                          JEFF GRUBB
                      "The Brothers' War"

        (Magic: the Gathering. Artifact cycle. Book I.)


                           PROLOGUE
    
                       OPPOSITES ATTRACT
                            (63 AR)
    
    It was the night before the end of the world.
    The two armies had gathered on opposite sides of a blasted 
vale. Once this had been a verdant valley, its wide plain shaped 
by a wide, meandering stream, its flanking hills blanketed by 
thick groves of oak, blanchwood, and ironroot. Now these trees 
were gone; no more than ragged stumps remained, the grass burned 
away, and the earth beneath packed hard and barren. The stream 
was a sluggish flow hidden by a thick film of oil, its surface 
broken only by the shadowy masses of nameless solids.
    Thick, inky clouds concealed the moons and stars from sight. 
It had been overcast and cold on Argoth, despite unseasonably 
warmer weather elsewhere on Terisiare. Both sides in the upcoming 
battle had taken to torching the forests they found, if only to 
deny their opponents supplies and support. By day the cloud 
canopy was a dull gray, a sheet of rolled and unfinished steel. 
By night it was lit only from below, by the thousands of 
campfires and foundries that now dotted the landscape. Along the 
opposite rims of the vale the flames lit by both invading forces 
glimmered like evil eyes in the darkness.
    Spanning the shallow stream was a pair of toppled giants, 
remnants of an earlier battle between one of the invaders and the 
original inhabitants of this land. One of the fallen giants had 
been made of living wood, and had been splintered into a thousand 
shards. Its huge forested head lay on the ground, screaming 
silently to the uncaring night. It had been the last champion of 
the natives of Argoth, the avatar of their goddess, and with its 
death passed away all hope for the island people.
    The victor in the battle had also been destroyed in the 
struggle. This huge humanoid monster was made of stone, its 
joints constructed of massive plates of pitted iron and great 
brass gears. Its lithic body had been broken and patched a number 
of times, and great sheets of metal had been bolted to its hide 
to hold it together. The battle with the living forest beast had 
overtaxed its pistons and armatures. Its final lunge had 
splintered its opponent; now it sprawled forward, facedown, a 
bridge over the tepid stream. One of the stone giant's arms had 
been ripped loose from the battle and lay a few hundred feet 
away, its fingers raised to claw the sky.
    On the back of the granite giant's silent corpse a lone 
figure waited. In his youth he had been broad shouldered and 
handsome, but the years of war and service to his master had 
exhausted him. His shoulders were slumped now, and his frame 
carried the additional weight of both his responsibilities and 
his age. His once-tousled blond hair was worn short, and the 
first patch of skin was apparent at the crown of his head, herald 
of eventual baldness. Still, he was taller than most of this 
fellows, so others did not see it unless he was seated. For the 
moment he paced along the giant's back.
    Tawnos pulled his rough, brown woolen cloak tighter around 
him, cursing the cold and dark. As he did so his fingers scraped 
against the metal breastplate beneath. It did not fit him-very 
little that had not been made specifically for his large frame 
did, and he had brought it along only as an afterthought. The 
message had been warm and welcoming, but it came from the enemy 
camp. Urza would be irritated if his former student let his guard 
down so easily.
    There was motion along the far side of the giant's back, near 
where its smashed head lay at a twisted angle to the rest of the 
body. Tawnos did not see her climb up, but suddenly she was 
there-a flash of red hair surrounded by an ebon cloak. It was as 
if she wore a piece of the night itself, and wore it very well.
    She was alone, as she had promised. As she crossed toward 
him, Tawnos pulled a small device from his pocket. It was a 
flattened sphere with a lamp's wick jutting from the top. He 
pressed a stud along the side of the sphere, and the device 
sputtered. The wick burst into a brief, yellow flame, which 
subdued to a soft orange hue as Tawnos manipulated the small stud 
along the side. Ashnod drew into the light, and he saw that she 
had that bemused smirk that he had always found attractive. He 
also saw that there were now silver hairs among the scarlet.
    "I'd heard you were dead," he said.
    "Don't believe everything you hear, Duck," replied Ashnod the 
Uncaring with a broad smile. "I've heard I died at least five 
times in the past ten years." The smile faded and the voice 
turned solemn. "You came. Thank you."
    "You sent a message," said Tawnos.
    "It could have been a trap," said Ashnod.
    "It could have been," admitted Tawnos and opened his cloak. 
His breastplate reflected the small light, which glimmered off 
the two sets of ornate weapons that rode on his hips. Ashnod 
smiled again.
    "Good to know you're still cautious," she said.
    "Prepared," observed Tawnos. "That is all. Prepared."
    Ashnod slung her pack on the ground and knelt next to it. 
Tawnos hesitated, then joined her. They sat in relative silence 
for a long moment. Far off, in the distance on either side of the 
vale, were the hammers of forges preparing for the bloody 
business of the next day.
    "You sent a message," prompted Tawnos.
    "This is the last one, you know." said Ashnod, staring out 
into a night pierced by red fires. "The last battle. The final 
conflict. One way or another, the resolution of the war between 
your master and mine."
    "Between Urza and Mishra," said Tawnos with a nod.
    "They are both here," Ashnod added. "There are no 
reinforcements. No retreat is possible for either side. One way 
or another, it all ends here."
    Tawnos shifted uncomfortably. It had been a long time since 
he had sat cross-legged on hard stone. "It is a good time for a 
ending," he said. "All this has gone on far too long."
    Across from him, Ashnod bowed her head in the light. "And 
wasted so much."
    "Many have lost their lives," agreed Tawnos.
    Ashnod giggled, an ill-placed sound that raised the hairs of 
Tawnos's neck in irritation. "Lives?" she said. "Lives are 
nothing. Think of all the forests gutted, the lakes drained, the 
lands plundered to get us to this point. Think what we could have 
done with those resources. And people: yes, how we could have 
used them, otherwise."
    As she spoke Tawnos could feel his face tighten in 
disapproval. Even in the dim glow Ashnod could feel his silent 
irritation. "Sorry," she said at last. "I spoke before I 
thought."
    "Good to know there are universal constants," said Tawnos 
stonily.
    "Sorry." There was another pause, and in the distance 
something clattered. It sounded like a mechanical demon laughing. 
"How is he?" she said at last.
    "The same, only more so," Tawnos replied. "Yours?"
    Ashnod shook her head. "Something's ... wrong." Tawnos raised 
an eyebrow and she added quickly, "Mishra's colder than ever. 
More calculating. I'm worried."
    "I always worry," said Tawnos. "Urza has become more 
withdrawn over the passing years."
    "Withdrawn," said Ashnod. "That's the word. As if we aren't 
even there. Like no one else is." She reached out to touch his 
shoulder. Tawnos stiffened, leaning away, and she let the gesture 
drop. "You're right about it being a waste," she said at last. 
"But it can be avoided even now."
    "How?" Tawnos's eyes narrowed.
    "Give him what he wants," said Ashnod. "Give Mishra the other 
half of the stone."
    "Surrender?" Tawnos said, his voice too loud. "After all 
this, surrender? When tomorrow we might carry the field? Before 
we came to Argoth, it might have been an option, perhaps." He 
thought a moment and said more to himself than to his companion, 
"No, not even before."
    Ashnod held up both hands in a pacific gesture. "Just a 
suggestion, Duck."
    "He sent you with that message?"
    "My words are my own," snapped Ashnod. "He doesn't trust me," 
she added softly.
    "Who would, at this point?" asked Tawnos. The words were out 
of his mouth before he realized what he said.
    "Fine," she snarled, and stood up suddenly. She grabbed the 
knapsack, and it disappeared again within the shadows of her 
voluminous cloak. "And I even came bearing gifts."
    "Any gift from you would be treated suspiciously," said 
Tawnos, scrambling to his feet and standing next to her.
    They paused for a moment, and a cold wind passed between 
them. Then Ashnod turned to leave.
    "Perhaps ..." Tawnos began. She hesitated at his words. 
"Perhaps we could get our two masters together," he continued. 
"Without their weapons. Without their armies. Perhaps there's a 
way to make them both understand each other."
    Ashnod shook her head. "They are lockstepped into their 
actions now, as mechanical as their own inventions, as relentless 
as the phases of the Glimmer Moon." She gave a sad giggle. "You 
dream of a time when they could understand each other. There was 
never such a time."
    She walked away from him, then paused and turned. "Be careful 
tomorrow. May you survive the battle." She walked to the far end 
of the toppled giant, and put her hood up. Her scarlet hair 
disappeared, and she merged once again with the shadows.
    "Be careful yourself," said Tawnos to the unresponsive 
darkness and turned quietly toward his own camp. As he walked 
back, one part of his mind noted the condition of the field, 
seeing pitfalls Urza's troops would have to avoid.
    But another segment of his consciousness meditated on 
Ashnod's words, repeating them over and over.
    "There was never such a time ... ."
    
    
                            PART 1

                       A STUDY IN FORCES
                         (10 - 20 AR)

