Twice now his life had been threatened. Such things seemed to be expected in the Realm. The Crane Women, each time, had treated his horrible experiences as just another minor hurdle. Michael couldn't accept that.

 

 

He wasn't sure he could trust the Crane Women to help him to his goal; he knew he couldn't trust Lamia. Even the humans had little altruistic interest in his fate; Savarin probably cared for Michael only so long as he gathered information. Only Eleuth accepted him for what he was, and desired his company. He ran even faster.

 

 

Whatever else he thought about them, one thing was obvious: the Crane Women were doing him no harm by training him. He felt better, stronger; on Earth, he might have been laid up for a week after nearly drowning and being roughed up.

 

 

Euterpe had come through the storm with little damage. Some of the walls were water-stained, and one or two had been shored up after the dissolution of a few bricks, but little more. Obviously, what Nare had said was true: the Umbrals and Riverines sought Breeds, not men.

 

 

Michael made his way through the streets, walking quickly to avoid curious onlookers. Even so, he was heckled a few times. He hunched his shoulders and felt the helpless anger build.

 

 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and crossed a narrow, cheerless triangle adjacent to a large, low one-story ochre brick building.

 

 

There were no signs announcing the fact, but Michael supposed this was the dreaded Yard. He circled die building, found Savarin's school on the opposite side, a square, low-roofed structure with a clumsy steeple rising over one comer. As he climbed the brick steps, he heard a high-pitched warbling wail from the depths of the Yard and the muffled slam of a heavy door.

 

 

Savarin stood near a wicker lectern in the empty single classroom, leafing through a small pile of gray paper. The teacher looked up as Michael entered, his eyes widening at the bruises on his face and the state of the boy's clothing: muddy grass-stained pants, torn shirt and jacket. "You look more like a savage every day," Savarin said. "Was I right about last night - more man a storm?"

 

 

"A - what did you call it? - a raid."

 

 

Savarin nodded, circling Michael and touching his jacket solicitously. "Grazza, similar to the Arabic grazzu, you know. My God. I knew Halftown was hit-"

 

 

"Right in the middle of Kaeli," Michael said. "They took three Breeds, including the market manager. How often do these raids happen?"

 

 

"Often enough to make me suspect Alyons cares little for the Breeds, and that the Pact does not fully apply to them. Yet they follow Sidhe customs-"

 

 

"He doesn't give a damn for them," Michael said, surprised by his anger. "I'd like to kill that sonofabitch."

 

 

Savarin looked Michael over solemnly for a moment. "I hope your memory of the events was not affected."

 

 

"I remember well enough," Michael said. "The Crane Women even let me understand Cascar for a while."

 

 

Savarin's face betrayed almost comic envy. "Then tell," he said. "Do tell all."

 

 

For an hour and a half, Michael reconstructed the Kaeli and me events after. Savarin grabbed his sheaf of gray papers and scribbled notes frantically with a sharp stick of hardened charcoal. "Marvelous," he said several times throughout. "Names I've never heard before, connections made! Marvelous!"

 

 

When Michael finished, Savarin said, "I suspect Adonna would have done with us all, Breed and human. But it acts very slowly. A god's time must be different from ours. In its moment of hesitation, we might fit our entire history in the Realm."

 

 

"What happens to the Breeds they took?"

 

 

"I've heard the Umbrals and Riverines share them in their temples. Work magic with them. I know little beyond that. Perhaps some are taken to the Irall."

 

 

"What's the Irall?"

 

 

"Adonna's greatest temple, ruled by the Faer but accessible to all Sidhe. How many did you say were taken?"

 

 

"Three."

 

 

"Then it might not be an even split. Perhaps the raiders had a tiff of their own, dividing the captives."

 

 

Michael didn't like the word, divide. It sounded entirely too accurate.

 

 

"As for Kaeli songs, I've heard some outlines before but never so many details. You help me assemble many separate elements. A shame Lirg didn't have time to tell more about Elme. I suspect some very important history is connected with her." He put his notes on the lectern and sat beside Michael on the classroom's front bench. "Questions are going around town. Why are you here, and why are you with the Crane Women and not your own kind? The townspeople resent you because they fear Alyon's displeasure. Our position is precarious, and you introduce an element of uncertainty."

 

 

"Is there anything I can do?" Michael asked.

 

 

"Perhaps." Savarin smiled, then frowned as he inspected Michael's bruises. "You should be resting, not up and about."

 

 

"I'm fine. Tell me more about the Crane Women." Come on, teacher, he thought. Teach. "Why are they so old. and how old are they?"

 

 

"I'm not positive," Savarin said, "but I believe they date back to the time of Queen Elme herself. For all I've heard, they're Elme's daughters, but that hasn't been substantiated, and of course they'll never tell. Sometimes the Sidhe send their priest initiates, or their most promising young warriors, across the Blasted Plain to the Crane Women for training."

 

 

"Well, I'm no warrior and certainly no Sidhe. The Crane Women make me feel stupid. If the Sidhe hate humans and Breeds so much, why is Alyons supposed to be protecting us? Does he protect anybody, really?"

 

 

"Yes," Savarin said, scratching his nose between two fingers. "Somewhat. Things here would be much worse without him, much as I have a difficult time saying it. But he hates us. He makes sure we stay put, and between whatever protecting he does, he harasses. Makes life miserable."

 

 

"He wanted to kill me."

 

 

"I'm sure you go against everything he holds dear," Savarin said, chuckling. "You are being treated in a most unusual way - like a Sidhe in many respects."

 

 

Michael looked down at the hard-packed dirt floor. "I must have a million questions, and nobody knows the answers, or will tell me if they do."

 

 

"If the Crane Women haven't told you by now," Savarin said, "perhaps being ignorant is part of die training." He stood. "Ignorance loves company. I've someone I want you to meet. if you're free, that is."

 

 

"I'm free," Michael said with a touch too much defiance.

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

 

"The last person to arrive in the Realm before you was - is - a young woman." Savarin led Michael down a narrow alley. Their feet squelched in the still-damp mud. "She's been here two years, counting by days - which is more reliable than counting by seasons. I've told her about you, and she wishes to meet you. She is from your country, the United States."

 

 

"Where in the United States?"

 

 

"New York."

 

 

"Savarin, how long have you been here?"

 

 

"Perhaps thirty, thirty-five years."

 

 

"You don't look old enough," Michael said, astonished.

 

 

"Here, we get old to a point, then no older. Our souls are aware there is no place for them to go, and so they take better care of our bodies. Aging stops, even for old Wolfer."

 

 

Michael was silent for a moment, letting that sink in. "What's her name?"

 

 

"Helena." Savarin turned left and waved for him to follow. At the end of an even narrower, T-shaped alley, a door was set into a mud-brick wall. The T's extensions branched to the right and left, ending in blind walls. Within the doorway a flight of steps led up into shadows. The feeble glow of a candle in a sconce at the top of the stairs lit their way as they climbed.

 

 

Savarin straightened Michael's coat collar and tugged his shirt collar out around it, shook his head at the hopeless task of making him presentable, then turned to a fabric-covered wicker door and lightly rapped it with his knuckles.

 

 

"Yes? Who is it?"

 

 

"I've brought a visitor," Savarin said, winking at Michael.

 

 

The door opened with a dry scrape and a young woman, not much older than Michael, stood in the frame. She smiled nervously and glanced at Savarin, smoothed the lower half of her blouse with her hands, and glanced at Michael. She wore a short skirt made of the same dun-colored cloth most of the human and breeds had to make do with. Her blouse, however, was white and cottony, cut short around her shoulders. Her face was broad, with generous black eyes and wide full lips. Her hair was dark brown with hints of red. She was well-formed, slightly plump, but as tall as Michael and able to carry her figure well.

 

 

"Helena Davies, this is Michael Perrin." Savarin waved his hand between them.

 

 

"Hello," Michael said, offering his hand. Helena took it - her fingers were warm and dry, slightly callused - and stepped back.

 

 

"Please come in. Savarin's told me about you."

 

 

The apartment was separated into two rooms by a plastered brick wall, the door between hung with curtains made of pieces of hollow twig strung on twine. Two chairs of woven cane stood in opposite corners, covered with tiny gray pillows. In another corner, a washbasin sat on a stand made of sticks, much like the one in the inn room Michael had first shared with Savarin.

 

 

"I'm brewing herb tea," Helena said, showing them to the seats. She pulled out a bedroll and went behind the curtain to retrieve a white ceramic pot and three mugs. She set them down on a second wicker stand and pulled the bedroll close to Michael's chair, then sat on it, serving the tea and handing them their mugs. She stood abruptly, her hands going this way and that as she searched for something with her eyes. She said, "Ah!" and walked briskly to a box on the window ledge, from which she withdrew honeycomb wrapped in waxed cloth. "Honey for your tea?"

 

 

"Please," Michael said. She broke off a bit of comb and handed it to him. He dropped it into his mug. Realizing his mistake, he started to fish out the melting bits of wax, then gave it up. Helena laughed, but not unkindly, and sat down again.

 

 

"I'm so nervous," Helena said to Savarin. "Henrik tells me you didn't come here the way the rest of us did." didn't want to repeat what was becoming, to him, a tiresome story. "How did you get here?" he asked.

 

 

"Helena was a budding concerto pianist," Savarin said. She shrugged with false modesty and held her mug to her lips, looking at Michael over the rim.

 

 

"Prokofiev," she said.

