was corruption. Nausea knotted Delain's stomach, but still he slid his last arrow from the quiver, and drove it, too, into the ruptured mass.

The Horror's convulsions were weaker now, its shriek fading to a bubbling hiss. Its mass seemed to be collapsing in on itself. Finally, there was stillness and silence.

Beside him, Marta Aravey set down her sword. From her belt-pouch, she drew out a flask of lamp-oil and a set of fire-steels.

Delain nodded wordlessly.

He watched as she tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her jerkin, and stuffed it into the mouth of the oil flask. He held the flask for her, as she struck a spark, and ignited the end of the fabric strip. When he was sure the cloth was burning well, he flung the flask into the open pit. It shattered on impact, splattering burning oil across the mass that had once been the Horror of Kaer Moar. The bloated mass of tissue ignited as if it were as flammable as the oil, burning with a bright green flame. Delain reached out and took Marta's hand in his as they both stepped back from the sudden flash of heat.

Over the hiss and crackle of the fire, a new sound echoed through the corridors of the kaer. Delain smiled. Above him, a dozen levels above, someone was sounding the Great Horn.

About the Author Nigel D. Findley

Bom in Venezuela, Nigel D. Findley grew up in England, Spain, France, Nigeria, Texas, and other spots around the western hemisphere. He eventually settled in Canada, where he played the corporate warrior with various high-tech companies. He gave up the suit and became a full-time writer in I989. Nigel D. Findley died in February, I995.

Nigel was a major creative force in FASA's Shadowrun® fictional universe, contributing dozens of gaming adventures and sourcebooks as well as four Shadowrun® novels—2XS, Shadowplay, Lone Wolf, and House of the Sun. He also wrote several game-related novels for other companies and game products for virtually every major roleplaying system in existence.

Lost Kaer is Nigel's first, and unfortunately his last, Earthdawn® novel.