                           Chapter 1
                            TOCASIA

    The Argivian archaeologist removed her lenses and rubbed her 
tired eyes. The desert grit was everywhere, all the more so when 
the stiff breeze blew eastward from the inland wastes. The desert 
air was warm as forge coals, but Tocasia was glad for the gentle 
wind. Without the breeze it would be merely unbearably and 
stiflingly hot at the dig site.
    The aged researcher sat at an ornate table, a huge 
monstrosity with thick, fluted legs and a heavy top inlaid with 
polished shell. It was a gift from one of the noble families of 
Argive, a reward for "straightening out" an errant scion of their 
line. The heirloom looked almost comical perched on the 
outcropping that Tocasia had claimed as her headquarters, beneath 
a tarpaulin of pale-gray Tomakul muslin.
    The gift had been well intentioned, and she could only 
imagine the expense incurred in sending the table out to her. The 
desert had already taken its toll: the hand-rubbed finish had 
been almost entirely blasted away by the sand-laden wind, and the 
wood beneath had cracked as the heat boiled away the liquids 
still locked within. Furniture suitable for an Argivian dressing 
room was much less acceptable in the desert. Still, it was a flat 
space, and Tocasia appreciated it.
    The tabletop was littered with scrolls half-shoved into their 
cases and survey maps weighted down by bits of rusted metal, the 
torn edges of the papers fluttering in the breeze. A particularly 
large chunk of bluish metal sat directly before Tocasia, damning 
her with its enigma.
    It looked like a parody of a human skull, with a batlike 
face, and cold, impassive eyes of colored crystal set in the 
unfamiliar blue-tinted metal. The metal itself seemed as ductile 
and soft as copper, but bending it only caused it to reform 
slowly into its original shape. A set of Thran glyphs ran along 
the underside of the skull, which Tocasia had translated roughly 
as su-chi. Whether this was the name of the creature, its owner, 
or its manufacturer was a mystery to her.
    The skull's lupine lower jaw jutted forward, ending in a 
handful of fangs. The top of the skull had been peeled away to 
reveal a tangle of blue metal cables. Set among them was a single 
large gemstone, the shade of old glass, worn beyond age, and 
marred by a longitudinal crack along its top.
    Tocasia sighed. Even if her diggers could find the rest of 
this Thran artifact's body, it was unlikely that they would ever 
get it working again. The damage was too extensive, and even if 
they could re-create its form, the gemstone that provided its 
power was shattered. They had found only a double handful of such 
stones that were whole and functioning. Glowing in rainbow hues, 
they could power the old Thran devices. The largest of those 
stones were shipped back to Argive for additional study and in 
exchange for support and supplies.
    A shadow touched the comer of her table, and Tocasia jumped 
slightly. She had been so involved with the skull that she had 
not seen anyone approach. She looked up into Loran's dark face 
and wondered how long the girl had been there.
    Loran was a noble's daughter and one of Tocasia's best 
pupils, though that was not saying much, given the current crop 
of students. Early in Tocasia's career she had accepted the 
financial support of many of the noble houses of Penregon. In 
exchange, the houses would often ship their recalcitrant or 
rebellious junior members out to the desert for a summer to join 
the mad archaeologist in her excavation of Thran artifacts.
    To be honest, Tocasia thought, most of the youths she 
received were guilty of nothing more than being typical young 
people, and their parents were only seeking to get them out of 
the manor house. Once on the site, their interest in the past 
varied from minimal to nonexistent. They were glad to be away 
from the perfumed and protected courts of Penregon, its petty 
intrigues, and-most important- their parents. Tocasia entrusted 
them with as much responsibility as they accepted. Some 
supervised the Fallaji diggers, while others helped glean and 
catalog the devices they brought to light. Still others were 
content to man the grapeshot catapults that flanked the camp and 
served as a deterrent to desert raiders and the scavenging rocs. 
The young men and women came, served their time, and fled back to 
the cities with enough tales to impress their friends and enough 
maturity to mollify their parents.
    And a few, such as Loran, had the intelligence, the wisdom, 
and the presence of mind to come back after their first 
experience. Loran was on her third season and coming into the 
full flower of womanhood. Tocasia knew it was only a matter of 
time before the girl started to care more for ball gowns and 
dinner parties than for artifacts and dig sites, but for this 
summer, at least, she was pleased to have her there to help 
catalog, organize, and coordinate.
    Tocasia blinked, pushed her spectacles back up on her nose, 
and arched an eyebrow at the student. Loran would never speak 
until spoken to, though Tocasia was trying to break her of that 
habit.
    There was a pause, and then Loran said softly, "The caravan 
from Argive has arrived."
    Tocasia nodded. They had been watching the rising dust cloud 
from the east all morning, but she'd thought it would be late 
afternoon before Bly's wagons would reach them. The old wagon 
master must have finally sprung for new beasts, or else the old 
aurochs had finally failed him. What Loran meant was that Bly's 
wagons had finally passed through the stockade gates, and Tocasia 
had best be there to save her students from the bad-tempered 
merchant's pique should the mistress of the camp not be there to 
greet him.
    Loran did not move, and Tocasia added, "I will be down as 
soon as possible. If Bly does not like it, let him stew." Loran's 
lips compressed in a thin line; then the girl nodded and 
vanished. Tocasia sighed again. In two or three years Loran would 
be ordering merchants like Bly around effortlessly, but for now 
she, and most of the other students, were cowed by the merchant's 
bluster.
    Tocasia watched Loran's retreating form, clad in the cream-
colored working shift that most female students labored in. She 
noted that the girl was already wearing her hair longer, in the 
fashion favored in the capital. Loran's hair was long, dark, and 
thick, making her exotic among most of her compatriots. "A touch 
of the desert" was the saying among the Argivian nobility. It was 
not a compliment but rather a tacit accusation that some desert 
barbarian was lurking in the family tree. Perhaps that was why 
Loran kept coming back for the summers- it could not be family 
pressure. The last time Tocasia visited Penregon, Loran's mother 
had made it quite clear that Loran should curb such foolish 
endeavors as rooting around in the dust for scraps of metal.
    Tocasia looked out over the camp, a rough wall built around a 
collection of hills. The low, rolling hills were incised by dry 
washes and proved to be extremely productive of Thran artifacts. 
The stockade was more of a demarcation of territory than a true 
protection, but it kept what desert bandits that might prove a 
problem at bay. The barricade of piled stone was flanked by a 
pair of oversized catapults loaded with loose rubble to keep the 
rocs away. Within the walls most of the activity of the camp was 
slow in the summer heat. One particular hill, where they had 
recovered the su-chi skull, proved particularly promising, and 
was now covered with a grid of string and stakes for further 
examination. The slow-footed onulets plodded to meet the wagons, 
steered by noble boys who enjoyed thwacking the great albino 
beasts with their makeshift goads.
    The gate had closed on the last wagon now, and a wide-girthed 
figure leapt from the lead carriage, waving his arms in an 
animated fashion. Bly seemed to enjoy terrorizing the students 
out here, perhaps because he had to kowtow to their parents back 
in Penregon.
    Tocasia smiled at the thought of Bly back in the Argivian 
capital-hat in hand, head bowed slightly, trying to enunciate his 
requests without resort to curses. The desert was probably the 
best place for him as well.
    The archaeologist ran her hands through her short graying 
hair, trying to shake out any nonexistent tangles. When she had 
been young her hair had been longer and almost as dark and 
luxuriant as Loran's. There might have been a touch of the desert 
in her family tree as well. Still, age tended to make all peoples 
equal, and her shorn locks were easier to care for in the desert.
    Tocasia gave the blue-metal skull an affectionate pat and 
rose from her camp chair. She reached for her walking stick, a 
shattered fragment of wood and bright steel from some unknown 
Thran mechanism. She was still spry enough to justify the staff 
as a walking stick to aid her in navigating the uneven ground and 
not as a crutch. But aches in her joints in the cool of the early 
desert morning told a different tale.
    Tocasia took her time descending from her perch. Bly would 
bluster and complain, but that never stopped him from dealing. 
The artifacts and saleable loot he would bring back from the site 
was worth the long and arduous trip inland.
    It was no surprise, then, that once she reached the wagons 
there was a wide circle of students and teamsters surrounding the 
wagon master. The surprise was the pair of young men that Bly was 
berating.
    The two were strangers. One was dark-haired and stocky, and 
flinched every time Bly bellowed. He was half-hiding behind the 
other, a lean, tawny-haired boy who stood bolt-upright, taking 
the full blast of the wagon master's thunder.
    "Frauds! Cheats! Liars!" shouted Bly.
    The pair were all of ten years old, Tocasia guessed. Twelve 
at the outside. That was about the age nobles first considered 
sending their children out to Tocasia's camp. But these were not 
her students, and no new arrivals were expected until the 
beginning of the next season. Loran was at one side of the crowd, 
looking both embarrassed by the scene and relieved that she was 
not the object of Bly's temper.
    "You seek to cheat me! Now get busy unloading, you motherless 
dogs!" sputtered Bly, a crimson hue crawling through his face.
    The dark-haired boy raised his fists and took a step forward. 
The older blond lad held out an arm to block his companion, but 
his eyes never left the wagon master.
    "Sirrah," he said calmly, though loud enough for the 
surrounding crowd to hear, "we had a bargain. We would work for 
you to pay for our passage here. We are now here, so we will work 
for you no longer."
    Wagon master Bly turned an apoplectic purple. "You agreed to 
serve as hands for the journey. The journey isn't over yet; we 
still have to get back to Penregon!"
    "But then we'll have to get back here on our own!" exploded 
the stockier boy, leaning forward against the other's restraining 
arm.
    "What's going on here, Bly?" said Tocasia.
    The wagon master wheeled on the scholar, blinking as if he 
had only just then noticed her. "A private matter, Mistress 
Tocasia. Nothing more."
    The leaner of the two youths stepped forward. "You are 
Tocasia the Scholar?"
    "We're not finished," Bly started, but Tocasia held up a hand 
and replied to the youth.
    "I am," she said.
    "I am Urza," said the youth. "This is my brother Mishra." The 
sturdier of the two boys nodded, and the lean youth fished out a 
battered envelope from within his vest. The seal on the flap, the 
imprint of a familiar noble household, was intact, but it looked 
as if the letter had made the entire trip next to the boy's skin. 
Bly drew in his breath sharply at the sight.
    Tocasia looked at the two youths, then at the wagon master. 
She slid a sandblasted nail beneath the flap and popped the 
letter open. The script was fluid and well formed, dictated to a 
scribe, but the signature along the bottom was recognizable, if 
weak and jerky.
    There was a silence for a moment as she read, and both Bly 
and Mishra shifted impatiently, waiting for the opportunity to 
start the argument again. The youth Urza stood impassively, hands 
folded in front of him.
    Tocasia folded up the letter again and said thoughtfully, 
"Well, that's that." To the two boys she said, "Get your things, 
and follow Loran there to your quarters." To Bly she said, "These 
two are now my responsibility. They are joining as students."
    The purplish hue returned to Bly's face. "But they owe me 
half a trip! You're telling me that I have to let these snipes 
break an agreement just because of some letter!"
    Tocasia let the wagon master complain. She watched the boys 
pull a pair of slender backpacks from one wagon and lope after 
the slim form of Loran. Only when they had passed through the 
crowd and that crowd had dispersed to tend to the immediate 
business of unloading the supplies did she turn her attention to 
Bly.
    "Your agreement was for them to work their way through their 
journey," she said sharply. "When they arrived here, that journey 
ended. They are taking up residence here. Do you understand?"
    There was steel in her voice, and even Bly knew he could not 
push the scholar around when she took this tone. Instead he took 
a deep breath and forced himself to calm.
    Tocasia held up the letter. "This is from their father, from 
whom I have not heard for many years. What do you know of him?"
    Bly stammered for a moment, then said, "He's not well at all. 
Remarried recently-a virago, a real vixen from a good family with 
her own children. He was taken seriously ill about a month before 
we left Penregon. He might be dead by this time."
    "He might be," said Tocasia solemnly, "or he might be too ill 
to see to his sons' well-being. You didn't know about this 
letter, did you?"
    The wagon master looked at his feet, embarrassed. "No, you 
did not," continued Tocasia. "Because if you had, you wouldn't 
have tried to lock those children into such a hard bargain. 'Full 
trip' indeed! Knowing you, you probably worked those two as hard 
your aurochs, if not harder. Because you knew that without the 
letter I wouldn't take them in on just their word!"
    "The new mother, she's a hellkite," said Bly softly, by way 
of explanation. "Wanted them gone, but wouldn't spend a groat on 
their well-being. Didn't want to dip into the family moneys, 
since they're all probably hers right now."
    "So you gave the boys a break, worked them like slaves, and 
tried to keep them, since no one would notice their fate," said 
Tocasia. "That's low, even for you, Bly. Now get the supplies 
unloaded, and yes, I'll do a complete inventory, thank you. And 
then we'll load the wagons for return. There are some items there 
that will fetch you a goodly profit, despite your scandalous 
behavior."
    Tocasia wanted to lecture Bly a bit longer, but Loran came 
running up. "Mistress Tocasia, the new boys!"
    Tocasia scowled at the student. The young girl had actually 
spoken up, so it must be important. "Yes?"
    "They're in a fight," said Loran. "With Richlau and a couple 
of the other boys."
    Tocasia uttered a mild curse. Bly chuckled. "I can always 
take them back if you want, scholar," he said.
    The scholar shot the wagon master a look that would skin an 
ox at fifteen paces. To Loran she said, "Get Ahmahl and a couple 
of the other diggers to break it up. And bring the boys to my 
tent." Loran hesitated, and Tocasia practically stamped her foot. 
"Now!"
    The young girl disappeared in a puff of dust, and Bly said, 
"I think that pair are more trouble than they are worth, if you 
don't mind me saying."
    "I wouldn't be surprised," grunted the scholar. "Their father 
was always a handful."
    "So you're going to keep them?" asked the wagon master, 
shaking his head.
    Tocasia sighed. "Aye. I owe their father that much. For an 
old favor."
    "Must be some favor," said Bly. "What did he give you?"
    "Only my freedom," said Tocasia, and turned away from the 
wagon master without waiting for a reply.
    Bly looked at Tocasia's back as she walked back up the hill. 
Was it his imagination, or did she seem to be older and more 
fragile than she had been a few moments ago? Then he heard hoarse 
shouts among the wagons, and the thought was driven from his 
head.
    "You lot!" he bellowed at the teamsters, throwing himself 
back into the work. "Have you never hauled freight before? That 
stuff's delicate! Handle it like you would your sister's newborn, 
or we don't get paid!"
    The hill seemed steeper to Tocasia on the way up than it had 
on way down, and the boys were already waiting for her when she 
reached the top. Ahmahl and Loran were there as well.
    The leader of the desert-tribe diggers nodded sharply at 
Tocasia. In Fallaji, the desert tongue, he said, "Watch the 
little one. He was all fists and bites when we pulled him off. So 
much fire in one so small. The big one bloodied Richlau's nose, 
but nothing's broken."
    Tocasia responded in the same language, "Richlau deserves to 
have his nose bloodied. Tell him he's on kitchen duty for the 
rest of the month. And move the boys' gear to Havack's barracks 
instead." Ahmahl nodded and left the tarp. Loran made no move to 
leave until Tocasia instructed her to keep an eye on Bly.
    The archaeologist strode around her table, sliding the 
walking cane back into its holder, a drum-shaped basket made from 
an onulet's foot. She leaned on her palms on the desk and looked 
at the two boys. Their fine vests had been shredded in the 
battle, and Urza's pockets had been torn out in the fight. Mishra 
had acquired a black eye, and both boys showed numerous scratch 
marks.
    Tocasia sighed and lowered herself into her seat. The boys 
shifted uncomfortably. "Fifteen minutes," she said at last. 
"Fifteen minutes and you're already in a fight. A new record, 
even for this place."
    Both boys started talking at once. Urza said, "I would like 
to apologize on behalf of everyone involved-"
    Mishra burst out with, "I'm sorry but it really wasn't our 
fault if-"
    "Silence!" Tocasia slapped the table hard, so hard the su-chi 
skull jumped slightly, and a piece of the pearl inlay bounced out 
of its setting. The two boys quieted immediately and shifted from 
one foot to another.
    Tocasia leaned back in her chair. "What happened?"
    The boys looked at each other, as if each were granting the 
other the chance to explain. By mutual if unspoken consent, Urza 
won the opportunity.
    "One of the older boys picked on my brother. I stopped him," 
he said primly. "A large boy with red hair and freckles."
    "So I see," said Tocasia. To Mishra she said, "And why was 
Richlau picking on you?"
    "No reason," said Mishra. Urza started to say something, but 
Tocasia held up a hand to silence him. After a long silence, 
Mishra added, "He said I was on his bunk."
    "And were you?" asked the scholar.
    Mishra shrugged. "I guess." Then, after a pause, he blurted 
out, "But he didn't have to be rude about it!"
    "Richlau is rude about everything," said Tocasia. "You're 
going to have to get used to that if you stay here." To Urza she 
said, "You're the older brother, correct?"
    "I am," said Urza, but Mishra made a small coughing noise. 
Urza made a face and added, "I should say that Mishra and I were 
born in the same year, I was born on the first day of the year, 
Mishra was born on the last. So for all days but the last, I am a 
year older."
    "On the last day, we're equal!" piped Mishra, as if pleased 
that his brother had corrected himself.
    Tocasia held up the letter from Urza's vest. "Do you know 
what this says?"
    Again, the two boys looked at each other. Tocasia sensed they 
were conferring in a secret language, one only they could hear.
    "Not exactly," answered Urza at last.
    "Your father was a dear friend to whom I owe much," observed 
Tocasia. "He wants me to look after you, to care for you should 
something happen to him. That means you're going to be staying 
here for quite a while. And that means working with me and my 
students. If you're uncomfortable with this arrangement, I can 
send you back with Bly, but to be honest I don't know what kind 
of welcome would await you in Penregon."
    Again the boys looked at each other. It was Mishra who spoke 
this time, "What is it that you do?"
    "I dig," said Tocasia. "Or rather, I supervise others who 
dig. We are searching for artifacts out here. Do you know what 
I'm talking about?"
    "Remnants of the past," said Urza. "Of a civilization that 
stood here long before Argive or any of the nations of Terisiare. 
Relics."
    "That's right," said Tocasia. "Artifacts that range in power 
from small toys to great machines, machines that can do the work 
of many men."
    "Like the big white ox-things?" asked Mishra, almost unheard.
    Tocasia arched an eyebrow at the younger brother. "Yes, 
indeed. The onulets that we use as beasts of burden out here are 
artifacts, ones I created based on the designs we've pieced 
together of the artifact-creating race, the Thran. The onulets 
are strong, loyal, unthinking machines that are tireless workers. 
They require neither food nor water, and when they do at last 
break down, the fluids from their joints are used to brew a 
hearty beverage that we then trade with desert tribesmen for 
information and other artifacts."
    "They sound very useful," said Urza.
    Tocasia leaned back in her chair. "I'm impressed, Mishra. The 
framework is covered by stitched hides to protect the workings 
from the desert sands. I had one student who was quite handy with 
a needle. Most first-time students assume the onulets are alive, 
since the only things comparable are the aurochs." She chuckled. 
"One of the pranks that Richlau and the other boys were probably 
planning was to assign you to feed an onulet and not to come back 
until it had finished its meal. How did you guess they weren't 
living?"
    Mishra blinked, then furrowed his brow. "I didn't guess. I 
just knew."
    Urza sniffed and said, "The gait is wrong for something 
alive. It pitches forward when it takes a step. A real creature 
would be smoother." He looked at Tocasia and shrugged. "I knew it 
too, but I didn't think it important enough to mention. The Thran 
must have been amazing people to have created it."
    Tocasia said, "And what do you know of the Thran, young 
Urza?"
    The sandy-haired boy planted his feet apart and put his hands 
behind his back-a recitation position Tocasia remembered from her 
own youth.
    "The Thran were an ancient race that lived in this land many 
thousands of years ago. They created a number of wondrous 
devices, only a few of which have survived to the present day. 
The great clock of Penregon's Grand Court is said to be a Thran 
artifact."
    Tocasia suppressed a smile; the device at the heart of that 
clock had been one of her earliest finds. "But who were they?" 
she asked. "Who were the Thran? Were they human?"
    Urza blinked, as if the question were odd. "Of course. Why 
wouldn't they be?"
    "What proof can you offer?" asked Tocasia.
    Urza thought for a moment, and Tocasia noticed he dropped his 
head slightly as if trying to support a thought-filled head with 
his chest. "I don't remember anything saying they weren't. I 
assumed they were."
    "Most people do," said the scholar. "But the truth of the 
matter is we don't know. They might be human, yes. Ahmahl, one of 
the Fallaji, has some folk stories about how the Thran were 
powerful gods who brought his people into this world, but the 
stories neglect any specifics. The Thran could have been 
minotaurs, elves, dwarves-or goblins, for all we know."
    "Oh, I hope they were minotaurs!" said Mishra. "Those are 
neat-looking!"
    Urza spread his hands before him and said dryly, "There was a 
carnival in Penregon when we were younger. Most of what Mishra 
knows of minotaurs comes from seeing one there."
    "But the fact remains we don't know who the Thran were," 
continued Tocasia. "And so we dig, we examine, and we try to 
piece together the parts of the past. The onulets are a result of 
what we have learned. So, to a lesser extent, are the grapeshot 
catapults that guard the encampment. We do know that many of the 
Thran devices were powered by crystalline energy sources. We call 
them power stones. What the Thran called them is anyone's guess. 
We have a rough idea of their language, though precious little 
that has been written down. We have not found statuary, art, or 
pottery-nothing that implies the creative arts. We know they 
stripped this land bare, but don't know how they died off-whether 
by internal war, famine, or plague."
    She sighed. "We have no idea even of what they look like. 
They could have looked like us. Or they could have looked like 
our friend here." She pushed the su-chi forward on the desk and 
patted it.
    Mishra reached forward and grabbed the skull. Tocasia was 
surprised by the speed that only desert predators and small 
children can manage. He turned it over and over in his hands.
    "Stop-" began Tocasia. She wanted to say, "Stop that and put 
it back down," but she was too late. At the first sound from her 
Urza leapt on his little brother.
    "Put it down!" snapped the sandy-haired boy. "It might be 
dangerous!"
    "Its not dangerous," snarled his darker-haired brother. "If 
it was dangerous, she'd keep it someplace where we couldn't touch 
it!"
    "Then its fragile!" shouted Urza. "You'll break it!"
    "If I break it, it'll be because you made me!" replied 
Mishra. The pair formed a tight knot, the su-chi skull between 
them.
    "Give!" shouted Urza.
    "No!" responded Mishra.
    "Enough!" roared Tocasia, thundering both hands on top of the 
table. At once both boys were on their feet again, and the skull 
was rocking gently against the pearl inlay where it had been a 
minute before.
    The scholar scowled at the boys. "You two talk a good game 
and seem to have enough energy to burn. Good enough. You're going 
to spend the rest of the month learning from the ground up. 
You'll start by working in the kitchen. Alongside Richlau, so I 
strongly recommend you figure out how to deal with him. If I have 
any more trouble with the pair of you, I'll send you back with 
Bly." She glared at them. "Do I make myself clear?"
    As one, both boys nodded.
    "Good." Tocasia settled her thin frame in the chair. "Now 
report to the mess tent and start peeling tubers. They're serving 
a big feast tonight for Bly's men. I trust there will be no more 
problems?"
    Both boys nodded in unison again. Tocasia waved them out, and 
they vanished from her tarp, leaving trails of dust behind them 
as they scampered down the hillside.
    Despite herself Tocasia smiled. They were so close in age, 
but their birth order set their attitudes. Urza was ten yet 
carried himself as if he were much older and felt responsible for 
his younger brother. Mishra was nearly ten but acted younger and 
was more exuberant. He would probably always be willing to try 
new things, thought Tocasia, because big brother would be there 
to watch out for him.
    Still, she mused, a word to Richlau would probably be wise. 
Let him know she would not appreciate hearing he was making life 
difficult for the two newest and youngest students. That might 
create more hard feelings if the "new children" were known to be 
favorites, but that was a small price, and a temporary one. At 
the end of this season, this batch of young nobles would head 
back to Penregon and a new group would take their place. The 
brothers should be capable of handling themselves by then, she 
thought, or they would be gone.
    Tocasia's smile died as she picked up the metallic skull of 
the su-chi. She examined it carefully to see if the boys had 
damaged it further in their grappling. Somehow, she saw, their 
fight had jostled the two halves of the power crystal together. 
The longitudinal crack had vanished, and the crystal now was a 
solid piece. More interesting, there was a flicker of light deep 
within the crystal, a weak glow but one that indicated that the 
crystal still held some of its energy.
    Tocasia stared at the skull and its crystalline brain until 
Loran came to fetch her for dinner with the wagon master's men 
and her own students. But her eyes and her thoughts strayed often 
during the meal to the two boys who had so recently arrived in 
the camp.
    