 

 

"Pardon?"

 

 

"I was playing Prokofiev. I'd been practicing the Piano Concerto Number Three for a month, preparing for a recital. I was very tired. Up in the morning with Bach, and around all afternoon with Prokofiev."

 

 

Michael waited for her to continue. She returned his gaze intently, then laughed and went on. "My hands felt all numb, so I decided to take a walk. The music was in my head. I could feel it. In my body, too, especially my chest and arms." She touched a spot above her right breast. Her breasts swung enticingly free beneath the blouse. "Like I was having a musical heart attack, you know?"

 

 

Michael shook his head.

 

 

"Perhaps not. Anyway, I was dizzy. I stood at the top of a flight of stairs in my apartment building, and at the bottom was nothing but a pool of mercury - you know, quicksilver - and I stumbled. Put my foot in it. Woke up here." She set her cup down and wiped her lips delicately with a forefinger. "I still don't like stairs, even living on an upper floor."

 

 

"That was two years ago?" Michael asked.

 

 

"Give or take. Now - how did you get here? I mean. Henrik explained, but I'd like to hear it from you."

 

 

All of Michael's confidence, built up (he had thought) during the weeks of training, dissolved in her presence. She was fresh, lively, young and completely human. He stumbled over his words, then bore down on memories and produced a passable re-telling of his experiences. When he had finished, Helena looked out the small curtained window, the subdued light from the alley softly dividing her face.

 

 

"We really don't understand anything about life, do we?" she said. "I thought this was like purgatory for those who spent too much time with music and too little time in church. At first, I mean. I was that naive."

 

 

"Many people feel a religious confusion when they first arrive," Savarin said. "I'm studying it."

 

 

"You study everything," Helena said, reaching out with a slender hand to touch Savarin's arm. Michael focused on the contact, with a twinge of jealousy. "Isn't he too much?"

 

 

"You're from New York?"

 

 

"Brooklyn. And you?"

 

 

"Los Angeles."

 

 

"Oh my gawd," she said, shaking her head. "A crazy Californian. I've never heard of Arno Walt.what's his name. Did he ever write serious music?"

 

 

"For movies," Michael said.

 

 

"Nothing else?"

 

 

"Well, the concerto."

 

 

"Funny, I've never heard of that, either."

 

 

"I think it was suppressed or something. It got him into a lot of trouble."

 

 

"Well, music's a big world. And I do suppose composers have a hard time, even harder than pianists. What are you doing now that you're here?"

 

 

"I'm training," Michael said before he had a chance to think.

 

 

"Training for what?"

 

 

"I don't know." He grinned sheepishly. Helena regarded him with apparent shocked surprise.

 

 

"You must know what you're training for," she said.

 

 

"To get my strength up, I suppose."

 

 

"You don't look particularly sick to me."

 

 

"Weak," he said. "I mean, I just never did much physical exercise."

 

 

"A bookworm like Henrik, I suppose," Helena said. "Well, then it's good for you there are so few books here."

 

 

"Michael brought one with him."

 

 

"Oh, did you? Can I see it?"

 

 

"I don't have it with me." He was surprised how touchy the subject was to him; he recalled Lamia's expression when he told her he had a book. "It's just a volume of poetry."

 

 

"More's the pity it's not a book of music. I'm terribly out of practice." She held up her hands and spread her fingers, crooking the pinkies slightly. 'Til bet you think musicians are terribly vain," she said, sighing. 'Talk too much."

 

 

"No, not at all."

 

 

"Most of the people here are older than me. Some have been here for a hundred years or more. Isn't that amazing? Yet most don't look any older than Henrik, and those who do, were older when they came here. I think it's all very profound."

 

 

"It is," Michael agreed, though he might have chosen a different word. He could hardly keep his eyes off of her. To his embarrassment, he was getting an erection. He held his hands in his lap and tried concentrating on other things - Alyons and his coursers, the Umbral.

 

 

"I wonder if we'll ever figure it all out," Helena continued. She seemed aware Michael's shyness - even of his predicament - and appeared to enjoy it. "Will you be staying with the Crane Women for long? I mean, will they let you live in town?"

 

 

"I don't know. I don't really know much of anything. I'm so ignorant, but." He wanted to just blurt everything out to her, bury his head in her - He raised his eyes from the blouse. "I have to go," he said. The thought of Alyons had made him presentable again. "They might need me for something. Maybe."

 

 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Helena said, standing. He glanced down at her knees, then at her eyes. No doubt about it. She was beautiful. He wondered what Savarin was to her - just a friend? "Can you come back? I'd like to talk some more - remember old times."

 

 

"I'll try," Michael said. "When would. uh. be convenient?'

 

 

"I work early mornings doing laundry." She displayed her hands. "Ugly, aren't they?" she said, holding them up before his face again. "No labor-saving devices in the Realm. You can come in the afternoon. I'm usually here otherwise. Do call." She smiled radiantly.

 

 

"I have to go," Michael said to Savarin.

 

 

"Certainly," Savarin said. He accompanied Michael.

 

 

"Good-by, until later," Helena said.

 

 

"By," Michael said, waving awkwardly. At the end of the alley, Savarin chuckled.

 

 

"She likes you, my boy."

 

 

Michael merely nodded.

 

 

"And I suppose you won't be seeing me as much, telling me so many interesting things?"

 

 

"I'll tell you whatever I learn," Michael said.

 

 

"After you tell Helena." Savarin cut off Michael's weak protest with a smile. "No, I well understand. Everybody's priorities are for the immediate. I am cursed, in the meanwhile, with an interest in the long-term."

 

 

They parted at the outskirts of Euterpe and Michael returned to Halftown, his thoughts crowded and confused.

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

 

For the first time, life in the Realm had some purpose besides survival and the now-distant goal of returning home. Michael wandered down Halftown's curving market street, thinking of Helena's face, of her lips and the way they moved when she talked to him.

 

 

He found the flattened courtyard and picked through the rubble to the front door of Lirg's - now Eleuth's - house. He knocked on the doorframe. There was no answer for a moment, then Eleuth swung the door wide open and stared at him, blinking wide-eyed.

 

 

"Hello," she said. Her face seemed older, worn.

 

 

"You wanted to talk with me?" Michael asked. He compared Eleuth's strange beauty with Helena's brisk familiarity and felt slightly repelled.

 

 

"I need company," Eleuth said. "But if you have something to do."

 

 

"No," Michael said. Queerly, the repulsion was turning itself around now to attraction, but a distanced kind of attraction, something he could handle. Eleuth motioned for him to come in and closed the door softly behind.

 

 

The house was decorated very differently from the human dwellings he had seen: solid-looking, clean wooden furniture draped with rugs and fabrics, lamps burning sweet-scented wax in corners away from the windows, a ceramic brick firepit in the center of the house with a chimney poking through the roof. Thick, intricately patterned rugs hung from iron rods between wall and chimney, dividing the interior into four rooms. He sat on a bench and Eleuth sat across from him on the edge of the firepit, which was dark and covered with a brass mesh screen.

 

 

"It's not as if Lirg's dead," she said after a few awkward minutes of silence.

 

 

"What will they do with him?" Michael asked.

 

 

Eleuth lowered her gaze and reached down to adjust a boot. "He will serve Adonna."

 

 

"Whatever that means," Michael said.

 

 

"It means he will add his magic to the rituals. That will weaken him. Breeds are not like Sidhe full-bloods. Magic tires us. The more human blood we have, the less power to spare."

 

 

"And after that?"

 

 

"These are cruel thoughts," Eleuth said. "I'll never see him again, either way. He was a good father."

 

 

Her words were slow and sweet. The sadder she became, the more he was attracted to her. It took very little effort to sit beside her and reach for her hand. For the first time, he felt he was in control. She looked up at him and there were tears in her eyes. "What is death like on Earth?"

 

 

That took Michael aback. Except for Waltiri, he had never experienced the death of a loved one on Earth. Friends, parents, grandparents were all still living, as far as he knew. Death was an intellectual exercise, something to be imagined and not deeply felt. "Final," he said. "Everybody keeps saying humans have souls and Sidhe don't, but I know a lot of humans who would disagree."

 

 

"It makes no difference here," Eleuth said. "So I'm told. Young people must rely a lot on what they're told, no?"

 

 

Michael lifted his shoulders. "I suppose."

 

 

"And what they're told not to do. Breeds are less constrained then Sidhe. We are already among the low. We don't have much farther to fall."

 

 

"Humans aren't exactly respected here, either," Michael reminded her.

 

 

"But the Sidhe leave them alone. The Umbrals don't come to snatch them away."

 

 

"That's because we're useless. We have no magic. Have you done magic?"

 

 

Eleuth nodded slowly. "A little. I'm learning, but not quickly."

 

 

Michael patted her arm and stood. "I should get back to the Crane Women." He didn't particularly want to, but it was an excuse; he had no idea what more he could do here.

 

 

Eleuth stood, eyes still lowered, and reached out to touch the back of his hand with one finger. "When we are alone, we are most vulnerable," she said. She looked up at him. "Both of us need strength."

 

 

"I guess that's true," Michael said. There was an awkward moment as he tried to figure out how to say good-by. Finally, he just smiled and sidled out the door. She looked after him, eyes wide as when he had entered. Just before the door closed, he saw her turn away with a slow elegance that sent shivers down his arms.

 

 

His confusion multiplied as he crossed the stream and walked across the mound to the huts. Grateful none of the Crane Women were outside, he entered his small dwelling and stood with head brushing the ceiling rafters. His face was marked by lines of reddened sunlight gliding down the opposite wall.

 

 

Michael wasn't disturbed that night, except by a distant, deep hum that filled the land for a second or two. When that passed, he lay on the plaited reeds and stared up into darkness. For a dizzying moment, it seemed mat it wasn't the world that had changed, but himself; that somehow he had twisted around to present a new face. He didn't feel sixteen years old.

 

 

He felt full, expectant. waiting.

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

 

 

Spart roused Michael early the next morning, taking him by the hand and dragging him from his hut, all the while making strange half-humming, half-whistling noises. She seemed to be trying for a tune and not quite finding it, but the closer he listened, the more he realized the sound went beyond tunes. Before he was awake enough to think clearly, she stopped and strutted around him, her critical eye sweeping him from head to foot. "Ready?" she asked, halting before him with hands on hips.

 

 

"I suppose I must be," he said.

 

 

"We are going on a trip. We will cross the Blasted Plain. You will come with."

 

 

"Okay," he said, swallowing. "Breakfast first?"

 

 

Coom emerged from the hut and tossed him a gray-green lime the size of an orange. Nare offered a crust of bread from the window. He knew better than to protest; besides, Sidhe food seemed to satisfy more. At least, he was seldom ravenous, and on bulk alone he should have starved by now.

 

 

They walked along the banks of the river in the early morning sun, through waist-high reeds and feathery-fronded water plants he couldn't identify. Creepers like green rubber hoses slithered down to the water. Ahead, to the northeast, a patch of intense blue coruscated above the faded orange ribbon which hung over the Blasted Plain.

 

 

The Crane Women plunged along ahead and behind him. He remembered some of the landscape from his unexpected journey during the Kaeli. After two hours of steady hiking, they reached the grassland that had been most stricken by the storm. The grass was still bent and disheveled. Four hours later, he recognized the mound where he had awoken, with its topknot of greener grass, and he saw the border. But the Crane Women veered northwest, clambering out of the reeds and following a winding trail.

 

 

Three hours later, always coming within view of the border only to veer away, Michael was tired enough to halt and utter a weak protest. The Crane Women had been bounding along like children on an outing, acting much younger than they looked (if he could apply any human age at all to them - he wasn't sure he could). "Please!" Michael called out after them. "What are we doing, where are we going?"

 

 

Spart waved him along. Michael sighed. He'd given up trying to find motives for what they did. At the very least, the Crane Women were elusive.

 

 

And now they eluded him. He had bent down for a second to untangle his foot from a root, and when he looked up, they were gone. Instead, at the top of a low hill about half a mile away, was a horse - a Sidhe horse, its rider nowhere in sight.

 

 

Michael searched the hill nervously with his eyes, then walked toward the animal. An unaccompanied Sidhe horse was probably most unusual in the Pact Lands. He had never seen one, at any rate. As he climbed the gentle slope, the horse lifted its head and whinnied. It trained its ears in his direction and turned on pumping legs to face him. Michael stopped; he felt no need to approach any closer. It might be a trap. A Sidhe could be lying on the other side of the hill, waiting for someone just as curious as he.

 

 

"Right you are to be cautious," Spart said, a yard behind him. "Do you know what that is? Do they still have them on Earth?"

 

 

"Of course," Michael said. "But not exactly. it's a horse."

 

 

"The Cascar word is epon," Spart said, "a word so old it predates the earliest horses. There were other steeds in those times, stronger, even more noble. They did not last the wars. Shall we have a closer look?"

 

 

"If you say so."

 

 

"Yes," Spart said. "It is part of what you must learn."

 

 

The horse pawed at the dirt and bent to nip blades of grass. As they drew closer, it reared up briefly, then cantered straight for Spart. She held out her broad hand and it buried its nose in her palm, closing its eyes and nuzzling.

 

 

The horse's coat, up close, was velvety-shiny, the muscles packed tight beneath. Its legs were long and its head narrow, almost bony. The mane hung low on the neck but was well-kept; the horse had obviously been curried recently.

 

 

"Where is it from?" he asked.

 

 

"It crossed the Blasted Plain just a short while ago," Spart said. She patted golden dust from its withers. "Its masters await us beyond the borders. It will guide us across, and if we stay close, the sani will protect us." She held her palm out to him; there were sparkles in it like flecks of mica. "Would you like to ride?"

 

 

Michael shook his head. "I've never ridden a horse."

 

 

"You'll have to learn. Should it be now?" She wasn't asking Michael; she was addressing Coom and Nare, who walked casually up the other side of the hill, Nare with a blade of grass between her lips. They nodded noncommitally.

 

 

Spart squinted at Michael and shrugged. "His choice," she said. "The horse is borrowed, after all." She walked around the animal, feelings its flanks and withers, caressing its hindquarters.

 

 

Nare chuckled throatily and squatted a few yards away, pulling the grass from her lips and inspecting it. "When you plan to ride a horse," she said, "you walk up to it, look it in the eye, say to it, 'You are my soul, I am your master!' Believe it when you say it. Then. you mount."

 

 

"Is that all?" Michael asked. Coom laughed, a sound like dragging slate between clenched teeth.

 

 

"Yes," Spart said. "But to believe it, you must be able to ride like the Sidhe. No human can ride like the Sidhe. You already have souls. There is little room for a horse."

 

 

"I might be able to learn," Michael said defiantly. "Maybe I'll ride just as well."

 

 

"Then try." Spart cupped her hands to provide a stirrup. "Left foot up, right foot over."

 

 

"No saddle?"

 

 

"Unless you're carrying one with you."

 

 

He put his left foot in her hands, grabbed hold of the lower neck and swung up and over. For a moment he hung in empty air, and then he landed on his hands and knees, the wind knocked out of him. The horse stood a few paces away, shaking its head and snorting.

 

 

"If you can't ride a horse," Nare said, observing him from where she sat, "act like one."

 

 

Michael got to his feet. "It's fast," he said.

 

 

"Some other time," Spart said. Once again, he felt his worth drop to zero. To regain some of his pride, he approached the horse a second time and patted its flank. It turned its pearly gray head toward him, large silver eyes blinking enigmatically. "Ho," he said. "Or something like that. Are we going to be friends?"

 

 

The Sidhe horse flicked its tail at an imaginary fly and lifted one foreleg. "Listen," Michael whispered in its ear, after pulling the head down gently to his level with one hand on its nose. "I'm in bad enough shape without your dragging me any lower. They think I'm a klutz," he nodded at the Crane Women, "and I agree. If you won't be my soul, how about just being my buddy?"

 

 

The horse raised its head, butting his hand away, then cocked its ears in his direction and gently bumped its nose into his chest.

 

 

"Is it possible you have a way with horses?" Spart asked.

 

 

"I wouldn't know; this is the first time."

 

 

"Try again," Spart suggested. "If you succeed, maybe you won't have to cross the Blasted Plain on foot." She held her hands out to form a stirrup again. He stepped up and swung over onto the horse's back. The horse wriggled its back muscles and shook its head but stood steady. Michael wrapped his legs tighter and asked, a small quaver in his voice. "Do I ride it now?"

 

 

Span's eyes turned to the west, where a cluster of three Sidhe horsemen moved slowly across the grassland about a mile away.

 

 

"Who is that?" Michael asked.

 

 

"The Wickmaster," Spart said, blinking slowly and reaching to take the horse by the chin.

 

 

"Why is he here?"

 

 

"Wants to meet the ones who wait for us," Nare said, standing. "Come. Let's cross now."

 

 

The Crane Women walked down the opposite side of the hill. The horse followed, walking under Michael more than being directed by him. He had no idea how to give it directions, and he didn't feel now was the appropriate time to ask. Alyons and two coursers paced their animals about a hundred yards from them, both groups heading toward the edge of the Pact Lands and the smoggy region beyond.

 

 

The Crane Women paused at the border. The green grass stopped along a geometrically perfect line, to be replaced by the glistening black and umber sand of the Blasted Plain. Nare bent to scoop up some of the sand; it trickled between her fingers as lifeless as the dust in a vacuum cleaner bag. She brushed her hand off on her pants, face creased with distaste.

 

 

"We'll walk close to you, to the horse," Spart said. Coom inspected the horse's flanks closely.

 

 

"Is it the dust that protects us? I mean, the sani."

 

 

"Part," Coom said. She, too, kept an eye on Alyons and the coursers, who had stopped at the border about sixty yards to the north. Alyons eyed them coldly, caressing his golden horse's shoulder with sure, smooth strokes. Michael wondered why the Wickmaster wasn't acting more boldly.

 

 

Nare was the first to cross. The horse followed reluctantly, its flanks rippling. "Forty miles," Spart said, pointing east. "Desolation. Ruin of war. Good training ground. But you should be careful. Adonna buries its mistakes; dig or blast deep enough beneath the ground of the Realm, and you'll find them again."

 

 

The tortured spires of once-molten rock rose on all sides, some bending back on themselves to form loops and arches. The ground opened up in cracks and chasms, emitting sulfurous wisps and acrid mists. Scattered over the terrain were pools of churning yellow-orange liquid like pus-filled wounds. Michael's eyes smarted sharply until Spart told him to bend down and administered a dark viscous cream high on each cheek. There was nothing she could do for his sense of smell, however. His nose ran constantly, and whatever dignity he gained by being on horseback was lost in snuffling.