                           Chapter 2
                          ORNITHOPTER

    Tocasia did not send the boys back with Bly that trip, or for 
any other trip to Penregon for the next six summers. Urza came to 
terms with Richlau, and Mishra was more careful about sitting on 
others' bunks. Loran went back to Penregon and stayed away for 
five years. Bly wore out the new oxen and tried to buy one of 
Tocasia's onulets, to no avail. Tocasia continued to dig and to 
bring up the two boys put into her care.
    At first Tocasia thought of Urza and Mishra as two parts of a 
single entity. Her inclination was reinforced by the way the two 
looked at each other before answering a question. Yet they were 
very different people, and the desert brought out different parts 
of their personalities.
    Urza became more studious, devouring every scrap of 
information that Tocasia had gathered on the Thran. He pored over 
the rosters of artifacts from previous seasons and even the scrap 
heaps of material that had been discarded. In this fashion he 
found several pieces that belonged with later discoveries but had 
been discarded at the time.
    Urza, Tocasia quickly discovered, was intrigued by the manner 
in which things worked. At twelve he took apart the front limbs 
of one of the onulets, reassembling it only after Tocasia 
threatened dire consequences. He and Mishra rebuilt the beast 
overnight, and their impromptu redesign stopped the lurching 
problem the machine had previously experienced.
    The elder brother grew lean and wiry in the hot sun. His hair 
bleached to a straw-colored blond, and he now gathered it in a 
pony-tail across the back of his neck. His knowledge was 
encyclopedic and his insights keen.
    Mishra bloomed in the dry desert air as well. While Urza 
burrowed through the tattered scrolls and maps, Mishra learned to 
dig, to sift, and excavate. The younger brother spent more time 
out in the field than did his sibling. He climbed among the 
exposed rock faces and dry washes. Soon he could look at a 
proposed excavation site and hazard a guess on how deep the 
excavators would have to go to before striking the Thran level of 
artifacts. More often than not, his guess proved right.
    Tocasia noticed that Mishra spent more time with the other 
students than did his brother, and with Ahmahl's diggers as well. 
After supper, while Urza was hunched over a ligature of some 
skeletal artifact, Mishra was to be found at the diggers' camp, 
listening to the legends of the Fallaji peoples. There were tales 
of raids and heroes and desert genies; of great cities captured 
in bottles and hapless souls transformed into donkeys. Mishra 
learned of the Thran as the desert people knew them-a race of 
demigods who had used their artifacts to create wonderful, 
terrible cities.
    Tocasia suspected that the diggers let Mishra sample their 
nabiz, the powerful fermented wine spiced with cinnamon favored 
by the Fallaji, but she said nothing. It seemed good to her that 
Mishra had moved from beneath his brother's protective wing. 
Urza, for his part, seemed not to notice that his brother spent 
more time with the others, so wrapped up was the elder child in 
his studies.
    The work in the desert sun toughened Mishra. He was more 
muscular, the result of long hours at the dig sites, and his 
flesh had a deep, worker's tan. His dark hair trailed after him 
like a banner, ornately braided in the manner of the desert. He 
had wider shoulders and a stauncher frame than his elder brother 
and could now handle himself in any scrap without Urza's help.
    Both boys were tireless workers, and Tocasia saw why Bly had 
tried to keep them. But something more than their work bound them 
to her. Each of the brothers had an enthusiasm for his tasks that 
was contagious. Tocasia felt no need to talk to them as children; 
rather she spoke to them as trusted adults, and they returned her 
trust.
    Soon the pair were considered as vital and permanent a part 
of the encampment as Tocasia herself. Within two years, the young 
nobles arriving from Penregon were the same age as Urza and 
Mishra, and the brothers already knew the lay of the land. 
Remembering their own experiences, the pair always sought out the 
prospective bullies among the group and made it clear that no 
persecution of the smaller students would be permitted. Within 
another two years the brothers were considered the de facto 
leaders of the student contingent, allowing Tocasia more time for 
her own examination of artifacts and their power stones.
    In the fall of the second year word reached the camp via 
Bly's caravan that Urza and Mishra's father had passed on after a 
long illness. The word was in a terse note, quickly penned, from 
the boys' stepmother. The missive said nothing about an 
inheritance, and Tocasia suspected no mention would be ever be 
made.
    She gave Urza the news first. He was working beneath 
Tocasia's tarp, clearing the dust from a device found earlier 
that day, driven by a coiled spring. Tocasia suspected it was 
merely a clock mechanism, but the young man had found carvings 
along the length of the spring itself, carvings that seemed to 
have a relationship to known Thran glyphs. When she told him of 
his father, Urza set his tools down and stared at the inlaid 
pearl top for a long moment. He rubbed his eyes and thanked 
Tocasia for the information, then picked his tools up again, 
suddenly intent on the device.
    Mishra responded very differently. When Tocasia gave him the 
news he fled the dig site altogether, climbing up the side of the 
rocky tor above Tocasia's encampment. The old scholar thought to 
go after him, but Ahmahl counseled against it. Mishra needed to 
work out his feelings on his own, the Fallaji said. Still, after 
dinner Tocasia saw Urza climbing the outcropping, and the 
brothers sat up there a long time, watching the Glimmer Moon rise 
over the desert. Neither brother mentioned the incident 
afterward, and Tocasia wondered what they had said to each other 
on the side of that rocky tor.
    In the spring of the sixth year of the boys' arrival Loran 
returned, this time as an official representative of her house 
instead of as a mere student. She had grown as well and was now a 
highborn lady with (Bly informed Tocasia with a wink and an 
unsubtle nudge) a string of suitors desiring both her hand and 
her family's moneys. Officially, Loran was to survey the 
encampment for its recent accomplishments and to recommend if her 
family should increase their sponsorship of Tocasia's work. In 
reality that decision could have been made back in Penregon; a 
growing number of young leaders of the various families had spent 
at least one summer working for Tocasia, and fond memories now 
translated into hard currency. The Argivian Crown did not care 
for Tocasia's work, the archaeologist knew, but the Argivian 
Crown was weak and treated the matter as it treated everything it 
did not care for: it ignored the issue.
    Loran had made the long and difficult journey out to the 
encampment primarily to see Tocasia again, and Tocasia knew it. 
Most of the high manners and debutante softness disappeared by 
the end of the first evening, and by noon of the second day Loran 
was prowling alongside Tocasia as she moved from excavation to 
excavation.
    Tocasia had something to show Loran, a story for her to carry 
back to the other former students in the Argivian capital. There 
had been a sudden downpour the month before, a hard-hitting 
desert rain that had threatened several of the dig sites. Rahud, 
one of Ahmahl's diggers, had heard from a nomadic family member 
that the rain had hit even harder farther to the north, and 
flooded out an old dry wash, revealing what looked like a Thran 
machine. Rahud told Mishra, Mishra reported to Tocasia, and 
within a day the group had mounted a small expedition north.
    It was a device they found, and one definitely of Thran 
creation. It looked at first like some sort of sailing craft, an 
impossibility in the desert. Long poles of ancient candlewood 
jutted from the exposed bank, to which had been attached what 
looked like sail rigging. Urza examined it and then, to Tocasia's 
amazement, confidently declared it to be a flying craft, 
something unseen in Terisiare's skies save only in the oldest of 
stories.
    For the next week the camp activity moved to the new site, 
seeking to pry loose the birdlike flying machine and haul it back 
to the main encampment. The diggers had to work quickly to avoid 
the attention of less-friendly desert Fallaji as well as the 
predatory sand-colored rocs. The students were pressed into duty 
hauling dirt and clearing debris, and Urza and Mishra camped on 
the site to guard the new find.
    It took only a few days to pry the device free of the 
surrounding soil and rock, and Urza was proven right. What 
Tocasia had thought of as sails were in fact wings. The 
construction did seem fashioned like a bird, and Tocasia dubbed 
it an ornithopter. Both wings were intact, though the tail 
assembly had been crushed. A small maze of wires and tubes at the 
heart of the craft cradled a now-shattered power stone.
    They got the ornithopter back to the camp two days before 
Loran's arrival, and Tocasia was glad to see the look on the 
young noblewoman's face when she saw the tattered remains. To any 
other Argivian it was a mess of fractured poles, smashed metal, 
and scraps of ancient fabric, but to any former student of 
Tocasia it was a treasure. To see such a large device after 
spending a summer trying to pry fragments out of the rock with a 
small brush made the archaeologist and her students indescribably 
happy.
    Tocasia also noticed that with the passage of time Loran had 
grown more sure of herself. She no longer hesitated to speak. Nor 
did she spend all her time with her old mentor. For the first few 
days she hovered over Urza, who had removed the crystal housing 
from the ornithopter and was busy disassembling and cleaning the 
small device. Then, without any warning, she suddenly switched 
her time and attention to Mishra, who was rebuilding the larger 
framework of the craft itself. Tocasia did not know what, if 
anything, had happened to make Loran change her interest; neither 
young man ever mentioned her in the scholar's presence.
    The young woman returned to Penregon with promises of support 
for Tocasia and an order for light sailcloth, and the brothers 
returned to their work. Mishra had rebuilt the ornithopter's 
framework, but the nature of the tail assembly defied him. Almost 
by unspoken agreement, Urza took over the reconstruction of the 
glider, discovering what wires went where and how they would 
function in flight. It was Urza who discovered that the sail-like 
wings had to be ribbed with thin shoots of candlewood in order to 
maintain their form in flight. For his part Mishra confirmed that 
by bringing slender bows of snapped wing ribs back from the dig 
along with strands of frayed wire. Urza saw that the wire was 
better for controlling the shape of the wings than mere rope, and 
another order was placed with Bly. The two young men spent hours 
together poring over the design, trying to determine how the tail 
assembly would function.
    In all it took eight months for the ornithopter to be 
rebuilt. The key was the box of wires and disks that served as 
the craft's engine. Urza, Mishra, and even Tocasia did not know 
exactly how the small engine could power the large ornithopter; 
they only knew that it did. Urza used the small, weak crystal 
that had belonged to the su-chi to power the device.
    It was the last day of the year, Mishra's birthday, when the 
craft was ready at last. The day was surprisingly warm, and a 
soft wind blew from the desert. There was some debate over who 
would get the honor-and the danger-of the first test flight.
    "I should do it," said Urza. "After all, I understand the 
workings of the power crystal cradle."
    "I should do it," countered Mishra. "The flight levers 
controlling the wings are mulish, and they need a strong hand to 
keep them in line."
    "I'm lighter," said Urza.
    "I'm stronger," snapped Mishra.
    "I am capable of holding the levers in place," said Urza.
    "And I understand the power crystals as well as you do," 
added Mishra quickly.
    "I am the elder," said Urza smugly.
    "And it's my birthday!" shouted Mishra, the blood rising to 
his face. "So we are equal."
    Tocasia looked at the two young men and let out a deep sigh. 
Such disagreements were rare but were severe enough to trouble 
her. At last she said, "If you cannot decide, then I will have to 
risk my ancient bones in this device."
    The two young men stared at Tocasia, then looked at each 
other. Each simultaneously pointed to the other and said, "He 
should fly it."
    In the end they flipped a coin. Urza won, and Mishra did a 
passable job of containing his disappointment as the last of the 
preparations were made. A wide level place had been cleared 
outside the stockade gates for the craft. The blond young man 
climbed into the housing at the front of the ornithopter and 
slowly depressed the two main levers, engaging the arcane crystal 
within the maze of gears and wheels that he had lovingly rebuilt 
over the past months. The entire craft trembled as the last of 
the slack in the wires was taken up and the wings accordioned out 
in a pair of great sails.
    The wings beat downward: once, twice, and then a third time. 
The ornithopter gave a small hop on the third beat, and Tocasia 
saw Mishra start as well. The younger boy said nothing; his eyes 
seemed transfixed by the sight, and his hands were clenched. 
Tocasia wondered if he was worried for his brother or worried 
that his brother would damage the machine before he had a chance 
to try it.
    The device took another short hop, then another, larger leap. 
Dust from the heavy beating wings blew in all directions, and the 
students retreated, covering their eyes and mouths from the 
swirling sand. One last leap, and this time the ornithopter did 
not come back down.
    It was aloft, its wings straining against the warm air. 
Tocasia and the other students could hear the wires sing from the 
strain as the small craft, like a fledgling roc leaving the nest, 
leapt into the air. The ornithopter climbed into the sky, and 
there was a sharp clatter as Urza threw the locking mechanism 
into place, fixing the wings into a solid, gliding surface.
    Urza was aloft for ten minutes. He circled the encampment 
twice, and there was a tense second when the craft suddenly 
dropped ten feet, but it quickly climbed again. Urza circled one 
last time, then set the ornithopter back down on the pad of level 
sand. The wings un-locked and beat as he landed. The candlewood 
supports groaned but held the craft upright.
    Urza climbed out. "Hit some colder air," he said briefly to 
Tocasia. "Apparently that has some effect on its ability to keep 
aloft."
    "Let me try," said Mishra.
    Urza did not move away from the device. "We should check all 
the couplings for wear," he observed, still speaking to Tocasia, 
"And the struts for fractures. Not to mention the integrity of 
the power crystal."
    Mishra looked at Tocasia, his face clouded.
    "Urza," said Tocasia softly, "let your brother use the 
ornithopter."
    Urza opened his mouth to argue, then looked at his brother 
and silently stepped aside. Mishra piled into the flying device.
    Urza leaned into the housing. "The right lever sticks, so 
you'll have to muscle it," he said.
    Mishra only grinned and shouted, "Stand away!" He flung both 
levers into place, engaging the wings.
    Urza backpedaled quickly out of the way of the huge, beating 
wings. Whatever sand had not been chased away before now was spun 
in a cyclone of wind.
    The ornithopter went almost straight up in a single bounce. 
The entire encampment could hear the sharp creaking of the 
candlewood struts and the high-pitched whine of the wires passing 
through metal loops and pulleys. Urza grimaced as if the sound 
physically pained him.
    "It would have been better had we waited to check out the 
craft before flying it again," he said to Tocasia through gritted 
teeth.
    "Better, but not wiser," returned the old scholar.
    Mishra climbed a hundred feet, locked the wings, then forced 
the craft into a swooping dive over the encampment. Sheep and 
goats in their pens below let out frightened bleats as the 
ornithopter passed only a few feet above them. Mishra pulled back 
on the levers and reengaged the wings, and the craft climbed 
again.
    "Do you think the craft needs a lighter pilot, now?" said 
Tocasia.
    Urza shrugged. "Actually I think there is enough pull in the 
wings to take three or four people aloft at once if we expand the 
housing."
    "So the argument that you should have flown it because you 
were lighter was disproved," pressed the old scholar, smiling as 
she spoke.
    Urza winced but said nothing.
    Mishra circled the encampment twice as Urza had before. 
Tocasia imagined that the lad was searching for the same spot of 
cold air so he could hiccough the craft as had his brother. She 
did notice that while Urza had concentrated on keeping the craft 
level, Mishra continually swooped and dove, banking in one 
direction, then the other.
    Then Mishra flew over the camp once more and headed the craft 
westward into the deep desert.
    The form of the ornithopter became a blur, then a speck on 
the horizon. Tocasia and Urza looked at each other.
    "Perhaps one of the steering wires broke," offered Tocasia.
    "Or the little fool wanted to see how far he could go," Urza 
grumbled, rushing for the rocky tor behind them to get a better 
view.
    Urza had made it only halfway up the hill when the sound of 
wings cutting through the warm air heralded Mishra's return. The 
younger brother circled the camp twice and then landed just 
beyond the stockade gates. By the time Mishra had touched down 
Urza was waiting, his face as stern as stone.
    "What did you think you were doing?" he shouted as Mishra 
climbed out of the housing. "Bad enough that you probably over-
stressed the pulleys with your diving about! But to fly out of 
sight of the camp! You might have been attacked by rocs. If you 
had crashed in the desert, we might not have found you!"
    Mishra did not seem to be listening. Instead he said, "I saw 
the drawings. Didn't you?"
    Urza was brought up short and looked at his brother, puzzled.
    The dark-haired brother turned to Tocasia. "Out in the 
desert, there are drawings. Mounds of dark earth against the 
lighter surrounding sand. We've passed them before on foot but 
never noticed. But from above, you can see that they're pictures! 
There are dragons, genies, rocs-even minotaurs." He turned to his 
brother. "You saw them, didn't you?"
    Urza blinked at his brother. Then, more cautiously, he 
replied, "I was more worried about the performance of the craft."
    Mishra did not bother to listen. "They surround a large 
hillock. I'll bet if we checked that out, we'd find it's some 
sort of old Thran encampment."
    "It could be some Fallaji holy place," started Urza, but 
Mishra shook his head.
    "No." He was emphatic. "There's nothing in the old tales 
about Fallaji settlements in this immediate area. I think it's 
Thran, and I think we should investigate it."
    "We should investigate the damage the flights did to the 
ornithopter," said Urza, already prowling along the wings, 
pulling at the sailcloth and running his hands along the struts.
    Tocasia spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed both 
brothers. "We should celebrate," she said. "There will be time 
enough to do everything else in the morning."
    That night students and diggers built a great bonfire in the 
camp and gathered around the rising flames. There was an air of 
excitement among the students. The young nobles had new tales to 
take back to Argive. They had been present when Urza took the 
first flight and when Mishra found the great drawings in the 
desert. After long months of backbreaking work in shallow 
trenches and detailed cleaning of long-dead bits of metal, here 
at last was something to be proud of. There were songs, and the 
nabiz flowed. Rahud tried to teach several of the noble boys a 
traditional Fallaji dance. The boys had no concept of the dance's 
rhythm, but since it involved waving pointed sticks they joined 
in with the spirit of adventure. Mishra told and retold the story 
of his flight, and Tocasia knew that every young man and woman in 
the encampment would be clamoring for their opportunity to fly in 
the near future.
    Urza remained at the edge of the campfire, neither dancing, 
nor drinking, and nor talking.
    Tocasia walked over to him. "You are enjoying yourself?"
    "Well enough," replied the youth. "But I think we should 
check the rigging for any wear and tear. And if you want to put a 
larger housing-"
    "Tomorrow," said the old woman. "You are young enough for a 
lot of tomorrows. Enjoy yourself this evening."
    "I enjoy working on the devices," said Urza, watching his 
brother across the fire pit. The younger boy was surrounded by 
students as well as a few of the diggers. It seemed to Tocasia 
that his story grew longer and more exciting with each telling.
    "There are other enjoyments," said Tocasia, following Urza's 
gaze. "Your brother seems to have discovered that."
    The two were silent in the flickering firelight for a moment. 
Then Urza said, "I had nothing against Mishra taking his flight."
    "I never said you did," returned Tocasia.
    "It's just that there is stress on any object that is put to 
the test for the first time," continued the older brother. "We 
should have done a full check before letting him go aloft."
    "Of course," said Tocasia in a level tone.
    "His own recklessness aside, he could have been hurt," said 
Urza.
    "Yes." Tocasia paused. "But tell that to a young man who 
wants to be his brother's equal."
    "I was only being prudent."
    "And would you have been so prudent if you had lost the 
toss?" asked Tocasia.
    Urza did not answer but stood watching his brother across the 
flames.
    