 

 

Michael worried that they weren't carrying food and water. If they stayed for any length of time, the oversight would be unfortunate; they would find no sustenance on the Blasted Plain.

 

 

The dust billowed thick and irritating around them. Michael took a strip of cloth from Coom and tied it over his nose and mouth; the others did the same.

 

 

By dusk, they had made it to a flat pan of rock topped with smaller, sharp-edged boulders. Michael dismounted to help them clear a space about four yards across, lifting and tossing the boulders carefully to avoid cutting his hands. Then Coom took a small wood wand from her pouch and drew a circle in the dirt around the clearing. "Rest here," she said.

 

 

"Will that line keep things out?" Michael asked, thinking of pentagrams.

 

 

"No," Coom said. She didn't elaborate on its purpose. Twenty yards behind them, Alyons and his coursers halted but did not bother to dismount.

 

 

The orange light was oppressive. Michael was anxious to move on and suggested they do so but Nare shook her head firmly. The Crane Women sat within the circle and Michael stood near the center. The horse stood beside him with its head lowered, eyes half-closed. It looked very tired. "Are we resting for the horse's sake?" he said, his voice muffled by the scarf. The Crane Women had also lowered their heads. None of them answered. "I get it," he said. "Something saps the horse's strength when it's here, but it protects us." They neither affirmed nor denied his theory.

 

 

A heavy brown cloud moved in over their heads, riding a pseudopod of gray-orange mist. Each liquid particle in the mist was as large as a drop of rain but did not fall. The mist swung around the circle but did not enter.

 

 

Alyons and his coursers were outside the periphery of the cloud. They stared intently at the Crane Women and Michael, who fancied he could feel Alyon's hatred even at this distance.

 

 

An hour later, Spart and Coom stood up abruptly. Michael shook his head; to his surprise, he had fallen asleep standing up.

 

 

He offered the horse to Nare, who mounted without comment. Spart broke the drawn circle with her foot and they continued east. The Sidhe followed not far behind.

 

 

Darkness was coming, and the Crane Women hastened to leave the Blasted Plain before nightfall. Michael's feet kept getting stuck in the dust, much worse than sand at a beach; he was soon exhausted and regretted giving up the horse.

 

 

With sunset - transformed by the orange haze into a sinister ritual of darkening brown sky and ribbons of ascending tan and ochre - they neared another sharply defined border. What lay beyond wasn't clear; the air thickened at that point, revealing only shadowy presences that could have been tall boulders, or trees.

 

 

The horse picked up its pace and they had to run to keep up. Michael did his best, but was the last across the border. For a second, he had a terrifying notion that if the Crane Women left him behind, he might not be able to cross by himself; but there was no noticeable force to prevent him from stepping over.

 

 

"Welcome to the Realm, proper," Spart said.

 

 

Trees! Huge, spreading leafy canopies rose before them, muting the last of the daylight into green murkiness. The air was clean and sweet. Even the Dust which had accumulated on their skin and clothing sloughed off, leaving them hot and sweaty, but not besmirched.

 

 

The horse cantered to a grassy glade to crop an emerald-green dinner. Nare hopped off her mount and sauntered up to a tree, which she patted with her long-fingered hand, grinning broadly. Michael stretched out his arms and inhaled, soaking up the coolness and greenness and peace.

 

 

For as far as he could see in the dusk, the trunks of trees rose in well-spaced disorder. Between them were shrubs thick with red and purple berries, tall lilies with white flowers delicately fringed blood-red, patches of blue flowers abutting the glades.

 

 

The forest was more than Earth-like; it was surreal, too perfect. After a few minutes, Michael became uneasy again. He looked back to the border, with its abrupt transition to orange haze, to see where Alyons and the coursers were. They were not in sight.

 

 

Spart approached him with both hands behind her back. Her grin was more subtle than Nare's. Coom sat on the lowest limb of a tree, watching him like a bird.

 

 

Withdrawing her left hand, Spart revealed a flower. It didn't belong to any of the flowering plants he had spotted - it was translucent, as if made from a soft glass. It could have been plastic except for the delicate tracery on its petals. She seemed to be offering it to him, so he reached out to accept. She snatched it back and hid it behind long, fanned fingers.

 

 

"What color is it?" she asked.

 

 

"Yellow," he said. She pulled away her hand. The flower was bright blue. "Okay, blue, but it looked like-"

 

 

"The Realm is not like Earth. On Earth, all things sit on a base of chaos, as here, but the foundations are much finer. The foundations of the Realm are coarse. Everything is much more open to suggestion. On Earth, the chaos is hooked into stability by a law which says you can never win. you understand?"

 

 

Michael shook his head, no.

 

 

Spart held the flower closer. "Earth is a much more accomplished creation. In the Realm, everything is more fluid. Look. What color is the flower?"

 

 

"Still blue," he said, but as he said it, he realized the flower had been yellow all along. "I'm.I'm sorry. It's yellow."

 

 

"Since you cannot win even betlim, a small combat," Spart said, "you must be like the flower. Suggest! Take advantage of the fluidity, the seams of the Realm. Magic may be beyond your reach, but not suggestion." She held the yellow flower out to him. This time she let him hold it, but as her fingers released it, Spart herself vanished. Nare and Coom and the horse as well were gone. Michael fumbled the flower and it fell to the long green grass, landing on three dew-flecked stalks.

 

 

The flower was pink.

 

 

He sat, then lay back on the grass, puzzled over what Spart had just told him. Nearby, the flower wavered on its tripod of grass stalks in a lazy, rich breeze. He smelled the mingled scent of tea roses and jasmine. Night was falling rapidly and the sky above had turned deep blue, with subtle highlights of magenta. The woods were almost black. Wind soughed between the trees, waving the shadow limbs back and forth hypnotically. Michael felt his eyelids closing....

 

 

"We have company."

 

 

He jerked awake. Nare squatted beside him with another stalk of grass held in her lips. She pointed to a group gathered around a small, bright fire about forty feet away.

 

 

"They're Sidhe!" Michael said. But they weren't Alyons and his coursers, who were still not to be seen. Five males with long hair and beards, dressed in gorgeous metallic reds and greens and blues, circled the fire, glancing into the darkness in the direction of Nare and Michael. A sixth appeared, younger than the others; his suit was white with black checks. Whether their clothing was armor or thick garments, Michael couldn't tell, but the portions limned by the fire were dazzling.

 

 

He turned his head and saw Coom to one side of the group, conferring with a white-haired, white-faced Sidhe wearing velvety black robes. When the Sidhe moved; Michael saw rich gray patterns in his robes - or rather, suspended just above the "fabric, for they seemed to float and changed with every motion.

 

 

"Who are they?" Michael asked.

 

 

"They are from the Irall," Nare said. "They've chosen an initiate, and they bring him to us for training."

 

 

"Why to you?"

 

 

"Because we're older than most Sidhe. We know the old ways, the old disciplines." Her expression spoke volumes to Michael: At last, the Crane Women had someone interesting to train, someone worth the bother.

 

 

The younger Sidhe detached himself from the fire and walked to the perimeter of the encampment. He braced against the smooth massive trunk of a tree and let himself slide down on his haunches. He peeled a piece of fruit, seemingly unaware that Nare and Michael were just a few yards away.

 

 

"What is he being initiated into?" Michael asked.

 

 

"The young one is entering temelos, the circuit around priesthood. He is in for some rough times, very rough indeed. The priesthood is not easily arrived at, nor easily kept."

 

 

"What's his name?"

 

 

"Biridashwa," she said. "We will call him Biri."

 

 

Michael looked back toward the border and the brown darkness of the Blasted Plain. He could make out distant red glows like lava fissures creeping up the spires of rock; flitting green balls; and high above the plain, a small lone sphere of lightning, silently flashing.

 

 

Then he spotted another fire glowing deep in the woods. Its light was broken by three shapes: Alyons and his coursers.

 

 

"What do they want?" Michael asked, gesturing. "They keep following, waiting."

 

 

Nare shook her head. "The Wickmaster wishes to speak to the Sidhe of the Irall. He won't get a chance."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

Nare smiled a crooked smile like the one she often used to express her opinion of Michael's abilities. "Why do you think Alyons is Wickmaster of the Pact Lands, and not of his own circuit in the Realm proper?"

 

 

"I don't know," Michael said. "Why?"

 

 

'Too many questions," Nare said, and kept silent for the rest of the night.

 

 

I

 

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

 

Fog drifted through the trees and over the camps, leaving a glistening layer of drops on the grass, flowers and Michael. He came awake to the sound of heavy bootsteps nearby and rolled onto his back, alarmed. The young Sidhe stood two steps away, white and black against the gray, face pale in the early morning.

 

 

"I am requested to see you are awake," Biri said. He looked tense, unhappy. The forefingers and thumbs on both his hands rubbed together.

 

 

"I'm awake," Michael said, getting to his knees. He was a little in awe of the young Sidhe. His companions seemed so different from Alyons and his coursers. At that thought, Michael tried to penetrate the fog and see where the Wickmaster was, but there was only bright silver and great tree shadows. He brushed the dew from his face and arms and shivered.

 

 

"They haven't taught you hyloka?" Biri asked.

 

 

Michael shook his head. "Whatever that is."

 

 

"I'm told we will train together. Perhaps we can help each other."

 

 

"You're going to be a priest."

 

 

Biri looked at the ground "My guardians will leave soon. I'll cross the Blasted Plain with you. Where are the Geen Krona?"

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"The Crane Women."

 

 

"I don't know. Not far, I'm sure." But he was never sure about the Crane Women.

 

 

Three tall figures came out of the mist, approaching the camp. Michael stood quickly. He immediately recognized Al-yons' slender, powerful shape. They passed within five or six paces of Michael and Bin, ignoring them, and stopped just beyond the Sidhe camp. Bin backed up and whispered to Michael. "They followed you here?"

 

 

Michael nodded. "Alyons doesn't like me."

 

 

The Wickmaster spoke in Cascar with the guardian dressed in black. The coursers stood motionless to one side, in casually defensive poses, while the guardians looked upon them with unconcealed distaste.

 

 

"He's asking for a new audience with the Darud," Bin said.

 

 

"Who's that?"

 

 

"The chief of the Maln, the Black order. That's Tarax - the one in the black sepia. Alyons used to be a member, but he committed some crime. He was punished by being sent to the Pact Lands to oversee humans and breeds."

 

 

"What are they saying now?"

 

 

Tarax had half-turned from Alyons and approached one of the coursers. A few words were exchanged and the courser backed away, bowing slightly.

 

 

"Tarax has told Alyons to be thankful for what he has. I think Tarax berates the courser for some error in ritual before a member of the Maln."

 

 

Michael watched Tarax closely, fascinated by the movements of the white-haired Sidhe. "Is he older than the others?"

 

 

"A human might think so. Age doesn't matter much to the Sidhe, give or take a few thousand years. Especially here."

 

 

"Well, is he?" Michael persisted.

 

 

"I don't know," Bin said. As if suddenly aware he was speaking to a human, Biri stiffened and took a step away. Alyons bowed to Tarax and turned, gesturing for his Sidhe to follow him away from the camp. His eye caught Michael's and held; Alyons' face showed no expression, but Michael felt a flash of hatred nonetheless.

 

 

"He's very angry now," Biri said. "I think the Crane Women have been talking with Tarax. Alyons was hoping for leniency. Tarax told him there is no such thing among the Sidhe."

 

 

"Great," Michael said. "Now he'll really get down on us."

 

 

"I don't think so," Biri said. "Not so long as I'm here. The Crane Women have an honored status, especially when they train a novice. They are no longer just old Breeds. Alyons doesn't dare displease them."

 

 

"And when you're gone?"

 

 

Coom descended the trunk of a nearby tree and jumped to the ground with a thump. She brushed bits of bark from her clothing and squinted at Alyons and his coursers as they vanished into the fog. Nare walked up behind Michael and Bin, carrying fruit in a newly-plaited grass mat.

 

 

"Breakfast," she said, laying it between them. "Eat well. We cross the border this evening, and it's best to be nourished, but not full, when we do so. This is our last meal today."

 

 

"Why this evening?" Michael asked. "Isn't it more dangerous?"

 

 

Coom snorted. Nare tossed him a blue fruit similar to the one he had seen in the between-house. He caught the fruit and turned it in his hands. Half of it was furry and soft like a peach, though colored pale sky-blue. The other half was dark blue, apple-hard and shiny. At no point on its surface did it show a stem or other blemish. "Eat," Spart said, standing a few yards away, near a sapling.

 

 

At mid-day, the Sidhe brought their horses forward and mounted. Tarax approached Spart and handed her a packet of sani; there would be no horse to protect them on the return trip. Instead, they would have to rely on Bin's pure Sidhe magic, undeveloped as it was.

 

 

Tarax held his hands out and Bin clasped them. The looks that passed between them was one of long acquaintance, even dedication, but no apparent affection. Tarax broke the clasp first. Before departing, he turned to Michael and surveyed him coldly. "So this is the Flesh Egg's favored, is it?" he said, his voice deep and level. "To be trained with my Bin, by the oldest of the Breeds."

 

 

Having delivered these few obvious words, Tarax returned to his group and they mounted. The shadows around the trees seemed to double and shift - and horses and Sidhe were gone.

 

 

Bin sighed. "You are the first human he has spoken to in centuries. The last one. best not to describe what happened to him."

 

 

When the shadows of the trees were long and the sky was changing hue, the Crane Women led Biri and Michael from the forest, moving south to cross the border at another point. Michael paced steadily behind Spart as they traversed a brief, emerald-azure savannah. Beyond the high, moist grassland stood an orderly row of waxy brown rocks, shining in the sunset like polished wood. The highest was about thirty feet, the lowest barely a stepping stone. Where the rocks crossed the border, they became blackened and cracked, tumbled to one side or the other. Nare took the giant slabs one by one, climbing to the highest and jumping from rock to rock, the others following until they stood on the border, which plainly divided one boulder about ten feet tall.

 

 

Beyond the border, dust piled up on each side of the rocks. Biri crossed first, staying upright as he slid and ran down an incline of dust. Coom and Nare followed. Spart tapped Michael on the shoulder, urging him ahead. He tried to imitate Bin's grace but ended up sliding down the incline on his butt. They quickly ran ahead to avoid the acrid clouds they had raised.

 

 

"Now we move as a group," Spart said. "Close together." Biri brought out the bag of sani and sprinkled a little on each of them, muttering something in Cascar as he did so. They walked due west until the dusk settled into darkness, and then halted. Michael looked around at the orange band of fading light on the horizon, at the dust now inky black, at the gluey arches and spires to the north, and shivered.

 

 

"Why are we stopping?"

 

 

"Because we won't be able to see much longer," Spart said. This time it was Biri who removed a wand from his white-and-black checked coat and drew a circle around them. Where the lines joined, he sprinkled more sani, then stepped back.

 

 

"Now watch," Spart said as they gathered and sat in the middle of the circle. "See what even a young Sidhe can do in the Realm."

 

 

Biri reached out with his long, muscle-knotted arms and touched a spot directly before him with his index finger. The muscles in his face tightened and his lips moved silently. The rock began to glow, and presently the cold was dispelled by a steady pulse of heat. Michael was mesmerized by the glowing spot. "Will I ever be able to do that?" he asked Spart in a whisper.

 

 

She shook her head, not in definite denial, but as if the question irritated her. Michael leaned back, frowning. Well, will I? he asked himself. He held his hands out to the warmth. He was thirsty - he had swallowed some dust and it tasted like the bitter part of a bad apple - and hungry, but he knew better than to ask about food.

 

 

Presently his legs cramped and he unfolded them and lay back. The others remained sitting, staring at the glow. He leaned on his elbow, stretching his legs behind Spart. His eyelids began to droop.

 

 

He awoke, his whole body jerking and trembling. His eyes opened and he became aware that he was standing, the toes of his shoes on the edge of the circle Bin had drawn. He faced away from the heat into darkness. Something urged him to cross over the line, but he couldn't.

 

 

In the fixed starglow, Michael made out a purple shape beyond the circle. Each time he blinked, it changed form and appeared closer. The battle between the urges to step over the line and to stay inside the circle jerked him harder now; his legs and arms twitched like marionette limbs in the hands of an inept puppeteer.

 

 

The purplish shape was close enough now to stand face to face with him, but it had no face. The shape consisted of smooth rings of varying sizes stacked atop each other, with several more rings gliding up and down the thing's exterior. Michael blinked and the shape became an assemblage of irregular rounded blobs.

 

 

He blinked again, and the shape was his mother, smiling at him and holding out her arms.

 

 

Again, and it was Helena, waving for him to follow her as she stepped back.

 

 

"It's quite obvious, isn't it?" Biri said, standing beside him. "You haven't met one of these before?"

 

 

Michael shook his head. "What is it?"

 

 

"An abortion. A creation too inconsistent to match up with the Realm."

 

 

"One of Adonna's mistakes?"

 

 

"Gods don't make mistakes," Biri said. "What are you going to do?"

 

 

Michael laughed hysterically. "What should I do?"

 

 

"Do you wish to see it as it really is?"

 

 

"Should I? I mean no, no."

 

 

"I've seen them many times," Biri said. "They are mostly harmless to a Sidhe, even to capable Breeds. Only humans are susceptible. It was the power of the Isomage that liberated them from their deep tombs. The Blasted Plain has much worse to offer."

 

 

"Can it hurt me?"

 

 

"It can do worse than kill you. Whenever a human child is bom, one of these is liberated. The child has no reservoir of waiting souls from which to draw, so its search allows certain patterns within one of these to enter the Pact Lands. The child is branded. The same could happen to you if you slept here and did not have a circle."

 

 

"You mean, I'd be possessed?"

 

 

"These are not intelligences. They are abortions. You would be more eaten than possessed. Your soul is a rare thing here, heavily armored within your body. What happens to it when they crack that armor is not explainable in your languages."

 

 

Michael tried to retreat from the edge of the circle, but couldn't. "I'm stuck."

 

 

"It cannot hurt you in here. You can play with it, in a sense; it can no more leave you than you can back away. So you can learn from it."

 

 

"I don't want to learn. I want it to go away and leave me alone."

 

 

"A Sidhe uses the abortions to prove his interior-"

 

 

"I don't care!" Michael shouted. "I'm not a Sidhe! Make it go away."

 

 

"I can't," Biri said. "Only you can release it." The novice walked away and squatted near the glowing rock.

 

 

"Spart," Michael said, "help me!"