                           Chapter 3
                            KOILOS

    Mishra was correct: there were drawings in the sand of the 
deeper desert to the west of their encampment. They were large 
figures made from raised mounds of dry earth, darker than their 
surroundings, and best visible from the air. Tocasia had 
conducted earlier expeditions in that very area before settling 
on the present site of the encampment but never guessed their 
true nature.
    The drawings were an odd mixture. There were humanoid figures 
of every type, any one of which might be the representation of a 
Thran. There were also all manner of animals: deer, elephants, 
and camels. There was an odd collection of geometric symbols-
curves, spirals, and sharp angles that crossed and recrossed the 
gathered figures, bisecting some, leaving others untouched. 
Doodles, thought Tocasia, created by a race of desert titans.
    The drawings were of Thran origins, of course, as Mishra had 
guessed. They were arrayed around a single location, a large 
mound. This proved to be a rich field of artifacts, including an 
almost complete su-chi skeleton that finally fulfilled Tocasia's 
dream of putting together one of the enigmatic beasts. There were 
also the remains of several ornithopters. Yet the discovery of 
the su-chi and ornithopters was secondary to the rich trove of 
power crystals found in the central mound. Many of the crystals 
were cracked or expired, but there were among the dross more than 
enough operational remains: vibrant, lambent jewels that 
glittered with a rainbow of sparks and patterns within. There 
were more than enough of the jewels for Tocasia to keep for her 
own work, with sufficient surplus to send to other scholars and 
various noble supporters in the capital of Penregon. This in turn 
supplied enough interest from the nobility to allow her to open a 
second permanent camp at the site of Mishra's find.
    The discovery of the drawings in the deserts was made 
possible by airborne observation. The same method revealed 
similar drawing fields, though none as large or intact as the 
first. An arc of them extended into the desert in a broad sweep 
outward from the Kher Ridges. Some of the drawings had figures of 
recognizable races, while others did not. All contained a 
stylized pattern of curves and zigzagged lines around a central 
mound containing wrecked artifacts and power stones. During the 
next two years researchers located almost twenty such mounds.
    Still the big questions eluded Tocasia and the brothers. No 
one found any skeletal remains of the Thran themselves, nor any 
art. The archaeologist discovered nothing of their language more 
than a few fragments that seemed little more than labels and an 
obvious set of numerical symbols. At dinner the scholar, the two 
brothers, and some of the elder students were accustomed to 
discuss the Thran's possible nature.
    "They had to be human," said Urza in the course of one such 
talk. "Everything we have found is capable of being used by 
human-sized individuals. They were probably a successful branch 
of the early Fallaji people that dominated the others through 
their advanced science. The surviving Fallaji of today turned 
their enterprising brethren into godlike beings."
    "The fact that we're comfortable with their tools doesn't 
mean anything," disagreed Mishra. "Dwarves or elves or orcs could 
have used these items. Or minotaurs."
    "Minotaurs are too big," said Urza. "Their hands would be too 
large to hold most of the devices."
    "Minotaurs could be in charge, with humans doing the labor," 
Mishra returned. Tocasia noted that the younger brother refused 
to concede to his sibling even the smallest point. "Imagine," he 
continued. "Minotaurs ruling the Thran nation, and humans as an 
underclass. Like among the orcs-the big ones are on top, and the 
little goblins do all the hard work."
    "We've found no minotaur remains, Brother," said Urza coolly.
    "We've found no human remains, either, Brother," Mishra shot 
back, raising his glass of nabiz in a mock toast to his own 
logic.
    Tocasia leaned back in her chair (recently arrived from the 
capital-a comfortable, cushioned affair) and let the two brothers 
spar. This was an old argument, revisited at least once a month. 
It always ended the same way: in an admission that they did not 
know enough. That confession always seemed to frustrate both of 
the young men.
    Both of the brothers had changed over the years of discovery. 
Urza was leaner than ever, though he finally had a good set of 
shoulders. His face was smooth, and he prided himself on not 
losing his temper as he had when he was a child. Mishra, for his 
part, was as impulsive as he had been the day of that first 
fight. His most obvious change was a sparse dark beard that 
framed his smiling mouth.
    The older students at the table watched the argument as well 
but did not get involved. Urza and Mishra were older than most of 
the students now, and in another few years they would be thought 
of as adults in their own right. The noble students had learned 
early that voicing a contrary opinion when the two were fighting 
like this was a sure way to turn both young men against the 
interloper.
    Tocasia was proud of the boys and their achievements, and in 
turn they were devoted to her. But again and again they returned 
to this single argument and could not move beyond it. They still 
had not learned the identity of the Thran.
    As the young men's voices rose higher, Tocasia leaned 
forward, hoping to turn the brothers to a new tack.
    "Why haven't we?" she interrupted.
    Both young men blinked at the older scholar as she repeated, 
"Why haven't we found any remains-human or otherwise?"
    "Scavengers," said Mishra immediately. Urza made a rude 
noise.
    "Then why haven't we found any scavenger remains?" he asked 
scornfully. "There are no dead creatures of any type among the 
wreckage. There should be some, even by accident."
    "And you have a theory, Brother?" asked Mishra.
    "Plague," said Urza calmly. "Something swept through that not 
only killed the Thran but destroyed their remains as well. That 
also explains why the wreckage is so widely scattered."
    Mishra shook his head. "Not plague. War. Plague wouldn't 
explain why there is no art. War would. The victors burned what 
could burn: paintings, books, bodies. Then they destroyed the 
rest. We have found ash pits among the various sites."
    "Those are the result of manufacture, not battle," observed 
Urza. "And if you're right, what became of the victors?"
    "They became the scavengers," retorted Mishra triumphantly, 
setting down his glass. "That's what it has to be. A slave race 
of humans that destroyed the minotaur masters, then fell apart 
itself without the minotaur science to support them."
    Urza chuckled. "A perfect argument. Each point uses as proof 
another questionable point, which eventually requires you to 
believe what you are trying to prove in the first place. So, 
Brother, why didn't these scavenger-survivors create any art 
after the war?"
    Mishra frowned slightly, considering. "They hadn't reached 
the point of gaining art," he said finally. "So there is no art 
from the period."
    "Except for the drawings in the desert," said Urza.
    "Except for the drawings in the desert," agreed his brother.
    "Except they aren't, you know," said Urza with a small smile.
    Mishra shook his head, looking puzzled. "Those are not 
drawings in the desert? Nothing natural could produce-"
    "Those are not art," interrupted Urza. "Oh, the humanish 
figures might be, or they may simply be a recognition of other 
races the Thran had met. But all the lines, angles, and 
squiggles, those are not art. They are instructions."
    Tocasia stared at Urza, intrigued as well. What had he 
discovered now?
    Urza rose from the table and left the tarp without saying 
another word. He returned with a large map of the area, which he 
shook open over the table. The other students moved quickly to 
save the remains of the broiled desert hare and cantaloupe that 
would otherwise be covered by the sheet. The map showed the arc 
of ruins they had uncovered.
    "Here are the locations of the various Thran outposts we have 
found," he said, jabbing a thin finger against the map. He 
followed from one to another, following the curve of wreckage. 
"At each location, the collection of odd angles and lines seems 
to point in one direction. From our second encampment, it points 
slightly west of due north."
    Producing a stylus, the blond student sketched a practiced 
line extending north. "In the next one, farther west, a majority 
of lines also indicate a particular direction, this one slightly 
more northerly than the first," he said, drawing another strong, 
arrow-straight line. "And the next shows yet another line, almost 
due north in direction; the next points north and slightly east; 
and so on for each of the discovered sites so far." The stylus 
scratched out a number of new lines.
    Urza stood back from the map so the others could see. The 
ruins were in an arc, as everyone knew, but the lines Urza had 
sketched all pointed to one particular location: the center of a 
circle, of which the ruined mounds were points along the 
perimeter.
    "The Thran were not an artistic people," said Urza, looking 
at his brother. "Why then leave art in the desert? The answer is, 
they did not. They left instructions. Instructions about where 
their larger settlements were. We saw the figures, which we 
recognized, and ignored the lines, which we did not. But the 
lines are more important."
    Mishra leaned over the map and scowled. "Lines on paper," he 
snorted. "You saw the arc and calculated the center, then looked 
for justification in the lines of the various mounds."
    "So you disagree with my argument, Brother?" asked Urza 
quietly.
    Mishra smiled, the whiteness of his teeth sharp against the 
surrounding beard. "But I love your argument, Brother! It's 
perfect. Each point uses as proof another questionable point, 
which eventually requires you to believe what you are trying to 
prove in the first place! The argument I love! It's your 
conclusions I think are wrong."
    Urza rolled up his map slowly. "I suppose that means you 
don't want to come along tomorrow when I go find out?"
    Mishra started, and even Tocasia looked sharply at the elder 
brother.
    "With your permission, Mistress, I would like to take an 
ornithopter out to check this out," Urza said. "Since my brother 
does not wish to accompany me, I can manage with one of the 
smaller craft-"
    "I didn't say I wouldn't go," interrupted Mishra sharply. "In 
fact, I think I should go along, if only to keep you from seeing 
ruins that are not there."
    Urza nodded with a determined smile. Then he ducked from 
beneath the tarp and strode into the growing dusk. "I have plans 
to make then," he called over his shoulder. "Evening, all!"
    In Urza's wake the dinner table was silent. None of the other 
students wanted to comment on Urza's theory, and Tocasia needed 
time to digest what the older brother had said.
    Tentatively, the conversation returned to more mundane 
matters. One student ventured that his area of the dig was 
producing some interesting disks marked with Thran numerals. 
Another mentioned that his work was being delayed by a junior 
student that declared every uprooted rock to be some artifact of 
the ancient race. That brought a small laugh from the others and 
from Tocasia a tale of one student, a few years before, who 
thought that they should dig on mountaintops because if she were 
one of the Thran, that's where she'd leave the most valuable 
items.
    Mishra sat quietly just beyond the firelight and stroked his 
stubbled beard. After a few minutes he excused himself as well 
and left the table. He did not head for the quarters he shared 
with Urza, but rather turned down toward where the Fallaji 
diggers made their camp. Tocasia noticed that the younger brother 
had a worried look on his face, but at the time she paid it 
little mind.
    That evening, after the dishes had been cleared, Tocasia 
worked on a su-chi leg assembly at her table. The design that 
they had discovered in the almost complete specimen was different 
than either Urza or she had anticipated. It was almost, she 
thought, as if the legs were mounted backward, the knees pointing 
toward the rear. Was this a design choice of the Thran, she 
wondered, or was this a model of their real appearance?
    A shadow appeared at the entrance of the tarp, and she looked 
up suddenly as Ahmahl entered. Old Ahmahl as he was known now, 
she reminded herself; his hair had turned gray in rivulets along 
either side of his face. Lately he had been complaining that his 
age was finally catching up with him. Tocasia knew he was a 
grandfather, and someday soon he would leave the encampment. 
Tocasia would miss him, for he represented all she felt was 
admirable among the Fallaji people. He was direct, forthright, 
and honest.
    Now, from the stern look on his face, Tocasia got the feeling 
she was about get a messy dose of the last quality.
    "I hear your young men are flying into the mountains on the 
morrow," he said, his desert accent still thick after all these 
years among the Argivians.
    "How did ..." Tocasia started, then realized where Ahmahl got 
his information. Mishra would have asked him about the ring of 
ruins and the center point of the arc that Urza had located. And 
that news had obviously disturbed the elder Fallaji.
    She nodded and motioned toward a camp chair. The old leader 
of the diggers sat himself carefully down upon it, as if either 
he or the chair would break from the experience.
    "Urza has some ideas about finding the wreckage of a large 
Thran settlement there."
    Old Ahmahl looked at the worn, dusty carpeting beneath his 
feet. "I do not think it is a good idea. The Fallaji would frown 
on it."
    Tocasia knit her brow. Ahmahl and his diggers had never 
expressed the idea of taboo land before. Indeed, in most of the 
tribal settlements she had visited the inhabitants were 
exceedingly proud to show off, if not actively trade, the Thran 
artifacts they had discovered.
    "Not all the Fallaji," Ahmal continued. He looked up quickly 
at her, as if he could read her thoughts in her eyes. "Most of us 
are modern enough, are wise enough to know there is nothing in 
the mountains that is not in the desert. But there are those who 
are concerned about the spirits of the Thran. About their heart. 
It is said that their secret heart lies in the mountains, and we 
Fallaji stay well clear of them."
    "Ahmahl," said Tocasia gently, "you have never mentioned 
anything like this before nor complained about our previous 
digs."
    "That is because it is in the desert, and the desert belongs 
to all who can endure her," said Ahmahl. "The Fallaji claim all 
this land but are willing to share it with others who respect it. 
The high mountains, however, the inner mountains themselves, are 
dangerous, and not only for the great ruq-birds found there. We 
claim them as Fallaji territory, but we do not visit them. Nor do 
we recommend others do so."
    Argive claims those mountains as well, thought Tocasia, 
though she did not voice that opinion. Most of the Argivians were 
coastal people to begin with, and the broad expanses claimed by 
the noble factions were just lines on a map.
    "If we are violating some taboo-" she began. Ahmahl held up a 
hand. "Not a taboo exactly, Mistress. A desire. A concern. Most 
of the diggers do not believe the stories of their grandmothers, 
but some do, and they may make things difficult. Hajar, my own 
assistant, believes in genies, ghouls, and the great dragons, the 
mak fawas, that haunt the night."
    "Ahmahl," said Tocasia, smiling slightly, "you know that 
standing in either brother's way when he has determined to do 
something is like trying to turn aside the desert wind. They will 
go looking. And now that you have brought me your concern, I will 
go with them. My question for you is, should we find something 
and need to investigate further, will you come along as well to 
aid us?"
    Old Ahmahl sat bolt upright, surprised. Tocasia had phrased 
the question just right-short of an insulting accusation, but 
direct enough to demand an answer. He sputtered for a moment, 
then turned stern again.
    "I will be wherever you need me to be," he said coldly. "I 
have learned more about the ancient days from working with you 
than I would in a lifetime of roaming the desert. We have moved 
too much earth, you and I, for us to part ways over a 
grandmother's story."
    Tocasia allowed herself a small grin, then turned a stem face 
to the old man. "Go, then, and find out among your diggers who 
believes in grandmothers' stories and who does not. Discover who 
would go to a dig site in the mountains and who would remain. Do 
not challenge their pride or their courage, for then even those 
who think it sacrilege would come along, and feel the worse for 
it. I do not know if we will find anything, but if we do we will 
investigate it."
    Ahmahl nodded and rose to his feet. "I did not think you 
would shy away from any challenge, Tocasia. You are like a man in 
that regard."
    Tocasia rose as well in respect. "I did not think you would 
hide any information I needed to know from me. Thank you."
    Ahmahl bowed and was gone. Tocasia shook her head as she 
watched his shadow join the others of the early evening. You are 
like a man, he had said, and meant it as a compliment. Typical 
desert dweller, after all these years. Yet he was still willing 
to defy old stories and give her a warning.
    Tocasia shook her head again and returned to intricacies of 
the su-chi's leg mechanisms.

                          * * * * *

    They left the next morning, packing enough rations for a day 
and a half's flight out and back. Both of the young men accepted 
Tocasia's companionship without comment, and neither suggested 
that she not come along. She left Kantar-one of the more 
promising older students of that season-in charge while she was 
gone and told him not to argue with Ahmahl or Hajar and to defer 
any disputes or major decisions until they returned.
    The ornithopter was the original one they had rebuilt years 
ago. Now the forward housing was enclosed by a larger wooden 
frame containing more than enough room for the three explorers 
and their supplies. The control levers remained in the middle of 
the housing, so either young man could handle them. The power of 
the stone was nearly inexhaustible, but human flesh was 
otherwise. After about four hours of flight they would have to 
change operators.
    From the ground the borders of the Great Desert were a low 
undulating waste of blown dust marred with frequent rocky 
outcrop-pings. The region was barren, claimed by the coastal 
states with intermittent and vague borders far inland. The 
Fallaji also claimed the wastes, but they enforced that title 
only when seeking to shake down a few valuables from merchants 
and explorers in the desert. It seemed an inhospitable and barren 
world.
    From aloft it was transformed. The rocky spires became 
sentinels, marking the passage of time as their shadows swept 
beneath them.
    The deep and uncrossable canyons turned into rainbows of 
colored granite and sandstone. The dry lakes were transformed 
into glittering patches of salt. The desert wind plucked at the 
ornithopter's control wires as they sailed effortlessly 
northward.
    With Urza at the controls, they flew straight across the sky, 
fixed on the course that he had set. Occasionally he called out 
to Mishra to check the coordinates. Inevitably, after checking 
with map and compass, and taking a reading on the sun, the 
younger brother declared all was well. Each time Urza nodded, as 
if he would be surprised by any other result.
    When Mishra was piloting, they roamed more, still keeping to 
the general north and slightly-west direction but wandering back 
and forth along that line. If an interesting formation caught 
Mishra's eye, he steered toward it until Urza warned him they 
were off course. Then the younger brother sighed and brought the 
prow of the craft back on track. Occasionally they had to 
reengage the wings to regain lost altitude. Then Urza would check 
three times to make sure of their position.
    Once they passed over another series of lines. These held no 
humanoid figures, only spirals and angles juxtaposed against one 
another. Mishra circled the site as the older brother sketched, 
then nodded in confirmation. The angles pointed in the direction 
they should travel.
    At the end of the first day they set down on a particularly 
high mesa. Far from the protection of the stockade and its 
grapeshot catapults, they camped without a fire and slept within 
the ornithopter's housing. Though Tocasia had not had to man the 
control levers during the flight, she was worn by the continual 
motion. Her head ached from the tinny rush of the wind over the 
wires. She slept without dreams that evening and awoke stiff from 
the cramped quarters. The young men were already outside, Urza 
stretching to elongate his back, Mishra bending at the knees. 
After a cold breakfast they set out again.
    The Thran center, what Ahmahl had referred to as its "secret 
heart," could not be missed from the air, though it would not be 
reached easily from the ground. It was at the end of a long, 
winding canyon leading west, the trail of some ancient long-dead 
river that had split the low mesa and cradled the ruins.
    And ruins they were-long processions of shattered building 
foundations and tumbled walls. Some of the ruins resembled manor 
houses from Argive. Others were akin to the onion-domed temples 
of distant
    Tomakul. Still others resembled nothing the three 
investigators had seen before: a framework of metal that 
supported nothing at all, a pile of discarded plates, each the 
size of a man, with serrated edges, or a tangle of what looked 
like blue metallic worms. Along the far canyon wall was what 
looked like a nest of broken bronze-colored spiders. The entire 
cavalcade of wreckage was buried beneath the sands carried out of 
the desert to the west.
    "Do you doubt my calculations now, Brother?" said Urza with a 
smile.
    "Only a fool would doubt his own eyes. Well done, Brother," 
said Mishra, his grin even wider.
    "The Thran's secret heart," murmured Tocasia. Mishra flinched 
slightly at the phrase and his smile faded, but Urza only nodded.
    "The old Argivian word for secret was koilos," said Urza. 
"Let that be the name of this hidden land. Circle around it, 
Brother. We can best see the lay of the land from up here."
    Mishra nodded and was just pulling on the controls when 
suddenly a shadow passed over the ornithopter housing. It could 
have been a cloud but for the fact that the desert sky was clear.
    Tocasia knew what it meant. She shouted at the same moment 
that Mishra pitched the flying craft into a steep, banking dive. 
Urza was taken by surprise and let out a curse as he was flung 
against the inner side of the craft's housing.
    The roc dove through the space that moments ago had been 
occupied by the ornithopter. The bird was a huge representative 
of its race, a species reputed in old legends to snatch elephants 
from the plains for supper. Nearly three times the size of the 
ornithopter, its passage almost flipped the craft.
    The roc recovered as soon as it had passed, gaining altitude 
quickly to make another dive at the craft.
    "Why is it attacking?" shouted Urza.
    "We're large, and we're moving!" replied Tocasia, screaming 
above the wind. "It probably thinks we're another roc."
    Mishra cursed and pulled both levers back as far as they 
would go. "I don't think we can get above it! It's too fast for 
us!"
    The roc was already over them again, making another dive. 
Mishra reengaged the wings and jinked the craft to the right, but 
the roc was ready for the maneuver. It shifted slightly; there 
was a horrendous rip along the right side, and Tocasia saw that 
one of the wing struts had been ripped loose and was now 
fluttering in the wind. Better than the entire wing missing, 
thought Tocasia, but enough to cripple them.
    "We can't outfly it!" yelled Mishra. "I'm going to put us 
down."
    "Over there!" shouted Urza, pointing to the nest of broken 
metal spiders. "I think there's a hole in the cliff wall."
    "Won't make it!" shouted Mishra, pulling first one lever, 
then the other, trying to shake the roc off their tail.
    "That's because you're flying like a bird!" snapped Urza, 
shoving his brother aside and grabbing the control levers 
himself. "Fly it like a machine and we'll make it."
    Under Urza's control, the craft no longer zigzagged across 
the sky but instead rocketed forward, swooping low over the 
wrecked landscape of Koilos. The roc, its simple avian brain 
expecting the craft to act like another flier, expected it to 
dodge or to turn. The bird hesitated before pursuing. Its 
indecision was all the time that the three needed.
    Urza charged the cliff wall. Mishra shouted in panic. Tocasia 
suddenly remembered a prayer she had learned as a child back in 
temple school when temples were still fashionable in Argive. She 
muttered the words softly as the far wall closed on them.
    Suddenly Urza banked, bringing the prow of the craft up. He 
unlocked the mechanism that held the wings in position, and they 
automatically began to fold. Without the support, the craft 
plummeted. Again, the roc passed through empty space that moments 
ago had housed the flier. Urza dropped about fifty feet, then 
reengaged the wing locks. The wings spread out immediately, 
catching the desert air and slowing their fall. Still, they 
landed with an unceremonious bump on the sand. Had they landed on 
rock, Tocasia had no doubt they would have broken the supporting 
struts, not to mention a few bones.
    Urza unlatched the wing locks, and the wings folded inward 
again, the damaged strut sticking out at an odd angle. Tocasia 
was already at the hatch, scanning the skies.
    "It'll be back," she said, scanning the empty heavens. "Let's 
not be here when it comes."
    "Shouldn't take off again immediately anyway," said Urza. "It 
might be waiting. Besides, we need to get the strut repaired. 
Let's make for that cavern entrance. Are you all right, Brother?"
    "You should care!" said Mishra hotly as Tocasia turned at the 
hatch, afraid the young man had been hurt. "I knew what I was 
doing! You didn't need to shove yourself into things!"
    Urza blinked and scowled, his concern replaced with 
irritation. "You were playing its game, flying like another roc. 
Of course it could outfly you that way. We only lost it because I 
made for-"
    "Shelter now. Argument later," Tocasia broke in sharply. "And 
bring the torches and water. We might be here until dark."
    Neither brother replied, but neither argued with the old 
scholar. They clambered up the sandy bank behind her, breaking 
into a full-fledged run as the roc's shadow passed over them.
    Tocasia was at the entrance first. She spun and scanned the 
heavens. Above them, the roc circled the canyon of broken 
machinery and wrecked buildings.
    "We'll have to bring the catapults with us next time," she 
said.
    "Or figure out a way to mount them on an ornithopter," 
observed Mishra.
    "We're going to be here for a while," said Urza. "Should we 
see where this passage goes?"
    The cavern was an entranceway. The first ten feet or so were 
natural rock, but after that the sandstone gave way to smooth, 
polished granite. Tocasia ran her hands along the wall. It was 
constructed of separate blocks, invisible to the eye, detectable 
as individual stones only by touch. She whistled a low note. Even 
among the Thran ruins she had excavated, there was no workmanship 
this precise. Behind her, Mishra lit the candlewood torches. The 
guttering flames smoked but were better than no light at all.
    "It was fortunate you saw this opening," said Tocasia to 
Urza.
    "It was obvious," he returned, taking a torch from his 
brother. "The wreckage of the buildings indicated roads, all of 
which radiated from this spot. This is the center of the Thran's 
supposed 'secret heart.' "
    "The heart of the heart," said Tocasia.
    They spoke in whispers, as if their words might wake the long 
dead. Tocasia tried to raise her voice to a normal level, but the 
very emptiness of the space defeated her.
    Mishra examined the corridor before them. "No creatures live 
here. Look at the dust. No footprints but our own."
    Urza held up his torch, the light flaring from the walls. 
"And no bats, either. Nothing has been here for a long time."
    Both young men looked at Tocasia. "Right then," she said at 
last. "Forward. But stay together and stick to the main path."
    There was little worry, for the few openings to either side 
were mere alcoves, and the cavern ran straight back into the 
hillside itself. They passed several sets of stairs and one or 
two large chambers, but nothing that would indicate any 
occupants, recent or otherwise. Dead crystalline plates dotted 
the ceiling above them, reflecting the light of the torches but 
providing none of their own.
    The first alcoves were empty, but as they moved forward 
Tocasia noticed some were filled with the remains of su-chi 
constructs. These were rusted relics, little better than the ones 
they had pulled from the dig. Several were nothing more than 
lower torsos, the upper halves lost to time or, perhaps, to tomb 
robbers. Tocasia noticed with some satisfaction that the knees of 
the creatures did indeed bend backward. They had reached another 
staircase leading down into the darkness when they heard it-or 
rather, felt it. A deep throbbing came from within the 
surrounding stone, as if the earth were humming some unknowable 
ditty. Tocasia looked at the young men. They stared at each 
other, and the scholar was once again reminded of the silent 
communication they seemed to share. Then the brothers looked back 
at Tocasia and nodded. The three descended toward the noise.
    Ahead there was light. No more than a gray smudge against the 
blackness, it slowly refined itself, growing with each passing 
step. There were no more su-chi alcoves now, only straight walls 
leading toward the goal.
    They entered a chamber as large as any they had passed 
through. The walls were natural, but supported with ancient steel 
and pillars of the same closely set blocks that Tocasia had seen 
earlier. The walls were littered with machines. They were clearly 
of Thran design but with a difference. These appeared functional. 
Their cogs were greased and shining, their surfaces polished and 
mirrorlike in their finish. It was, Tocasia thought, as if the 
Thran had left only moments before.
    There were lights as well. Within this chamber the ceiling-
plates were alit with their own ambient glow. Small balls of 
radiance danced around some of the machinery, orbiting them like 
small, glowing moons. But this was all outdone by the large 
crystal in the center.
    It was a power stone, unmarred by age and unbroken by 
accident. Its facets were smooth and reflective, the edges sharp 
enough to cut the fabric of reality itself. It was about the size 
of two human fists. Yet it called to Tocasia's mind the image of 
two hearts, for it pulsed with its own rhythm. A rainbow of 
colors played across it as it throbbed with life.
    The power stone was on a low platform flanked by mirrors, 
which in turn were attached by wires to various machines around 
the perimeter. The power stone might be responsible for nothing 
more than the lights, the archaeologist noted, or it might be a 
fully operational machine with a greater purpose.
    Before the power stone's pedestal was a smooth bank of metal, 
shaped like an oversized, open book. Its pages were metal and 
glass, and the glass winked like an evil eye in the night. Never 
had Tocasia seen a device like this one. She realized this might 
have come at the end of the cycle of Thran development. Perhaps 
what they had been excavating so lovingly were nothing more than 
old scrapyards, where the ancient and unwanted remnants of the 
Thran's past were discarded.
    She stared at the crystal itself, while the two young men 
moved ahead of her, drawn by its incandescent radiance. They 
stood before the open metal book, dwarfed by its size and 
magnificence. Their voices rattled against the walls of the cave, 
rebounding and gaining strength from the subliminal hum that 
surrounded them.
    "It's beautiful," said Mishra. "Look how it glows."
    "It's intact," said Urza. "Think what we can learn."
    "These markings," said Mishra, spreading his hands out toward 
the metal book-glyphs. "They're so much like the Thran writings 
we've seen, but more detailed. More advanced."
    "Don't touch anything!" called Urza sharply, thrusting out 
his own hand to intercept his brother's. "We don't know what they 
do!"
    Tocasia could not tell which brother was responsible for what 
happened next. She could not tell which brother touched the 
particular glyph, or even if either did. Later, neither brother 
admitted to anything, and each accused the other of causing the 
disaster.
    All Tocasia could say was that as Urza reached out to stop 
his brother, the glow intensified, suddenly and hotly. There was 
an explosion, but one without sound, and the huge power stone, 
the heart of the heart of the secret heart, shattered in a 
blossom of light.
    
                           Chapter 4
                            VISIONS

    This is what Tocasia saw.
    The power stone at the center of the room suddenly began to 
glow hotter, to consume itself with its own radiance. It shone as 
if a piece of the sun itself had been detached and set down among 
them. Instinctively Tocasia flung her arms up in front of her to 
shield her eyes, but already the two brothers were nothing more 
than fuzzy silhouettes against the gem's radiance. She shouted 
out their names but her voice was swallowed by the explosion.
    There was an explosion, though its sound was in wavelengths 
that she could not hear. It resounded through the length of the 
caverns and rattled every bone in her body.
    There was pressure, as if a great hand was pressing down upon 
her, then pressing through her, leaving her standing.
    There was heat, as if she had suddenly passed through a 
furnace. Then the heat was gone as well.
    And finally there was a rush of air, from behind her, as if 
the world was straining to fill the gap of what had been lost. It 
was the force of the blow from behind, unanticipated and 
unexpected, that knocked her to her knees.
    She stumbled to her feet, her ancient joints complaining, her 
eyes still seared by the brilliance of the power stone's 
immolation. The stone was no longer on its pedestal, and the deep 
humming of the cavern no longer resounded through her bones.
    Tocasia blinked back the brilliance. Slowly her sight 
returned, first at the perimeter of her vision, then slowly 
returning to the center of her eyes. She blinked back a sheen of 
new-sprung tears, and with it the last bits of her blindness.
    The pedestal was empty. The power stone was gone.
    Both of the young men were on the floor, but already 
stirring. Neither had been hurt physically by the blast as far as 
she could tell, but they pulled themselves up like old men, 
careful not to shatter their own bones by rising.
    Then she noticed that the power stone was not gone. It had 
been split in two, and each of the brothers held half in his left 
hand.
    More of the lights came on in the cavern, and she heard the 
tramp of metal feet against stone.
    This is what Urza saw.
    He was reaching out to stop Mishra but was too late. There 
was a brilliant flash that consumed them both. His last clear 
vision was of his brother's face, his expression surprised, his 
beard surrounding an open mouth. Shouting a curse or a warning? 
Urza could not hear him, and suddenly he was surrounded by the 
whiteness of the blast.
    Then he was somewhere else.
    He was floating; flying over a landscape that he had never 
seen before. The earth beneath him was made of cables of corroded 
metal, crossed and recrossed against themselves until they formed 
a thick woven mat. Huge gears broke through the metal landscape, 
turning slowly and straining against the surrounding cables. 
Copper-colored snakes moved among the mat, but Urza saw that they 
were instead more cables, blindly seeking their path through the 
morass of woven wires. There were other great circular plates, 
gears turned sideways, as thick as Urza was tall and coated with 
a thick patina of corrosion.
    Urza noticed that the entire landscape was undulating 
slightly, like a living thing, from the motion of cogs and wheels 
beneath. Hills formed around him, moving slowly, pushing the 
corroded gears relentlessly to his right. In that direction-west 
he thought, though in this shifting world it was difficult to be 
sure-there was a reddish glow.
    Urza landed on one of the gears, and it carried him along as 
it moved. The mat of copper-colored cables snaked around him but 
did not touch him. The landscape seemed to boil with metal 
snakes.
    There was a storm ahead, ebon clouds building against the 
darker surrounding. Blue lightning arched between the clouds, 
giving them definition.
    A wave of rain swept over the land. It tasted of oil, but it 
passed quickly as the shifting hills pushed Urza along. Warm 
steam leaked from beneath the cables, and there was a brief, 
grinding noise. Then it too ceased.
    Before Urza a great tower erupted in the landscape, ripping 
metal cables and gears as it did so. It was made of thick plates 
of heavy metal held together by man-sized bolts, and covered with 
angular runes. It pistoned upward, and the gear upon which Urza 
stood rose and orbited it as it shot up above the undulating 
hills. Then the tower retracted into the earth as quickly as it 
had appeared, and the heaving landscape carried Urza forward.
    There was the sharp sound of insect wings, a thousand in 
number. The noise was all around, but the creatures were 
invisible to his eyes. Then this sound faded as well.
    Now Urza saw he was no longer alone. There were other beings 
standing on another moving disk, one larger than his own. These 
others were carefully building as they were carried along. They 
looked humanoid, dressed in radiant white robes from head to toe. 
Their faces were covered by white masks and their heads by white 
hoods. Urza concentrated, but they grew no more distinct. All he 
could see was that they were building something.
    For the first time Urza became aware that he was dreaming. He 
should be in a cavern with his brother and Mistress Tocasia, he 
realized. He held out his hands and counted his fingers. He had 
always heard that one should do this to determine if one was 
dreaming. He got the right number of fingers (at least what he 
thought was the right number), but his flesh was translucent. He 
judged the experiment inconclusive.
    The figures in white were moving more quickly now, and he saw 
they were assembling pieces of a large device made of bronze. It 
looked like one of the metal spiders at the foot of the cliff, 
back in the waking world, where he had left the ornithopter. This 
device though was no wrecked artifact of another age. It towered 
over the white figures. If the dream spider was the same size as 
the wreckage they had seen, Urza determined, then the figures 
were only slightly shorter than the average human.
    The dream spider was tall and made of thick plates of bronze-
colored metal. Blue-white lightning sparked at the device's 
joints, and it was held together by bolts as thick as Urza's 
forearm. The device had no head, but from the center of its back 
rose a large prominence topped by a cylinder. Urza thought of the 
catapults back in his own world, and recognized the cylinder as a 
weapon.
    Looking at the dream spider Urza saw not only its form but 
its function. He saw the pylonlike legs and knew how they had 
been fastened together and how they would therefore have to move. 
He saw the prominence atop the creature's back and knew it had to 
be fitted to allow it to spin in any direction. He understood the 
heavy mass of overlapping plates that formed the creature's armor 
and knew how much power was needed to move a mass of that size.
    The figures in white were talking to each other now. They had 
seen Urza but evidently did not know what to do about the 
interloper. Suddenly Urza felt something heavy in his chest, 
pulsing like a second heart. He looked down. All his flesh was 
transparent now. Almost without conscious thought, he reached 
inside himself and pulled out a large gemstone, glittering green, 
blue, red, white, and black. The colors overlapped one another, 
seeming to coexist in the same space.
    The edges of the stone were rough, and Urza knew half of it 
was missing. He raised the gem and showed it to the figures in 
white. It seemed sufficient; they immediately forgot about him 
and returned to their work.
    The red glow in the west was growing stronger now as the 
flying gear approached its destination. Looking around, Urza saw 
other small white-robed figures on their own sidewise gears, each 
with their own devices. Some of the machines were spiders. Some 
were titanic statues. Some seemed to be great elephants or oxen. 
All were made of the heavy plates of reddish-gold metal, and all 
were armed in the same manner as his spider.
    Now he saw the glow ahead came from a great foundry, of the 
type used to make swords and horseshoes. The furnace was made of 
rough iron and shaped like a monstrous head. Long, curled horns 
framed a gaping mouth filled with tongues of flickering flame. 
Urza knew he was a half-mile away from it, but even so he could 
feel its heat. It could melt the flesh from his bones, he knew, 
had he any flesh. A great ramp of red-tinged metal led up to the 
monster furnace's mouth.
    The bronze-colored dream spider and the other bronze spiders 
were moving now, along with the elephants, oxen, and titans. The 
disks came to rest at the foot of the long ramp, and the various 
constructs lurched forward, powered by their own internal 
engines. Steam and sparks leaked from their joints. The 
artificial creatures formed a pair of lines, one to either side 
of the ramp.
    Now the figures in white, the builders of these mighty 
constructs, began to move as well. Slowly, almost reluctantly, 
they inched up the ramp. As they moved, the cylindrical weapons 
atop the reddish-gold machines followed them, pacing their 
approach beneath their barrels.
    One of the figures nearest to Urza hesitated for a moment, 
then turned back. Or rather, it tried to. The nearest machine, 
the golden dream spider the figure had helped build, fired 
something from its turret. A beam of incandescent light sprang 
from the tip of the cylinder and cut down the fleeing figure. 
Urza saw the creature's yellowish bones clatter to the ground and 
roll to the foot of the ramp.
    The other figures in white paid no attention to the dead 
defector. Instead they slowly made their way up the ramp, toward 
the flames, bending beneath the weapons of the gold artifacts. 
Urza tried to shout a warning, but all he could make was a sound 
of smithies and ringing hammers.
    Some of the figures were melting now, while others burst into 
flame from the heat. Their companions urged, dragged, and hauled 
them forward until they reached the monstrous mouth of the 
furnace itself.
    And then they pitched themselves in.
    Urza screamed. His cries seemed to throw him back away from 
the monster furnace, away from the world of golden snakes and 
moving hillsides and beweaponed machines. The furnace's mouth 
diminished to a small reddish dot as he fled, and he felt 
something warm behind him. He turned toward the new sensation 
and...
    ...woke on the floor of the chamber. He was clutching half of 
the power stone in his hand. In the distance, Urza heard the 
tromp of metal feet against stone.