 

 

There was no reply, and he couldn't turn his head to see the Crane Women. The shape now resembled Eleuth. She looked very sad, as if she had lost something vital and he was responsible. She looked down. She became a cylindrical something, lines of light crawling up its surface like worms, leaving trails of fire behind.

 

 

He tried to find a clue within himself. They wouldn't leave him in this fix (he hoped) if they didn't believe he had some way of getting out of it. He had to think it through___

 

 

No, in an emergency, thought would be too slow. What if humans had something to make up for their lack of magic, something instinctive? He searched, waited, but the necessary remedy wouldn't come forth.

 

 

The cylinder split like a pared cucumber, revealing an interior compounded of offal and tiny, unidentifiable skeletons. The bones of the skeletons linked and spun, churning the fleshy parts into liquid, which streamed through the lengthening slits and spattered on the dark ground. The segments turned into slithering smooth snakes without discernible head or tail. They rolled into spirals and the spirals lifted to vertical positions, then met at their edges.

 

 

They flowed into the shape of Arno Waltiri. He sat upright in a coffin, sallow-fleshed, eyes open but dead and sunken. His mouth fell open abruptly and music came out, sharp and painful. Michael's skin seemed to blister as the music surrounded him. The corpse fell forward, draped over the lower half of the coffin lid, and revealed another body behind it: his own.

 

 

"Wait," Michael protested. It was stealing all these images from inside him. If he could stop the flow.

 

 

"Wait," the ragged Michael in the coffin mimicked, shaking its head from side to side.

 

 

"Stop," Michael said. He shut his eyes and concentrated on doors closing, dams cutting off water at their sluice gates, capping toothpaste tubes, corking bottles. He tightened his mind down until his entire brain seemed to contract. You can't steal anything more. I've put a lock on it. Loose minds must not entwine, must not combine -

 

 

Michael opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness beyond the circle. He relaxed; he was in control again. He backed away and lay down again by the glowing rock, glancing at Bin, who lay on his back, head turned in Michael's direction.

 

 

The Sidhe nodded and closed his eyes.

 

 

They spent two days and three nights in the desolation, Spart engaging Michael in endless and repetitive drill with sticks, running him over the sharp boulders until his feet were in agony and his shins and hands were scraped raw. The dust in his wounds stung like acid and left tiny black lines that were slow to fade.

 

 

When he wasn't training, Michael watched Nare and Coom preparing Biri. The young Sidhe endured everything stoically and performed his exercises flawlessly. The most spectacular thing he did was to reduce a boulder nine or ten yards across to rubble by running around it and chanting. When the dust had cleared, Biri stood atop the heap, brushing his clothes down. Nare and Coom walked around him, features blank.

 

 

Michael knew they were much more pleased with Biri than they were with him, and it was obvious why.

 

 

Despite Bin's apparent ease with Michael, he was seldom able to engage the Sidhe in any meaningful conversation beyond amenities and occasional advice, which galled Michael even more than silence.

 

 

"Why do you even bother with me?" Michael asked Spart.

 

 

"You could train the Sidhe to do whatever you want." Spart agreed and shook her head in despair.

 

 

"We do indeed waste our time," she admitted. "It's fortunate we are immortal and can afford to be foolish."

 

 

Only on the last night on the Plain did Bin open up a bit, as they were preparing to cross the border into the Pact Lands. "When I am done here, I have a good thought, and a bad," he told Michael.

 

 

"What are those?" Michael asked, his tone hardly concealing his resentment. If Bin had not answered, he would not have much cared, but the Sidhe pointed across the Plain and said softly, "It is good to go back to the Sidhe territories, but it is less good to fulfill my purpose there."

 

 

"What will you do with the Breeds you've had captured?" Michael blurted. "When you're a priest, I mean."

 

 

For the first time, Michael saw Biri become visibly angry. He advanced on Michael and stood over him. "The Faer do not worship Adonna that way," he said, his voice cold and crisp.

 

 

"Some of the Sidhe do," Michael said. Spart looked between them curiously, as if anticipating some kind of fight, and perhaps welcoming it.

 

 

"Not the Faer," Biri reiterated, backing away. He glanced at Michael from under his brows and went back to his preparations. Michael took a deep breath.

 

 

"Hold it in," Spart said, continuing to stare at him curiously. Michael held his breath, inwardly fuming at the indignity. "Not your breath, yo"r mind. Hold it in again."

 

 

"I don't understand," Michael said.

 

 

"Just now. Biri probed you to see what your intentions were. It was a very young thing for him to do, and he didn't succeed."

 

 

"He tried to read my mind?"

 

 

Spart shrugged and took Michael's hand. "You are indeed a man-child," she said. No further explanation was offered.

 

 

Night had fallen when Nare told them to follow behind her. Michael walked ahead of Spart, who was at the end of the line, and he stumbled less often than he expected. "I'm getting more agile," he said to no one in particular, enjoying this small accomplishment. And he had to try extra hard for the next few minutes to keep from making himself a liar.

 

 

Coom carried a stick which she had caused to glow at one end. The dim yellow luminosity was all they had to travel by. Michael didn't ask why they couldn't wait until morning. He felt some trepidation about what they might encounter, with no circle to protect them, but it seemed part of the plan, the test.

 

 

They marched down a gully and then followed the long depression. The plain was silent except for the sound of their footsteps. Michael lost himself in the rhythm of putting one foot ahead of the other, keeping up with the circle of light from the glowing stick.

 

 

"Ssst," Nare hissed. Michael looked up and followed the direction of the eyes of those ahead. On the edge of the gully, outlined against the stars, was a giant inverted skull, its blunt jaw poking at the sky.

 

 

The group stopped and Coom raised the stick higher. The object was at least thirty feet high. As Michael peered closer, he saw it wasn't a skull, but a huge shell. The occupant - or occupants - of the shell rose over the rim of the gully, protruding from the "eyes," long blue-black slug-like things. They joined just beyond the two holes, forming an elongated body which split again near a triplet of heads. The heads were further divided into three stalks, each sporting a mouth like a pair of toothed dinner plates hinged with filamented flesh. The heads and stalks waved above the group, plates opening and closing with faint clacking sounds. Where the skull's nose would have been, an arm with a triangular cross-section slithered, its end covered with tentacles, each tentacle tipped with a blob of flesh that glowed in the dark. The creature or creatures waved this arm as a watchman would his lantern.

 

 

Michael stood his ground only because the others did so. His instinct was to either run or have a heart attack. He could hear the breath in his lungs rasping like a file cutting steel. His pumping blood sounded loud enough to shake the rocks loose. Indeed, a few pebbles clattered down into the gully as the thing slithered on, and it turned its heads to peer after them.

 

 

There was a look of awe on Biri's face, intensely watchful, fascinated.

 

 

The monstrosity either didn't see them or ignored them, passing with cruel slowness. More rocks clattered down, the heads swiveled again, and then it dragged its shell away from the gully with the sound of huge fingernails on acres of sandpaper. Michael shuddered uncontrollably and sat down. Bin looked back at him and made as if to wipe his own brow, a gesture which endeared him to Michael enormously. Spart poked Michael in the ribs to get him moving again.

 

 

Only a few minutes later, they crossed over into the grassy prairie of the Pact Lands, not far from the river. The group made it to the mound by early morning, and Michael went to his hut and collapsed.

 

 

He was shaking. Not until his body had shivered itself free of every vestige of emotion and tremor of memory did he fall over on his side and sleep.

 

 

Outside the hut, Bin stood to face the newly risen sun, holding his small wand high in the air. He then sat on his chosen spot and his head slumped forward. He, too, slept.

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

 

Michael sat up and rubbed his eyes; he had felt, rather than heard, Biri's presence outside his hut. "Yes? What is it?"

 

 

"My wood was delivered last night," Biri said. "I've built my quarters."

 

 

Michael pushed through the doorway cover. A new hut, little different from his own, sat on the mound about twenty feet away. He was not fully awake and felt awkward in the Sidhe's presence. "Good."

 

 

"Before you, I'd never spoken to a human being. I'd never even heard of the Pact Lands until my journey began."

 

 

Michael's bowl of porridge waited to one side of his door. He bent over to pick it up and began scooping it into his mouth with two fingers. "Where are you from? I mean, not that it would do me any good to know___I'm pretty ignorant about everything outside the Pact Lands."

 

 

"Shall we trade stories?" Biri asked. "The Geen Krona believe if we train together, we should behave honorably, and not dispute. I am very interested in where you are from, and how you came here."

 

 

Michael agreed, and told Biri about his circuitous route to the Realm. Biri nodded at the key points, and frowned when Michael mentioned the figure in the flounced dress. Michael put aside his empty bowl and said, "Now, you."

 

 

"To the north, across savannahs and beyond Nebchat Len - that's a lake, almost a sea, very deep - there is a forest called Konhem. That's where I was bom." He paused, glancing at Michael from the corners of his deep-set eyes. "Do you know much about the Sidhe?"

 

 

Michael shook his head. "Not really."

 

 

"We are seldom told who our parents are, especially when we've been chosen before birth, sometimes before conception, for the priesthood. By tradition, our fathers are ashamed of showing weakness by loving a female and getting her with child. That is why young Sidhe are so rare." He turned his gaze toward Halftown. "I think there are more Breeds born than Sidhe. At any rate, I've never met another Sidhe younger than myself. And our mothers return to their clan after giving birth, leaving the children to be cared for by the Ban Sidhe. They are the Mafoc Mar, the Bag Mothers, clanless females who serve the members of the Maln, the Black Order." He stopped and sketched a design in the dirt with his wand. When he lifted his wand up, the design rubbed itself out. "Do you understand?"