                          * * * * *

    This is what Mishra saw.
    Urza lunged forward, and Mishra looked up at him, but by the 
time he saw his brother's face, stern and angry, the white glow 
had already consumed them both. All Mishra saw was Urza's scowl. 
And then he was someplace else.
    It was indoors, inside a great hallway. This was unlike the 
smooth halls bored through the mountain, for the walls seemed to 
be made of lizard skin, black and pliable. He touched one of the 
walls, and it flinched. Mishra could see the entire passage 
ripple, almost as if it were sleeping all around him. The air was 
thick and moist.
    The hallway extended ahead of him forever. He turned around. 
The hallway extended ahead of him forever. He turned around 
again.
    The hallway extended ahead of him forever. He turned around 
one last time and headed down the endless hallway.
    His foot crunched against something, and he stepped back. 
Beneath his feet was a small toy made of gold. It was in the 
shape of a human figure, and irrationally Mishra wondered if Urza 
was somewhere near. And Tocasia-he remembered Tocasia had been 
with them just a moment ago. He looked at the figure, but it was 
no one he recognized. He had inadvertently broken off the 
figure's arm, and the figure's face was transfixed in a scream.
    The floor ahead was littered with small screaming figures. 
Some were humans, but there were elves and orcs, minotaurs and 
dwarves among them. He tried to move through them without 
stepping on them, but there were too many. Then he realized that 
even those figures that he was not stepping on wore screaming 
visages as well. Reassured that he was doing no additional damage 
and that the figurines were probably not alive, he pressed on, 
scattering the toys in his wake.
    Now there were alcoves on either side of him, each set with a 
dark mirror against the back. Mishra stopped at the first one and 
saw a human form. No, a humanoid form, naked. It seemed to twist 
as he looked at it, turning first into one race, then another, 
then a third. It was a statue, shaped from some dark stone, yet 
fluid. It reached the end of the series of transformations and 
began the sequence again.
    Mishra passed to the second mirror and saw another figure. 
This one was wearing armor, or what seemed to be armor. As it 
shifted from one form to another, Mishra realized the armor was 
part of the statue as well, perhaps even a part of the creature 
that the statue represented.
    Mishra felt a wave of excitement. Suddenly he knew what the 
machines back in the cavern were about. They could transform 
shapes of flesh and stone into other things. They could improve 
themselves. They could build things. He rushed to the next 
mirror, ignoring the golden toys at his feet.
    This was another shapechanging statue, but it had more armor 
than the one he'd seen previously. It had horns too, splaying 
backward across the top of its head like an antelope's, not 
outward like those of a minotaur. It changed shape more slowly, 
and Mishra saw that the image's flesh had grown leathery, 
resembling the walls around him. Dark bones jutted from its flesh 
and into the open air, like dark spires of power.
    Mishra passed to the next mirror. Here was but a single 
unchanging figure. Its flesh was black lizard skin broken by the 
sharp bones that erupted from its flesh. Its face was narrow and 
wolflike, and its open mouth was filled with razor-sharp teeth. 
Its eyes were closed, and atop its head a great pair of antelope 
horns reached impossibly backward. Around the horns was a nest of 
wormlike coils buried in the creature's skull; they streamed 
backward like blood-colored tresses.
    Mishra stared at the creature in the dark mirror for a long 
time, waiting for it to change to another shape. But it remained 
an inert thing of black stone.
    Then the statue opened its eyes, and Mishra took a step back.
    They were living eyes-soft, wet, leaking blood at the edges. 
The eyes blinked, and the brow above them furrowed.
    Suddenly Mishra was aware that he was watching not an image 
but a living thing. And, worse yet, that thing was watching him.
    The being raised a hand and touched its chest. Mishra 
mirrored the action, touching his own chest. His fingers brushed 
against something smooth, and he looked down. Mounted in the 
center of his chest was a great gem, radiating a spectrum of 
colors. Forgetting the creature for a moment, he reached up and 
pulled the gemstone from his breast. It felt warm to the touch, 
almost comforting. The great jewel was carved in glittering 
facets around half of its surface, but along one side a large 
piece had been broken off, leaving a ragged juncture behind.
    The creature reached up and touched its side of the mirror. 
Despite himself, Mishra felt his own hand raise in response, as 
if he were the image and the creature now the original. He 
pressed his hand forward, almost touching the glass itself. The 
demon of metal, bone, and leather smiled.
    Someone called his name. He was sure of it. Someone behind 
him called his name. He turned away from the mirror, from the 
dark creature behind it, suddenly caught up in a wave of 
brilliant white light, and ...
    ...woke on the floor of the chamber. He was clutching half of 
the power stone in his hand. In the distance Mishra heard the 
tromp of metal feet against stone.

                          * * * * *

    Tocasia stumbled toward the two brothers, who were slowly 
pulling themselves from the ground. Whatever they had done, the 
huge power stone had split in twain, and each brother held a 
portion of it. Unlike other cleaved stones Tocasia had found at 
the dig site, these gems retained their lambence and energy. They 
flickered with the power that still remained within. Each gem 
flashed with a range of colors, though Urza's shone most often 
red, while Mishra's glowed heavily green.
    Tocasia blinked and realized it was brighter in the chamber. 
The crystal plates along the ceiling were lighter now, and there 
were more flashes along the metal-plated walls.
    Urza was already at Mishra's side. The younger brother 
shrugged off his elder's offer of aid and stood on his own. He 
rocked slightly as he stood, as if his legs were new things to 
him.
    Urza's face was as pale as a ghost's, the colors of the 
fractured power stone playing across it. "What happened?" he 
gasped.
    Tocasia looked at the two brothers. They seemed woozy but 
relatively intact.
    "The power gem exploded," she said. "You've got the 
fragments."
    Mishra pointed at his brother. "It was his fault!"
    "I was trying to stop you!" Urza snapped.
    "Enough!" shouted Tocasia, her voice echoing off the walls. 
"Listen!"
    Both young men stopped for a moment and heard the slow, 
rhythmic tread of metal feet against stone. Numerous and uniform, 
the footsteps were heavy and relentless. And they were getting 
closer.
    Shapes appeared at the far end of the chamber. Tocasia did 
not remember a door being there before the explosion; perhaps 
there hadn't been. There was an opening now, she realized, and 
through it came a half-dozen titanic shapes.
    Su-chi, the guardians of the Thran, with their lupine faces 
and backward-mounted knees. For all their hulking, twisted 
structure, they could move fast, though. They bore down on the 
trio.
    "Flee!" shouted Tocasia.
    "No," said Urza. "I think I can handle this." His gem seemed 
to glow brighter as he spoke, and he held the bauble in front of 
him. A single beam of ruby light shone from the edges of the 
stone and lanced across the room, bathing the six oversized 
mechanisms. They hesitated, drinking in the radiance. Then they 
moved forward again.
    "They're moving faster!" shouted Tocasia. "Whatever you did 
made them stronger!"
    "Then we flee," said Urza.
    Mishra raised his own stone, but Urza slapped his brother's 
arm down. "We tried it, and it doesn't work. Don't make matters 
worse!" He ran, following Tocasia. Mishra raced behind them.
    All the stairs that they had descended were like cliffs now 
to be climbed again. Tocasia felt her muscles strain and cry out 
with each flight, and her bones felt as if they were made of 
stone. By the end of the third set of stairs Tocasia was leaning 
on Urza's shoulder for support. The su-chi were slower on the 
steps, but the creatures took them two at a time and were 
untiring.
    Tocasia glanced over her shoulder. The su-chi were catching 
up with them.
    At the top of the steps Mishra stopped, panting. Urza was in 
little better shape, and Tocasia felt as if she was going to pass 
out.
    "Perhaps ... we can find something ... to push down. Block 
... their path," wheezed Urza.
    Mishra held up his stone again, but Urza shook his head, 
exhausted. "Doesn't work. Makes them ... stronger. Tried that."
    Mishra was panting as well, but he forced his words out. "You 
tried. With ... your stone. Let me try ... mine."
    Urza let out a shout, but the younger brother was faster. He 
raised the stone before him, and its rays arched down the steps. 
The light from this gem did not pass through the air in straight 
lines; rather it bent in arching curves tinged with a greenish 
glow.
    The light struck the lead su-chi in midstride, as it was 
climbing a step. The artifact, vigorous and healthy a moment 
before, now sagged noticeably, as if the vitality had been 
suddenly leeched from it. It bent forward on the step. The 
creature behind it was taken by surprise and slipped backward, 
taking two more with it as it fell. The three collapsed in a pile 
on the landing, and only two of the figures rose again.
    "Didn't stop them," gasped Urza. "Told you."
    "Slowed them down," snapped Mishra.
    "Fight later," said Tocasia, clutching the front of her 
robes. "Run now."
    Tocasia's chest felt as if it was on fire as they fled back 
down the corridors. Without side passages, there was little 
chance of getting lost or of hiding. The crystalline plates along 
the ceiling were all illuminated, casting odd shadows as the 
explorers ran. Perhaps that was part of the guarding system for 
the Thran themselves, thought the old scholar. When someone 
entered and used the machines, the lights came on and the su-chi 
were roused from their slumber.
    In the alcoves they passed, Tocasia glimpsed other Thran 
artifacts. The machines struggled to mobilize themselves as well, 
but the passage of time was too great for them. A metal arm 
raised in mute protest as Urza, Mishra, and Tocasia passed. A 
lupine head of dark blue metal spun toward them and hissed. At 
one point, the lower torso of a su-chi, backward knees and all, 
lurched from its alcove, bereft of an upper body. Urza pushed 
Tocasia behind him, but Mishra brought his stone up. A jade-green 
lancet of power arced forward, and the remains of the creature 
exploded, the legs falling in different directions. They ran past 
the metal corpse; in the back of her mind Tocasia discovered a 
moment of regret that they had not the time to examine the 
creature more thoroughly.
    The pursuing su-chi were out of sight, but the old scholar 
could still hear their clattering tread, the whir of the 
mechanisms within their chests, and the clank of their joints. 
Ahead there was another growing brightness-this one natural. They 
had reached the entrance and were safe.
    Urza held out an arm across the passage, catching both 
Tocasia and Mishra, who let out a low curse. The older brother 
pointed with his other hand to the entrance.
    A shadow moved across the sand in front of the cavern's 
mouth. Something large was waiting for them.
    Tocasia looked back for a sign of the pursuing su-chi, as 
both brothers crept forward. The roc was perched directly above 
the Up of the cavern, like an owl waiting above a rodent's hole 
for its prey to appear. Urza cursed.
    "Let me try," said Mishra, holding out his stone. This time 
Urza did not stop him.
    Mishra edged forward to get a clear shot at the roc with his 
stone. Urza stayed directly behind him. Mishra held his half of 
the gem aloft, and the greenish arcing light, visible even in the 
daylight outside, burst forward and streaked up toward the roc. 
The great bird let out a tremendous shriek. It took to flight, 
fluttering about a hundred yards away to a large, rocky spur, 
where it settled again. The greenish rays followed it but did no 
additional damage.
    "Fall, damn you! Fall!" muttered Mishra through clenched 
teeth.
    "You're weakening it," said Urza, "but it's too big to fall. 
Too tough."
    "Company coming," said Tocasia briefly. Far off in the 
distance was the clatter of the approaching su-chi.
    "Between the desert and the deep, briny sea." Mishra quoted 
an old desert saying.
    Urza stared at the remains of the metal spider's nest at the 
foot of the hill. "Mishra, take Tocasia and run for the 
ornithopter. Don't stop running until you get there."
    "But the roc-" began Mishra.
    "Let the roc be my problem," said Urza and leapt forward into 
the sunlight.
    Tocasia protested, but Mishra had already grabbed her by the 
wrist and pulled her after him. Mishra's fingers were like a vise 
around her arm, and she had little choice but to follow. The 
lights behind them already reflected off the blue metal of the 
su-chi's skulls.
    The roc was aloft as soon as Urza appeared, swooping back on 
titanic wings to its perch over the cavern's mouth. Its 
vulturelike beak snaked down to snare the young man, but Urza was 
too fast for it. In a moment he was among the remnants of the 
bronze spider things that littered the base of the cliff.
    Tocasia was half-guided, half-dragged by Mishra toward the 
ornithopter. Halfway there they dodged behind a large boulder for 
cover. Two pairs of eyes looked around the boulder's edge for any 
sign of Urza.
    "What is that fool doing?" whispered Mishra. They saw Urza 
dart among the half-buried wreckage of the spiders, then 
disappear.
    Tocasia put her hand to her chest and caught her breath. Urza 
was among the wrecked bronze metal spiders, she saw. His half of 
the stone seemed to function differently than Mishra's gem. "He's 
going..." She stopped and gulped. Her mouth felt as if it were 
lined with metal. "He's going to try to get one of those spiders 
to work. But why ...?"
    The rest of her statement was lost in a titanic throbbing hum 
from beneath their feet, and one of the reddish-gold spiders 
lurched from its sandy tomb. The sand poured away from it like 
water, and Tocasia saw that the spider's armor was shredded in a 
half-dozen places and was missing most of its forward legs. 
Through the peeled side plates she could see Urza frantically 
pulling levers and pressing buttons. There was a reddish glow 
around him, giving the steam that poured out of the beast's sides 
a hellish aura.
    "He's powering it with the stone," said Mishra. "He's fitted 
his stone into the machine. It must make artifacts stronger."
    "No. The stone's in his hand," corrected Tocasia. "But you're 
right. He's using that stone to make the machine more powerful, 
to enhance whatever power it has."
    "Whatever," grunted Mishra, pointing toward the opening. 
"He's running out of time. Look!" At the entrance to the cavern 
were the remaining su-chi, lurching into the sunlight.
    The turret on the back of the spider's back gave a high-
pitched metallic rasp as it spun on grit-filled cogs and brought 
about a long, dangerous-looking barrel. Tocasia knew at once it 
was a weapon.
    The roc screeched and leapt forward to pit the tasty morsel 
from its shell like a seagull eating a crab. Tocasia heard Urza 
shout something unintelligible, and the barrel spat flame. The 
resounding thunder of the weapon as it fired rattled through the 
canyon of Koilos.
    The flame caught the roc in the center of its chest, igniting 
its feathers and engulfing its body in flames. The great winged 
beast tried to fly, but the fire was insidious, creeping along 
the roc's wings and setting them alight as the creature raised 
them. For an instant the roc became the phoenix of Fallaji 
legend, bathed in flame. But instead of rising like the mythical 
bird, the roc fell, plummeting to the canyon floor below.
    The great bird fell directly in front of the cavern mouth 
where the su-chi now stood. The weakened creatures had time to 
look up, and Tocasia heard a sharp metallic whining noise that 
might have been a scream. Then the massive body of the flaming 
roc smashed down on them, crushing them utterly.
    There was another screech, this one sharper, more high 
pitched. It came from the rusted and torn metal spider with which 
Urza had defeated their opponents. The steam that had surrounded 
the craft now became black smoke; flames and sparks licked the 
craft's framework. Urza had climbed loose of the device and was 
running. Tocasia noticed he cradled the reddish gem against his 
chest.
    The whining noise from the spider became higher. It reached a 
pitch that almost split Tocasia's brain. Then, with a crescendo 
of thunder, the metal spider exploded. The noise of the blast 
reverberated from the cliff sides and was answered a few seconds 
later by echoes farther up the canyon.
    Urza staggered up to the others. Tocasia checked the cavern's 
entrance, but all that was visible was the smoking remains of the 
roc.
    "That takes care of that," said Urza. His face and hair were 
streaked with soot, and he smelled of burnt leather and metal.
    "You were lucky," said Mishra with a frown.
    "We all were lucky," said Tocasia. "Lucky to find this place, 
lucky to escape the roc. Lucky to escape the caverns without 
perishing. Now let us be sufficiently lucky to get back home."
    "You were lucky," repeated Mishra to his brother.
    "Luck had nothing to do with it," replied Urza, a surly note 
in his voice. "I thought I knew what those spider things did, and 
I had the power to make a difference. It was fast planning, 
perhaps, but not luck."
    "You had no idea," pressed Mishra. "You accidentally made the 
guardians stronger with the power of the stone."
    "One learn from one's mistakes," said Urza, shrugging. "At 
least I do. You keep making new mistakes all the time."
    "Boys," cautioned Tocasia, "this isn't the time for this."
    "I beat the su-chi with my stone!" snapped Mishra.
    "You blew up the crystal in the first place!" riposted Urza.
    "I did not! I didn't touch anything!" yelled Mishra. "That 
was you!"
    "Hold!" shouted Tocasia, stepping between the two young men. 
"We can argue about this once we get aloft. For the moment we 
need to repair the ornithopter and get back." She motioned with 
her head toward the smoldering remains of the roc. "We don't know 
if that bird was solitary or one of a larger family."
    Tocasia turned away from the pair. She wondered if there was 
something among the debris she could use as a walking stick. In 
the flight from the caverns she had lost hers, and she could feel 
the muscles in her legs cramping from overuse. She looked forward 
to a long rest after this adventure.
    Behind her, neither of the brothers moved. Tocasia turned and 
said, "Today, if you don't mind." Both brothers, she noticed, 
looked as if steam were going to pour from their ears.
    "In a moment," said Urza finally. "But first, give." He held 
out his right hand. His left still clutched the red-glowing gem.
    "What?" asked Mishra, holding his own stone to his chest.
    "The stone," returned Urza. "Give it to me. Perhaps we can 
fit the pieces back together."
    Mishra held the stone tighter, and Tocasia could swear she 
saw the stone flicker, as yellow-green as a cat's eyes, in his 
hand. "No," he said. His face was set in a deep scowl.
    "There is a chance that we can restore it," said Urza 
crossly.
    "Good," snapped Mishra. "Give me yours."
    Urza's face grew longer. "I can't. You might break it."
    "I don't break things!" said Mishra hotly. His voice was 
shrill. To Tocasia it seemed on the verge of breaking, as it had 
done several years before during his adolescence. "You're the one 
who always thinks you know everything," he continued, "but you 
always blame me! Well, you're not as smart as you think you are. 
Everyone knows that!"
    "I know better because I'm older," said Urza coldly.
    "Then you know I don't want to give up my stone," retorted 
his brother. "If you want to fit it together, give me yours, 
Master High-and-Mighty Too-Good-for-the-Rest-of-Us! Show me 
you're all-wise, Brother. Give me your stone!"
    "You want it?" snarled Urza. "Fine. Take it, then! You always 
take things that aren't yours!"
    Tocasia started to shout, but it was too late. Urza's hand 
lashed out, the stone still gripped tightly in his fist. Mishra 
stepped forward, directly into Urza's punch. The gem connected 
with the younger brother's forehead and he went down in a heap.
    Urza leapt forward, kneeling over the fallen form of his 
brother. "I'm sorry, Mishra. I didn't mean to hit you."
    Mishra had already pushed himself up on his elbows and was 
trying to back away. "Get away from me, damn you!"
    Tocasia pulled on Urza's shoulder. "Get up. You should know 
better!" she snarled. Her temper was frayed to the breaking 
point. "You're always saying you're the older and smarter one," 
she rapped out. "Well, look what you've done."
    Urza started to speak, then looked at his brother. The gem 
had cut Mishra's face, and crimson blood already welled in the 
wound at his temple.
    Urza looked at Tocasia again. "I-I'm ... sorry," he 
stammered. He held out his empty hand to Mishra. "I didn't mean 
to. I'm sorry."
    Mishra lashed out, knocking away Urza's hand. "Go away! I 
don't need your help!"
    Tocasia started to speak. "Now, Mishra, your brother is just 
trying-"
    "And I don't need you to explain things away for him, 
either," Mishra interrupted. "I'll be fine." He turned to his 
brother. "The stone is mine. You have one of your own."
    Tocasia felt her insides melting with anger. Both young men 
were stupid, pigheaded fools. She had no time for this. She 
breathed heavily, controlling her temper by an act of will.
    "Fine," she said at last. "Urza, you tend to the strut on the 
ornithopter. Mishra, check the remains of the roc to see if any 
of the su-chi guardians survived. Shout if any do."
    Neither brother moved, and Tocasia put steel in her voice. 
"Now, children!"
    Both turned to their tasks, but Tocasia noticed that each 
glowered at the other as if they were rival dogs.
    The trip back to Tocasia's camp was made in moody silence, 
and they flew into the night to avoid having to camp again. 
Neither brother spoke more than three words at a time to the 
other. They confined themselves to practical subjects such as the 
way the damaged wing was handling, the weather ahead, and the 
present course of the ornithopter. Neither spoke about the secret 
heart of the Thran, the roc, or their fight.
    Tocasia realized that more than the power stone had been 
shattered that day.
    