 

 

"I think so," Michael said. "I don't speak Cascar much at all, but I've heard of the Ban Sidhe. On Earth, they're supposed to come and claim the dead."

 

 

Biri's ears cocked forward slightly, something Michael had never seen a Breed's ears do. "The Clanless Bans not in charge of raising young take Sidhe dead to the Arborals, or to their tombs, whichever is willed."

 

 

"Where is this forest, and the savannah? We met in a forest."

 

 

"A small forest, just a patch. The savannah - the Plata - stretches around and beyond this patch, to Konhem, the deepest, darkest forest in the Realm. I lived in konhem for a time. Then I was taken into the mountains called Chebal Malen, the Black Mountains. I was given up to Tarax."

 

 

Biri leaned forward and stared into Michael's eyes. An extraordinary thing happened. Michael's view of the mound and the Crane Women's hut faded and he seemed to stand before the white-haired, black-robed Sidhe, peering up from a low angle. Tarax bent down and took a small, slender hand - his own. or rather Biri's. That faded - Michael could vaguely see the hut again - and was replaced by the vista of an enormous flat-topped mountain with jagged slopes dusted by swirling drifts of snow. Then he stood on a perfectly flat plain, surfaced with cyclopean blocks of stone stretching for miles on all sides, cloud shadows flowing over the stonework. Ribbons of cloud flew straight up from the slopes on the opposite side. "The Stone Field is not on the highest mountain in the Chebal Malen, but it is very cold and harsh there. Tarax built a four-room caersidh out of stone and I lived there for many seasons while he tutored me. Finally, I was considered worthy and he took me to the Sklassa, the fortress of the Black Order. Until now, I have never known anything else." He smiled at Michael. "The trip across the forest and savannah was wonderful. I have never seen so much change."

 

 

"What does a priest do?" Michael asked.

 

 

Bin drew back and sighed. "That I cannot tell you."

 

 

"I mean, do you attend Adonna, take care of sacrifices, that sort of thing? I'm just curious what-"

 

 

"I cannot tell!" Bin said, standing swiftly. "I've spoken too freely already. No human must ever know what happens in the Irall." He stalked off to his own hut, leaving Michael to ponder Sidhe moods and Sidhe secrets.

 

 

If anything, he thought, it was the Black Order, the Maln, that sounded like it should be kept secret. Was training novices the only thing the Black Order did? Even among the Sidhe, Tarax had been impressive - if only for overshadowing and cowing Alyons.

 

 

The Crane Women walked up the side of the mound opposite Halftown, pushing their knobby knees with their hands as if going up some long, exhausting grade. They cackled softly among themselves and shook their heads. Nare saw Michael sitting on his boulder and straightened sharply, regarding him with large, piercing eyes.

 

 

Their faces are so strange, he thought. So human, but the way their eyes curve up, the way they blink almost from three-quarters to one side___

 

 

Spart called across the mound, "Boy! You'll come with us today." He sighed, climbed down from the rock, and reached into the hut for his shoes.

 

 

They walked several miles away from Halftown, due east. He wondered why Bin wasn't going with them and Coom seemed to hear him think. "Sidhe trains different," she said. "Share some, not today." She cackled softly again and Michael felt his neckhair rise.

 

 

"He already knows what you'll need to learn today," Spart said. She walked ahead of the rest, holding out her wand and pointing it here and there at the horizon. Soon a mist began to rise, swooping across the river and enveloping them. Spart rejoined the group, and they squatted to rest - all for Michael's sake, he imagined, since the Crane Women never seemed to tire.

 

 

"Do you remember the color of the flower, boy?" Span asked, shuffling nearer to him and peering intently at his face. She grimaced, wrinkles distorting the snakes and vines tattooed in red and purple across her features.

 

 

"I remember it changing," he said.

 

 

"What advantage does die Realm give you?" she asked.

 

 

"There are ways to change it."

 

 

"What is magic, boy?"

 

 

"I. I don't know. Yet."

 

 

"Will you ever know?"

 

 

He didn't answer. Coom came closer, her goosedown hair curling in the mist. Nare stood behind him; he could hear her breathing.

 

 

"Some think the Crane Women will be here forever, training and teaching," Spart said. "Do you believe that?"

 

 

Michael nodded. "I don't see why not."

 

 

Spart chuckled in the back of her throat and pushed her wand into the dirt. "Biri is a curious novice. He made you see today. What do you think of the Sidhe now?"

 

 

"Strange," Michael said, squinting in a stray shaft of sunlight.

 

 

"Will you ever understand Sidhe, or Breeds?"

 

 

"Probably not," Michael said.

 

 

"Because you're human," Nare offered.

 

 

"No, because you're Breeds. and he's Sidhe," Michael countered, uncertain what he meant.

 

 

"At this stage, your mind is all confusion," Spart said, tying in to his uncertainty. "You don't think clearly. You are slack. You can't feel what we teach. You spirit is hike a limp sail on NebchatLen."

 

 

"You have sailboats?" Michael asked.

 

 

Spart sighed. "You see? Every breeze pushes you this way and that. No listen close. We have less time to teach you now. Other tasks await us." She looked at her companions. "Less time than you think. You must learn quickly. Remember the flower. Remember, the Realm works for you. And you." She stood. "You have less time." She pulled a flower from her pouch and dropped it to the ground before him. "What color?"

 

 

"Blue," he said. He looked up from the flower. The Crane Women were gone. He turned quickly, trying to catch some glimpse of them in the mist. They had deserted him.

 

 

The flower was yellow.

 

 

A deep, bass humming ascended and swept over the grass like the passage of a huge helicopter. The mist swirled and was blown away in translucent spirals. The grass began to fan out and wind scoured at his face.

 

 

Michael walked a few steps backward and came up against a square-cut stone marker about as tall as he was. A few yards away, emerging form the mist, was another. Both had been carved with circled swastikas that faced each other over a stretch of fresh-cropped grass.

 

 

The more the mist cleared, the more obvious it became that a kind of path was aligned between the markers; not a path traveled by horses, people or even carts, however. The grass had not been trampled - only neatly cut short.

 

 

Again came the humming and the sensation of motion overhead. The hair on his arms erected and his whole body tingled.

 

 

Something white wavered at the boundary of the mist, a few dozen feet down the path. It detached itself and swept along, a human-like figure from the waist up, a trailing blur from the waist down. As if Michael didn't exist, the figure passed by and vanished in the opposite haze.

 

 

The Sidhe of the air, Michael thought - a Meteoral like the one he had seen on the road from Lamia's house. He picked up his stick and scurried to the edge of the path, where he squatted in the taller grass, shivering, trying to be inconspicuous.

 

 

Several more flew by, the air swirling in their wake. They weren't immaterial but he could almost see through them. They cast only the vaguest of shadows in the muted sunlight. The tops of their heads floated a good eight feet above the ground, and they seemed in proportion to that height. At first he could not tell whether they had male or female features, but he soon realized they were all female, with slender, hard-edged faces and somber expressions. Soon, a steady stream of Meteorals came down the path, growing more and more distinct as the sun burned away the mist.

 

 

At first, none of them paid him any attention. He tried to hide in the deeper grass, however, and stepped on a dry stick. It snapped loudly. He felt his heart convulse around his blood like a closing fist.

 

 

The stream of Meteorals scattered in all directions. Michael heard whisperings overhead, then all around, as if they had regrouped and were lowering themselves in a surrounding canopy.

 

 

Directly in front of him, the air glimmered and crackled.

 

 

His skin tingled painfully as a rush of white filled his view. He caught a glimpse of a hideous, angry long face drawn into a scream, fingers shaped into claws. His cheek stung and he grabbed it with his hand. His fingers came away bloody.

 

 

"Sed ac, par na antros sed via?" The voices came from all directions, from a hissing multitude, exhaled like a chill wind.

 

 

"You are on a trod," came a softer, no less menacing single voice right next to his ear. He turned slowly to face a Meteoral stooping in the grass. The grass seemed to pass right through her. He could feel her breathing on him, the breath sweet as ether. "You are the human from the house of the Isomage, no?"

 

 

Michael nodded. His legs froze and pins and needles traveled up his thighs.

 

 

"You should not be here."

 

 

'The Crane Women-"

 

 

"Have no power over us." The face shimmered and stretched, becoming even more hideous. The eyes were large, the most substantial things in the face, completely white and without pupils. A hand rose to one side of his head and the fingers stretched and clenched. Blood from Michael's cheek dripped onto his jacket.

 

 

"They brought me here. Talk to them-"

 

 

"We despise Breeds as much as we despise you."

 

 

The face vanished. Michael's legs were too numb to support him. He fell back into the grass and cried out through clenched teeth at the pain as the circulation returned to his legs. He looked down at the spots of blood on his shoulder and the front of his jacket, and saw that his clothing had been neatly sliced to ribbons. The leather of his shoes was in shreds, as well.

 

 

"Help me," he murmured, crawling away from the trod. He left scraps of cloth behind. "Please help me. God, please take me back...."

 

 

A long ribbon of pearly white formed over his head. He looked up, cringing, and saw a chain of meteorals swooping low above him, each face conveying some new expression of curiosity, anger, irritation, even humor. And with each passage, his clothes became more and more ragged. Their trailing arms drifted over him like smoke, silently slashing, flaying.

 

 

He closed his eyes and leaned on his arms, lowering himself to the ground. He buried his face in the grass, certain he was going to die. He just didn't want to see it happen. Where were the Crane Women? Had they done all their work, the weeks of training, just to let him be sectioned like bologna in a deli?

 

 

He felt a rush of cold air on his naked back. His jacket and shirt had completely fallen away. The first stab of pain hit him, slow, excruciating, as something moved along his back. No. He felt a burst of anger. God damn them all. Why did everyone have to be so cruel, so full of hate? He didn't hate them.

 

 

Suddenly, he seemed to be sitting somewhere else, watching but not seeing in the midst of incredible stillness and calm. He had had the same feeling when poetry flowed from his pencil so fast he couldn't tell where it was coming from.

 

 

It was a kind of looseness, in his hands as much as his head. He watched himself stand, sweep at the air with his stick, grimace. He seemed to be grinning back at the Sidhe hovering around him.

 

 

The stick was little use. He'd have to take advantage of the chaos. Blue flower, yellow, really pink.

 

 

Grass, actually, and air, right here.

 

 

He ran, holding the stick before him, knees parting the hip-high grass smoothly. Part of himself had been left behind like a squid's decoy cloud of ink. Not magic, but interesting; the Meteorals didn't seem to notice where he really was.

 

 

Naked, he ran through the sunlight and warm gentle breezes, legs pumping on their own, lungs drawing in and growing, heart strong and leonine. He imagined his heart growling, surrounded by a wind-tossed mane. He imagined himself a glass gazelle, a Sidhe horse turning into a quicksilver blur. The grassland fled beneath him, afraid of his feet; he was the center and the Realm passed under, not the other way around.

 

 

Meteorals flanked him. He dodged. Blue flower, pink.

 

 

Here, he thought in a place below thought, you can reach down and use your mind to accomplish things impossible on Earth. Because Adonna is not a mature god, and the Realm isn't quite polished. Was that what the Crane Women wanted him to learn?

 

 

He dodged, leaving shadows. The Meteorals were farther away, swirling around one of the shadows like a snow-devil.

 

 

Long after he knew he had escaped, he continued to run. There was no body carrying him, only eyes. He could not feel his muscles, only the stick he held before him. He was the stick, and his body was the comet's tail of its flight.

 

 

Michael Perrin fell down and rolled, stuffing grass and dirt into his mouth. The stick bruised his ribs. He came up squatting with legs and arms splayed. His head fell forward and his arms went out from under him.

 

 

The whole world was suddenly filled with agony. His body wanted to curl up like ash, his muscles burned so badly. His vision was red and uncertain.

 

 

And he was scared again. His heart was a small, tight snake, not a lion. "God," he gasped. "God please."

 

 

"Quiet." Spart stood over him, hands on hips, arms elbowed out like bird wings. She bent down and felt his arms and back with a worried frown. He heard Nare and Coom conversing in Cascar to one side.

 

 

"You did well," Spart said. "Much too well, actually."

 

 

The agony and fear faded. Is it night?

 

 

No.

 

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Did they want him dead? Why did they leave him between the markers - to put him out of the way, so they could concentrate on Bin? Or was there something else - a conspiracy, perhaps - of which Michael knew nothing?

 

 

When he opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his hut, it all seemed like a dream. In the Realm, however, there was no dreaming. perhaps because one cannot dream within a dream. In the mind, anything can happen. Anything can be accomplished, given control of the milieu. Was that what the Crane Women were trying to tell him?

 

 

Spart leaned over him and peered into his face, making him jump. He hadn't been aware she was in the hut.

 

 

"I was good, huh?"

 

 

"Survived again," Spart said laconically. "When you can do what do did at will, you will be acceptable."

 

 

"What did I do?"

 

 

"Out-seeing. In Cascar, evisa. You threw a shadow. Do you remember what it felt like?"

 

 

He tried to recall the sensation, like picking out the muscles to make ears wriggle. He had never been able to make his ears wriggle, however, or his nose. On Earth, he had often dreamed of flying. It had been so simple to fly: Just by discovering and flexing a certain muscle in his neck and head, he could lift himself from the ground a yard, two yards, higher with more strain. Upon waking, he could never locate the muscle - nor could he now.

 

 

"I'm awake," he said. Spart pulled her hand away from his chest. "Maybe I'll just do it when I really need to." He sat up on his elbows.

 

 

"What if you do not know you need to until it is too late? You are just beginning. Don't get your hopes up."

 

 

"What hopes? I haven't had any hope since I came to this place."

 

 

"Ah!" Spart pulled her lips back from her black gums and long teeth. "You hope for those geen."

 

 

"Who?"

 

 

He felt weak and fell back. As he twisted his head, he saw Nare on one side of him, Coom on the other.

 

 

"Ba (click) dan," Coom said. "Okay?" Nare bent closer to examine his limbs.

 

 

"Other than being a little banged up, I'm fine," Michael said quietly.

 

 

"Something," Coom said. "Did something."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"Up. Outside."

 

 

He stood awkwardly and realized he was naked. Spart pushed him through the doorway and they pulled him forward by his arms until he stood in the middle of the mound. "Do you feel anything?" Spart asked as they circled him. Coom made soft clucking sounds. "Anything odd?"

 

 

"No. Nothing. Why?"

 

 

"Be certain!" Nare snapped. "Where is it?"

 

 

"On one of his limbs, probably," Spart said. "Hiding."

 

 

"Daggu," Coom said. It sounded like a curse. He was filthy, stained with grass juice and blood, but he didn't feel badly injured. Still, the way the Crane Women regarded him, with tight narrow expressions, worried him. Coom glanced down at his calf and bent over. She held out her left hand, wriggling her fingers slowly, and suddenly snapped it down to his ankle, plucking something up and holding it at arm's length.

 

 

"Do you see it?" Spart asked.

 

 

"What?" He tried to make out what Coom was holding but was too nervous to approach close enough.

 

 

"In the sun," Nare said. Something about two inches long glinted in Coom's long fingers. He squinted and traced its silhouette. It resembled a slender crab, translucent, almost invisible. In all the dirt and mess, he wouldn't have noticed it at all; he certainly hadn't felt it.

 

 

"What is it?" he asked, shivering.

 

 

"This night, while you sleep," Nare said, "it would kill you.

 

 

It's a gift from the Meteorals. When they give one of these to another Sidhe, the bite produces mystic dreams. Humans can't dream here, so it kills them."

 

 

"Jesus," Michael said.

 

 

"Remember," Span said, her eyes fixed on his. "You cannot dream here. There are no dreams."

 

 

Coom carried the tiny creature into their hut. "It will entertain us tonight. and then, we'll add it to our collection," Span said.

 

 

Bin had watched all this from the door of his hut. The young Sidhe drew his reed curtain closed and Michael stood alone and naked, as hollow as a dead tree.

 

 

Inside his hut, stashed in a corner, was a change of clothing. The pants, shin and cloth shoes resembled what the Crane Women wore but were even more ragged. Still, they were clean. He put them on. The fit was tolerable.

 

 

Michael felt the by now very familiar sensation of apprehension and helplessness. He had survived. He had done something strange, something he wasn't sure he would ever be able to repeat; yet in the face of the Realm's mystery, he had not learned much.

 

 

What he had learned was that the Crane Women cared little for his safety - or they were crazy enough to put him into situations where he could get killed.

 

 

He came out of the hut again to see that the sky was brightening. He had slept all day after his ordeal. After eating the fruit and porridge Nare had left for him, he went to the stream to bathe. He scrubbed off all the dry grass and din stains, then poured water over himself. When he had shivered dry, he went to a relatively calm pool and peered at his reflection.

 

 

His cheek was swollen and the scratches were pink and puffy, but they didn't seem infected. His forehead was bruised, as were his ribs and feet.

 

 

Biri came up to him as he finished dressing. "What do you want?" Michael asked, looking off to one side.

 

 

"They played games with you. Not the Crane Women - the Meteorals."

 

 

"Everybody plays games with me."

 

 

"If they had meant to kill you, you wouldn't have escaped."

 

 

"Maybe they did try to kill me, and I'm just better than anybody thinks."

 

 

Biri shook his head.

 

 

"Dammit, nobody believes I'm worth a crap! Why can't I just do something right and be recognized for it?"

 

 

"Do you know what you did?"

 

 

"Yeah. I survived. We've been through all that."

 

 

"The Crane Women were-"

 

 

"I don't give a damn what they were doing. I'm not wanted around here. Tell them," he nodded at the hut, "tell them I'm going to spend the night with my own people. Not with Breeds." He hesitated. "Not with Sidhe."

 

 

"I'll tell them. And after tonight?"

 

 

"I'll worry about that later."

 

 

"What will Lamia do?" Bin asked.

 

 

"What do you know about her, or care? I don't want to be here, that's all."

 

 

Bin watched as Michael crossed the river and walked west. He carried his book in one frayed pocket; it slapped against his hip with every step.

 

 

In Euterpe, Michael located the alley where Savarin had led him, turned left into it and at the end walked up the flight of steps to Helena's doorway. He knocked on the frame but received no answer. Standing for a moment, convinced his luck wasn't going to improve for some time, he descended the stairs and nearly walked into her.