                           Chapter 5
                           SUNDERING

    The world changed after Koilos and became a darker place in 
the months that followed.
    Urza retreated to the quarters he shared with his brother as 
soon as the three investigators returned to the camp, emerging 
only for meals. Soon after Mishra moved out of those quarters, 
taking a tent among the diggers. He could have taken permanent 
housing among the students, but Tocasia felt the young man was 
making a statement, both to his brother and to her.
    The two brothers sniped at each other continually now. Urza 
noted publicly that Mishra had instructed the students to dig too 
deep. Mishra shot back that Urza was demanding more students to 
clean the artifacts than he truly needed.
    Mealtimes were particularly stressful. The arguments were no 
longer exchanges of wordplay and ideas. An edge of steel, like 
the blade of a dagger, had slipped into the boys' conversations. 
Questions now seemed like barbed hooks, and answers held hints of 
threat and challenge. A few times Mishra blew up at his brother 
at the table, and after a month Urza stopped attending the 
communal dinners at all, instead taking his meals in his 
quarters. He had apparently used Mishra's half of the room to 
expand his own work space, which irritated his brother all the 
more. Mishra appeared at dinner for a month beyond that, brooding 
over the meals. Then he began to dine in the diggers' camp.
    Neither brother spoke of personal matters, not to Tocasia nor 
anyone else. To the old scholar they were polite and tried to 
keep the conversation focused on the nature of the excavations 
(for Mishra) or on the latest reassembled marvel (for Urza). When 
the subject of the caverns came up, however, both young men would 
turn taciturn and abrupt.
    In part, Tocasia felt, it was the stones that had altered 
their relationship. Urza had fit his to a clawlike clasp of gold 
and wore it about his neck on a chain. Mishra too wore his around 
his neck but in a small leather sack dangling from a thong in the 
manner of the Fallaji talismans. Tocasia did not know if the 
shattered power stone had created the anger within her two best 
students or merely unearthed and crystallized resentments that 
had fermented for years. Soon after Koilos, she went to each and 
asked to examine the stones themselves, seeking to unlock their 
mystery.
    Urza refused to give up his stone. Instead, he said, he 
wanted to examine it himself. Surely Tocasia trusted him to make 
a fair and rational examination? What he did not say, though 
Tocasia sensed it, was that he was afraid she would turn over the 
stone to his brother. Mishra would play on the old scholar's 
feelings. He was the younger brother; therefore Tocasia would 
give Mishra a chance to examine both halves of the stone.
    Mishra in turn would not give up his stone. If Urza kept his 
half of the stone, he said contemptuously, he would hold his as 
well. What he did not say, but what Tocasia felt, was that he was 
afraid she would turn over the stone to his brother. Urza would 
appeal to her reasoning. Urza was the elder brother; therefore 
Tocasia would give Urza the chance to examine both halves of the 
stone.
    The archaeologist was thoroughly frustrated. Neither brother 
would move without the other; neither trusted her sufficiently to 
let her examine the gems. She turned to the other stones, both 
the flickering fragments that still held some power and the dull, 
cracked remains that had lost their energies.
    There was nothing there. None of the other power stones they 
had discovered had similar powers. Mishra's stone seemed to 
induce weakness in its targets, whether living or artificial. 
Urza's gem apparently strengthened its targets and in fact 
allowed the spark of animation to enter the barest of mechanical 
husks. No other stones, Tocasia noted sadly, seemed to have 
encouraged such avarice and anger in their possessors.
    The nature of the energy itself continued to elude Tocasia. 
She knew it existed and that it could be harnessed by the devices 
using the Thran designs they had deciphered. Yet the nature of 
that energy was beyond her. What was it, and how did it come into 
being? Was it natural to the crystals, or was it something the 
Thran had entrapped there? The questions were there, but not the 
answers, and her own failure to answer darkened Tocasia's mood 
further.
    To be fair, the black mood in the camp was not all the 
brothers' doing-at least not directly. More Fallaji than Ahmahl 
had expected were offended by the fact that the archaeologist and 
her colleagues had found the secret heart of the Thran. Diggers 
abandoned the camp in droves. Old Ahmahl was clearly embarrassed 
by this turn of events, since he had assured Tocasia that few of 
his people would be scared away by ancient legends of the long-
dead Thran. Indeed, as word of the discovery of Koilos spread, 
the flow of artifacts recovered by the desert people, so abundant 
in previous years, dried up almost entirely.
    Part of that drought was caused by an increase in desert 
raids. A number of tribes such as the Suwwardi, quiet for 
decades, were more active now. They raided merchant caravans and 
even struck into Argive itself. The school had not been attacked, 
owing to its own group of native Fallaji, but it was only a 
matter of time, Tocasia felt.
    Ahmahl agreed. "There are numbers beyond numbers of families, 
tribes, and clans among the Fallaji," he said one evening, ten 
months after Koilos. They sat beneath Tocasia's tarp, sipping 
nabiz- Most of the rest of the camp had gone to bed. The only 
lamps still burning were from Urza's quarters, and those had been 
dimmed. The brazier between Tocasia and Ahmal crackled low.
    The Fallaji spread his fingers and ticked off a roster of 
tribal names: "The wealthy Muaharin, the once-mighty Ghestos, and 
my own tribe, the Thaladin," he said. "There are others like the 
Tomakul, who have the nearest thing you outlander people would 
think of as a city. The Tomakul claim general rulership over the 
others. But they are not the true masters of the various tribes 
either. The clans follow strong leaders; so for one generation 
everyone followed the Ghestos because they had a wise leader. For 
the next they followed the Muaharin because the Muaharin had a 
great warrior as their leader."
    "And now the desert people follow a new tribe," said Tocasia 
bitterly, sipping at her nabiz. She took it hot, in the desert 
style, but never cared for the cinnamon.
    "The Suwwardi," agreed Ahmahl. "They moved in from the 
southwestern lands when I was a boy, from the area bordering the 
outlander state of Yotia. They have a qadir, a leader who has 
gained many allies. He talks of the old times when the Fallaji 
people were powerful. And he fans resentment against the coastal 
nations, particularly those that are spreading into Fallaji 
lands."
    "Are these Suwwardi your leaders now?" asked Tocasia.
    Ahmahl shrugged. "Not like your kings and warlords and nobles 
are leaders. My people put great value in respect. They respect 
the Suwwardi for what they have accomplished and therefore listen 
to their message. Many worry about the coastal nations moving 
inland, taking land from the traditional Fallaji grounds. Many 
worry about the discoveries we are making."
    "We are discovering things for everyone," said Tocasia 
flatly.
    "That I agree with," returned Ahmahl. "And I thought others 
would agree was well. But they see the artifacts they bring in to 
trade, as well as the ones we dig up, move eastward to Argive, 
southeast to Korlis, or south to Yotia. They worry what great and 
wondrous things are being lost to them."
    "And these Suwwardi play on that worry," concluded Tocasia. 
"They gather power by creating a common threat, whether one is 
truly present or not."
    Ahmahl nodded and said dryly, "You are familiar with the 
process."
    Tocasia laughed and took a long pull on her nabiz. "Basic 
Argivian politics. The kings of Argive have survived for years on 
that principle, playing one faction against another. They do 
things in Penregon that would make your head spin. At least the 
Fallaji are honest about being someone's enemy."
    "That is why we have not moved, and should not move, the base 
camp to Koilos," said Ahmahl.
    "The only way into the canyon where the caverns are found is 
through the deep desert-" Tocasia began.
    "The deep desert is held by the Suwwardi tribe and their 
allies. Word has gone out that any non-Fallaji found in their 
lands will be considered Suwwardi property, to be disposed of as 
they see fit."
    Tocasia spread her hands and looked at the wooden surface 
beneath her wrinkled fingers. The desert had practically won its 
battle with the great Argivian table. It was wobbly and brittle 
now; the last of its pearl inlay had surrendered to the 
differences in temperature and to the dust. Soon she would have 
to break it up for firewood. Tocasia had not realized how much 
she would miss the table, both as a level space and as a reminder 
of distant Penregon.
    Would they have had this problem with the tribesmen had Urza 
not been so brilliant with maps and calculations, or Mishra so 
close to the desert tribes and their legends? Tocasia shook her 
head. The past was the past, as inviolate as the rocks from which 
she and her followers pulled the Thran devices, as solid as the 
metals they carefully pieced together in the workshops.
    A silence grew between her and Ahmal. The only sound was the 
crackle of the brazier.
    "You are not thinking of the desert tribes or your dig site," 
said Ahmahl at last. "You are thinking of your two young men."
    Tocasia let the silence continue, then said, "They have been 
fighting again."
    "Ever since they visited the Secret Heart of the Old Ones," 
said Ahmahl. Tocasia shot the leader of the diggers a look and he 
held up a hand. "No, they did not tell me what happened there. No 
one tells this old digger anything. But it is clear to me and to 
everyone else that they have had a great falling out. The kind of 
battle that brothers do not recover from. Last week they almost 
came to blows at the dig site." He shot her a sidelong glance. 
"You know?"
    Tocasia nodded. "Urza thought Mishra was digging too deep to 
find any parts for an onulet. When the diggers found such parts, 
Urza all but accused Mishra of planting the find there in the 
trench."
    "Mishra found the pieces of that onulet's shoulder mounting 
fairly," said Ahmahl. "But then he drove the diggers on into the 
heat of midday, when we normally nap. He would have been happy 
with nothing less than a complete onulet arising from the earth, 
fully formed and alive, just to prove his brother wrong."
    Tocasia nodded. "Each day they get worse, and neither wants 
to talk to the other about it. Whenever they are in the same 
place, the conversation breaks down into argument. Then each 
continues arguing with me afterward, trying to show me where the 
other was wrong. And when I try to show them that they may be 
wrong, each acts as if I've sided with the other. The past few 
months have been the worst of all the years I have known them."
    Ahmahl leaned forward. "The Fallaji believe that man is made 
of stone and fire, sky and water. The perfect man holds all these 
elements in balance. The young brother-he had more fire than he 
needed on the first day I met him, and he has more fire than he 
needs now. The older brother is consumed by stone: cold and 
unyielding. Unable to bend, he will shatter or be worn away."
    "The Argivians have a similar belief, though few follow it 
these days," said Tocasia. "The world is divided into reality and 
dreams. The old temple priests of Argive would say that both 
those young men have been consumed by their dreams and are 
forgetting their reality."
    Ahmahl grunted. "Does Urza speak of dreams to you?"
    Tocasia shook her head. "Urza speaks to no one anymore. Not 
to me; not his brother." She looked at the leader of the diggers. 
"Does Mishra?"
    Ahmahl nodded. "Not to me, but he does speak. To Hajar, one 
of my younger assistants, who is closer to him in age and 
temperament. Hajar has been bitten hard by the fire as well, and 
he dreams of being a great warrior. I fear we will lose him to 
the Suwwardi and soon. But Mishra has told Hajar, who has told me 
and I tell you, that Mishra has dreams."
    "Of what?" asked Tocasia, pouring herself more nabiz.
    "Darkness," said Ahmahl, spreading his fingers out to catch 
the warmth of the brazier. "He says there is darkness out there, 
a darkness that sings to him and tries to draw him to it. It tugs 
at him, like a jackal hanging onto his trouser legs. And he fears 
it."
    "He said that?" prompted Tocasia.
    Ahmahl shrugged. "Mishra talks to Hajar. Hajar talks to me. I 
talk to you. Each time someone talks to another, things are 
added, other things forgotten. Perhaps you should ask him 
yourself. He probably would not tell Hajar, 'Hajar, I am afraid 
of my dreams,' but Mishra does sleep in the digger's camp, and 
everyone knows he sometimes awakens in the middle of the night 
shouting at things that are not there."
    Tocasia was silent for a moment. She could not say if Mishra 
had done this before Koilos, when Mishra and Urza were quartered 
together, but Urza had never said anything about the matter. Nor 
had Urza spoken of his own dreams, if indeed he had any.
    "You know they each took something with them when they left 
Koilos?" asked Tocasia.
    "The gems of power," replied Ahmahl. "They look like the ones 
that you say move the Old Ones' machines. Each of the Young 
Masters has one. Yet each man keeps his stone close to himself at 
all times."
    "Could the stones be responsible?" queried Tocasia. "Could 
their energies be causing the young men to act like this?"
    Ahmahl shrugged, and Tocasia added, "Do you know what their 
stones can do?"
    "Mishra has not talked to me of the matter," said Ahmahl 
flatly. "Perhaps to Hajar, but ..." He let the words hang in the 
hot desert air for a long moment.
    "Urza's gem makes things stronger," said the scholar. "He 
called it his Mightstone. Mishra's seems to have the opposite 
effect. Urza has named it the Weakstone."
    Ahmahl chortled. "That probably does not sit well with the 
younger brother, to have the weaker stone."
    "It doesn't," said Tocasia. "Urza knows it, so he calls it 
that to Mishra's face."
    "What does Mishra call it?" asked Ahmahl.
    Tocasia thought a moment, "I've never heard him refer to it 
as one thing or another. Its 'his'-Mishra's-stone. And the other 
one is 'his,' Urza's, stone."
    "That sounds right," observed Ahmahl. "The older brother 
always had a tendency to name things, to identify them. It makes 
them his, I suppose."
    Tocasia sighed. "All these years they have been with us," she 
said, "and they remain as great a mystery as the energy within 
those power crystals. As the Thran themselves."
    "The Thran, the Old Ones, you and I will understand, 
eventually," replied Ahmahl. "For they have the good sense to 
stay dead. The living, they keep changing as time goes along. It 
is harder to climb upon a moving mount."
    "Old Fallaji saying?" Tocasia raised her cup.
    "Old digger saying," said Ahmahl, returning the salute. "From 
this old digger in particular."
    The conversation moved to other subjects, such as the new 
layer of hard sandstone they had encountered at the second site 
and whether Bly would need additional outriders for his caravan 
(and how much he would try to charge Tocasia for them). Finally 
Ahmahl made farewells and left the tarp. The night was pleasant, 
and Tocasia knew she would probably sleep sitting up in her camp 
chair, wrapped in a soft fur from dwarven Sardia.
    Ahmahl slowly walked through the camp. The fires had been 
banked, and the lamps had all been extinguished. Even the lamps 
from Urza's quarters, usually the last to be doused, were now 
darkened.
    The old digger stood in the center of the camp and looked 
upward at the stars. The moons had not risen yet, and above the 
old Fallaji the sky pinwheeled in a heavy scattering of stars. 
Ahmahl tried to imagine if the sky over the far-off coastal 
cities looked this beautiful, and decided against it. Fires 
burned long and wastefully into the night there, obscuring the 
sky with their smoke. So much like city peoples everywhere.
    There was a movement to his left and the sound of a sandal 
scraping against the dirt. Slowly Ahmahl turned toward the noise, 
keeping his head raised toward the stars but allowing his eyes to 
sweep the shadows. The moonless night was dark but not dark 
enough to foil the sharp eyes of the Fallaji.
    There was a rustle along the shadowed side of one of the 
student barracks. Then came a soft, muffled cough.
    "Someone there?" called Ahmahl, suddenly looking directly at 
the shadow. "Show yourself, shadowy one, or I'll wake the camp!"
    A lean form stepped from the shadows, dressed in dark linen. 
Thin, and wiry; Ahmal recognized Hajar, chief among his 
assistants. The young Fallaji smiled guiltily, his teeth filling 
his narrow face.
    "It was a beautiful night, and I could not sleep," he said. 
"I thought I would go for a walk."
    Ahmahl smiled. "It is a beautiful night, and I have been 
walking myself," he said. "Let us stroll back together." The old 
digger turned away, but Hajar did not move from his position. 
"Are you coming?" Ahmal asked, then added with a smile, "Or are 
you not alone?" To the shadows behind Hajar he said, "You can 
come out now as well."
    Ahmahl had expected Hajar's companion to be one of the noble 
girl students entrusted to Tocasia. Such romances, though 
officially frowned upon, were common enough, and Ahmahl still 
remembered his own youth well enough to know all the 
justifications and excuses one makes in such situations. A stern 
lecture and a word to Tocasia to keep an eye on the Argivian girl 
was all that usually resulted from such a discovery.
    Ahmahl was thus surprised when the figure who stepped from 
the shadows was not a young woman but the familiar, broad-
shouldered form of Mishra. Ahmahl's smile turned to puzzlement, 
and the old digger said, "Good evening, young master. Are you 
enjoying the beautiful night?"
    Mishra smiled, and even in the starlight Ahmal could see it 
was a thin, inconsequential smile. "I needed to fetch something 
from Urza's-from my old quarters," he said. "I brought Hajar 
along to help."
    "I see," said Ahmahl cautiously, "and this something was so 
critical that you needed to fetch it now, in the dead of night, 
when even your brother would be asleep?"
    "Yes," said Mishra. The young man seemed to be turning the 
idea over in his mind a few times; then apparently he decided to 
stick with it. His back straightened, and he said again, "Yes. 
Something important. Do you doubt me?"
    By this time Ahmahl had closed the distance between himself 
and the pair. He could smell the odor of desert wine on them. It 
was more powerful than on himself.
    "Not at all, Young Master Mishra," said Ahmahl. "And this 
something is so heavy you need a second man, or a perhaps a 
third, to carry it?"
    "Yes," said Mishra, then, perhaps feeling he'd given too much 
away, corrected himself. "No. Not really. Hajar is here more for 
company."
    "Ah," said Ahmahl. "Well, I have a need for Hajar. If you can 
spare him, he can run an errand for me."
    Mishra's face clouded, and Ahmahl wondered if the lad would 
continue alone or merely abandon his task. It was obvious he was 
heading for his brother's, and Ahmahl thought it likely the 
younger brother planned to confront Urza with an argument. The 
youth had obviously taken his courage from a wineskin, a time-
consuming task that accounted for the late hour.
    Mishra gave another thin smile. "Of course. If you need Hajar 
for some matter, I can gladly do without him."
    "A small matter," said Ahmahl. "I could use the help. But I 
tell you again, I don't think your brother is awake. His lamps 
are out."
    Mishra shook his head. "Sometimes my brother lies awake in 
the darkness and plots into the night. I would be surprised if he 
were truly asleep."
    Ahmahl raised his hands in mock surrender. "As you say. You 
know him better than I. Come, Hajar. I have work for you."
    The wiry Fallaji crossed toward Ahmahl, and the older man 
turned. The pair started back toward the digger's camp.
    Ahmahl looked back. Mishra had already melted back into the 
shadows. "So why were you there, Hajar ?"
    The narrow-faced youth scowled in the starlit darkness. "I do 
not know if I can tell you."
    "We are Fallaji," said the older man. "If I cared to find 
out, I could show that your mother's family and my mother's 
family shared a common mother. Come out with it. What were you up 
to, stinking of nabiz and slinking through the shadows like 
jackals."
    The younger Fallaji stopped, as clearly motion and moral 
thought did not work simultaneously. Ahmahl waited. At last the 
youth said, "Young Master Mishra was angry."
    "Angry at Urza?" asked Ahmahl.
    The shadow nodded in the darkness. "About how Master Urza was 
always picking on him. Was always showing him up. How his brother 
was trying to trick him out of his stone."
    "And finally he got drunk enough and angry enough to do 
something about it," finished Ahmahl.
    The narrow shadow shrugged. Yes, that was it, thought Ahmahl. 
Wake your brother up in the middle of the night to finish an 
argument from three days before. Get all your thoughts lined up, 
soak them with alcohol, and set them on fire.
    If he was planning for Urza to be awake when he got there. A 
nasty thought crystallized in Ahmahl's mind. Perhaps the younger 
brother was indeed going to Urza's to retrieve something.
    The thought sent a small chill up the old digger's spine.
    "Quickly, " he said to Hajar. "I have an errand for you after 
all. Go up to Tocasia's tarp. She should be sleeping there in a 
chair. Wake her. Tell her what you told me, and tell her to meet 
me at the brother's ... at Master Urza's quarters."
    Hajar hesitated. "I don't think-" he started.
    Ahmahl hissed. "You've had too much to drink to be trusted 
with thinking, lad! I tell you to fetch Mistress Tocasia, and 
fetch her you will! Or the next trench you dig will be for the 
students' privy! Now off with you!"
    The sharpness of the words cut like a knife through Hajar's 
drunken confusion. Very much awake and alert, the lad moved 
quickly toward the rocky outcropping where Tocasia kept her tent.
    Ahmahl shook his head and quickly made for the cabin where 
Urza and Mishra had grown up. It was a heavy, squat thing made of 
rough-hewn timbers, with a gray slate roof. An equally stout door 
and candle-waxed paper windows sealed it against the desert dust. 
Comfortable for one, thought Ahmahl. Suitable for two young boys, 
and tight for two young men. Impossibly so for two young man who 
were angry at each other.
    A lamp now glowed through the windows, so if burglary was 
Mishra's intent it had been foiled. There were voices as well, 
sharp and argumentative. As Ahmahl approached the cabin, the 
voices were loud to his hearing, but indistinct. Mishra's voice 
was a drunken bellow, while that of Urza's had a sharp, nasty 
twang.
    Ahmahl stood across the path from the cabin's doorway. Unless 
something or someone came flying out the door, he decided, the 
best course of action would be to wait, at least to wait for 
Mistress Tocasia.
    The sound spread; other lamps were coming on, from the 
barracks and quarters of the older students. If Young Master 
Mishra was hoping for a private argument, Ahmahl mused, he had 
been denied that as well. Now Urza was shouting. All Ahmahl could 
make out were cries of "Thief!" and "Liar!"
    Tocasia arrived, accompanied by Hajar. The young Fallaji took 
stock of the situation and immediately disappeared in a puff of 
night air, heading back to the diggers' tents. He would no doubt 
to spread the word that the two brothers were finally having it 
out.
    Tocasia seemed groggy, as if suddenly awakened. She ran her 
fingers through her short graying hair. "Why haven't you stopped 
them?" she asked Ahmahl.
    "I haven't heard any furniture breaking," returned the older 
man. "Even then, we should wait a bit longer. This fight has been 
brewing for months between these two. They need to get it out of 
their systems."
    There was the sound of glass breaking within the quarters. 
Tocasia took a step toward the cabin's front door, but Ahmahl 
held out an arm.
    "Every time the boys fight, someone breaks up the argument," 
he said. "Let them go on. They may get some cuts and bruises, but 
they need to sort things out their way."
    The shouting was almost incoherent now, more like barking 
wild dogs than the sound of human voices. There was another 
crash, this time of something heavy. Most of the students had 
gathered out in front of the cabin, and some of the diggers had 
arrived with Hajar.
    Then there was a new glow visible through the windows. The 
golden radiance of the lamp was joined, then overwhelmed, by 
beacons of red and green.
    Ahmahl lowered his arm. He had never seen such colors before 
from a lamp. He wondered if the brawl had started a fire. 
Suddenly the idea of letting the two young men pummel each other 
into understanding did not seem as wise as it had a moment 
before.
    "The stones," said Tocasia, her voice dry with fear. "They 
are using the stones against each other."
    "The Thran stones?" asked Ahmahl, but he was speaking to 
empty air. The ancient scholar was already running for the door. 
A moment later Ahmahl followed her, waving the others to stay 
back.
    Tocasia was through the door first, Ahmahl hot on her heels. 
The Fallaji smelled smoke and noticed small scorch-marks burned 
along the interior of the room, though there were no outright 
fires.
    The brothers were at opposite ends of the room. Each clutched 
his stone. Urza's flickered with red bolts of flame, while 
Mishra's radiated lances of greenish light. The bolts met in the 
center, almost as if physical arms grappled with one another, 
each color trying to overwhelm the other.
    The display of power was taking its toll on the brothers. 
Mishra was sweating like a winded horse; blood streamed from his 
nostrils. Urza's face was a rictus of concentration and pain, and 
he too was bleeding from the nose. Mishra was slightly crouched, 
while his brother stood haughty and erect. Each clung to his 
power stone with both hands.
    The room itself had been affected by the bolts of might and 
weakness-it was hot in the cabin. The air shimmered with a song 
of power, a rising, throbbing noise that grew louder each moment. 
Neither young man would yield, and the space between them glowed 
brighter by the moment.
    Tocasia raised her hands and shouted something Ahmahl did not 
understand. Neither brother paid the slightest attention, so 
intent were they on their private duel. Tocasia cried out again 
and stepped forward into the bands of red and green, her hands 
raised as if she were trying to physically silence the boys and 
their gems.
    Ahmahl joined her cry himself and leapt forward, but he was 
too late. Tocasia broke one of the ruby-green, jade-red beams. As 
one, both brothers stared up at her. Their concentrations 
slipped, their lancing beams suddenly sprayed in all 
directions... .
    And the room exploded.
    Ahmahl felt himself physically lifted by the blast and thrown 
backward, out where the door should have been. The blast blew 
away all four of the walls and most of the roof and showered the 
observers outside with splinters and flaming chunks of wood.
    Ahmahl realized he was looking at the stars again. They spun 
gently above his upturned face. Slowly he pulled himself to his 
feet, feeling something soft give in his left knee. The old 
digger grimaced and pulled himself up.
    There were moans around him from the wounded onlookers and 
shouts from those attending them. He had not heard the noise a 
moment before and wondered if he had gone deaf for a moment from 
the blast. There were more torches now, he saw, and someone had 
lit a bonfire. Ahmahl staggered to his feet and saw the remains 
of the old cabin.
    It was almost entirely destroyed, only one corner still 
standing. The entire perimeter was smoking, framing the forms 
within. There were two, kneeling over a third.
    Ahmahl limped into the wreckage of the cabin. Tocasia's form 
lay on Urza's lap, while Mishra knelt at her side. She lay like a 
broken doll, her neck canted at an odd angle to her body. Mishra 
held his fingers to her neck, then looked up at Ahmahl. The 
younger brother shook his head.
    Urza looked up as well, ignoring Ahmahl and glaring at his 
younger brother. It was a hate-filled stare that blazed through 
the tears streaming down his cheeks. Ahmahl could not remember 
Urza ever crying in all the time the young man had been in the 
camp. But beneath the tears, the digger saw accusing fury in 
Urza's eyes.
    Mishra fell back from his brother as if he had been struck. 
He rose and staggered a few paces away from Tocasia's body. Urza 
did not move; nor did he say anything. Mishra took a step away, 
then a second, and then the younger brother was running, away 
from the shattered house and into the night.
    No one stopped him in his flight.

                          * * * * *

    Ahmahl laid the last of the cairnstones in place. The 
students had paid their respects, as well as the diggers, and 
Hajar had volunteered to make a marker stone to commemorate her 
resting place. In an area littered with holes and ditches, they 
buried her in the rocky soil of the outcropping where her tarp 
had been pitched.
    Urza remained beside her through the entire day as the body 
was dressed, the prayers spoken (old Argivian invocations and 
Fallaji chants), and the last of the stones were laid over her. 
Of Mishra there had been no sign, and everyone assumed he would 
not be seen again.
    Urza's face was gaunt from grief, and Ahmahl for a moment 
thought the young man could be taken for older than Tocasia had 
been. The digger started to say something to him, but Urza held 
up a hand, silencing him. Ahmahl nodded and retreated, limping on 
his injured knee, leaning on one of Tocasia's old staves for 
support. It was the afternoon of the first day after Tocasia's 
death.
    At dawn of the second day Ahmahl returned to find Urza in the 
same position, as if he had been turned to stone to serve as a 
statue commemorating Tocasia's passing.
    "Master Urza, we must talk," said Ahmahl softly.
    Urza nodded. "I know. There is much to do. There is still a 
school to run, diggings to continue. Things to take out of the 
ground." He said the last in a flat, toneless voice as if it were 
the last thing he wanted to do.
    "We have things we must discuss," said Ahmahl. "Most of the 
other students and diggers are all right, though a handful were 
injured in the blast. Nothing serious."
    Urza nodded, and Ahmahl wondered if Urza had even thought of 
the others in the camp. Or of his own minor injuries. The scrapes 
and bums along his arms and neck already had nasty, dark scabs on 
them.
    Ahmahl shook his head and forced out the words. "It would be 
best to send the students back to Penregon as soon as possible."
    Urza looked up at Ahmahl, surprised. Awareness flickered 
behind the eyes, dead a few moments before.
    "We need to continue Tocasia's work," the young man said, 
stammering in his intensity. "We need to keep going."
    Ahmahl sighed. "The Fallaji follow people more than ideas. 
The Fallaji respected Tocasia, and so the they followed her. They 
might have followed your brother, who lived among them. But you 
they do not know. You rarely spent time with them. They will not 
stay."
    "We can get other diggers," protested Urza, "and there are 
the students. We can use them."
    "Without Fallaji present here, you would be more of a target 
for desert raiders," Ahmahl said. "There are increasing numbers 
of Fallaji who do not like Argivians in what they think of as 
their land. You would have to bring in more men from Argive 
itself. Soldiers. Diggers. It is not a place for students 
anymore."
    Urza's mouth was a thin line. "I see." Ahmahl could almost 
see the young man's thoughts, as one conclusion led to another. 
"Tell me," he said finally, "am I safe here now?"
    Ahmahl looked at the cairn. He had once assured Tocasia that 
there would be no trouble and had been wrong. He would not make a 
similar mistake again. "I do not think you are. The students will 
be safe, but there are those among my people who blame you for 
Tocasia's death. For Mishra's disappearance."
    Urza looked down. "I don't know where he is," he said softly, 
then added, "I wish he'd come back."
    Ahmahl nodded. "I wish he would as well." He put his hand on 
the young man's shoulder. Urza shuddered for a moment, unused to 
the touch, and shied away. The digger dropped his arm and left 
the young man at the cairn.
    A message about the disaster was sent to Penregon by 
ornithopter, and the craft returned with Loran and-to Ahmahl's 
surprise- Richlau. The young noblewoman was to take stock of 
Tocasia's works and writing, while the older nobleman was to 
oversee the striking of the camp. A caravan was already being 
sent out from Penregon by worried parents, fearful that savage 
desert riders were about to swoop down and slay their now-
unprotected children.
    Urza was gone by the time the evacuation caravan arrived. He 
had spent two days with Loran summarizing Tocasia's notes, then 
left with another, smaller caravan heading south. The young man 
told Loran he had no desire to return to Penregon. To Ahmahl he 
made clear he had no desire to remain and watch his beloved camp 
abandoned.
    Of Mishra there was no sign, though Richlau ordered 
ornithopter patrols to try to find him from the air. If he ever 
returned to the camp none saw him, or admitted to seeing him.
    Ahmahl was the last to see Urza off. None of the other 
Fallaji wanted to be near him, and as there was no real work to 
do now, the diggers themselves were drifting off in twos and 
threes. The camp felt like a town of ghosts: still occupied but 
missing its own secret heart. That heart had died with Tocasia.
    Ahmahl watched from beside Tocasia's cairn as the caravan, 
made up of "friendly" Fallaji, wound its way out of the camp. 
Urza was on foot, using one of his mentor's staves as a hiking 
staff. That and a few drained and cracked power stones were the 
only things he took from the camp. Those things and his 
knowledge, thought the Fallaji digger.
    Urza turned, looking up at where Ahmahl stood. No, corrected 
the old man. He was looking at where Tocasia lay. Ahmahl was too 
far away to see the young man's face clearly, but he saw Urza's 
shoulders, dejected and defeated.
    Ahmahl thought he understood. The young man had lost his 
mentor, his home, and his brother, all because of the actions of 
a single night.
    What Ahmahl did not understand-and what would take years for 
him to understand-was which of the three losses was the hardest 
for the young scholar to bear.
    
                            PART 2
                       OBJECTS IN MOTION
                           (21-28 AR)
    
                           Chapter 6
                             KROOG

    Kayla bin-Kroog, daughter of the warlord of the city of 
Kroog, princess of the nation of Yotia, and the most beautiful 
woman east of the mighty Mardun River, was shopping when she met 
the strange Argivian.
    She had sampled the new shipment of plums from the Yotian 
coastal provinces and been shown the sheerest and most colorful 
of fabrics from Zegon. She had been offered the freshest of 
spices from far-off Almaaz and the largest of the great-clawed 
river prawns of the Upper Mardun. A group of Sardian dwarves 
offered to sell her golden earrings, which they swore once 
belonged to their greatest empress. A nomad woman dressed in 
scarves offered to predict the princess's fortune from the lines 
on her palms. And all of this was done with great ceremony and 
respect, which Kayla found extremely pleasing. There were, after 
all, advantages to being a princess.
    She examined handfuls of the lustrous ice-stones of Sarinth, 
gems crystal clear, and hard as steel. She ran her fingers over 
the thick weaves of Fallaji rugs imported from Tomakul. A 
minstrel serenaded her with verses that he swore he made up on 
the spot to honor her. A group of street jesters built a human 
pyramid on her behalf. Storekeepers left their stores with some 
sample of food, linen, or craft they wanted to show to the most 
important woman in the city of Kroog.
    But Kayla bin-Kroog had a purpose to her journey through the 
merchants' quarter. This was no whimsical spree (though if it 
was, none would dare to question it-except perhaps her father, 
who was a bit of a grump about such things). She held that 
purpose in a small clasp purse clutched close to her breast. She 
had not told her father the reason for her journey; nor had she 
informed the guards assigned to protect her person nor even the 
redoubtable matron who served as her official chaperone on such 
larks. But she had a purpose, and that goal brought a spring to 
her step.
    At each stop during her itinerary she asked about the other 
shops nearby. There were taverns, clothing shops, hat makers, gem 
crafters, bead stringers, and all manner of shops, large and 
small. But only when someone mentioned a clock maker did her dark 
brown eyes light up. That would be her next stop, she informed 
the matron, who in turn told the guards, who in turn asked for 
directions and cleared a path through the rabble for her royal 
highness's visit.
    The clock maker's shop was a small one, even by the crowded 
standards of the crowded merchant district of Kroog. It was a 
narrow, two-story building tucked between a blacksmith's forge 
and a jeweler. The first floor was made smaller still by a low 
counter that ran most of the way across the width of the room, 
separating the clock maker's workshop from the display and 
customers.
    The guards remained outside, but only an act of the gods 
would keep the matron from her place, glued securely to the 
princess's side. Kayla's nose wrinkled as she entered the shop-it 
smelled of wood and oil and other things she could not put a name 
to and would rather not try.
    There was noise. One clock ticking was an amusing 
distraction. Ten was an irritation, and here there were no fewer 
than twenty mounted along the right and left walls. Great 
pendulums swung back and forth in smooth rhythms, while other 
timepieces chimed softly to indicate the passage of each fleeting 
instant. It was both charming and overwhelming.
    The clock maker was typical of his breed: well fed, as her 
father would say, turning the reference from one concerning 
another's health to an endorsement of his own farming policies. 
Actually this fellow was a bit more than well fed, verging on 
stout. He could give the matron a run for her money in the heft 
department, and Kayla wondered for a moment if all three of them 
could stand to be in the same building.
    In addition to being stout, the clock maker was balding, with 
gray hair showing at the temples. He wore a set of Argivian 
spectacles common to those crafts requiring detailed work. He was 
dressed in an oil-spattered shirt covered only partially by a 
heavy leather vest. The vest either belonged to a younger 
relation, or had been purchased when the clock maker was thinner.
    "Your Most Esteemed Highness," burbled the clock maker. 
Grovelling was a typical greeting for the princess in Kroog. 
Entire workshops and stores came to a screeching halt at her 
entrance, as the staffs bowed, scraped, and fawned.
    The clock maker twittered with the best of them. "I cannot 
believe how fortunate we are to have your illustrious presence 
gracing my humble shop," he murmured in rapid cadence. "I am 
honored, truly honored."
    "You make clocks," she said sweetly, and the clock maker's 
eyes lit up as if she had just announced the arrival of the gods.
    "Yes, yes," he said emphatically. "This is the House of 
Rusko, home of the Clocks of Rusko, and we bid you welcome. Is 
our most Radiant Majesty interested in a time-keeping mechanism?"
    "No," said Kayla shortly. Indeed, she could imagine few 
things more irritating than clocks. They were necessary, she 
realized, for those poor, sad people who had to be at a certain 
place at a certain time, but that did not apply to her. Events 
began when she arrived, and everyone else was already ready for 
her.
    She set down the clasp bag on the counter and opened it. "I 
have an item here in need of repair. It belonged to my mother, 
but it has not worked in years."
    She produced a small silver box from her bag. It was so 
brightly polished that it seemed to suck sunlight from outside 
the store in order to add to its luster. Kayla caught sight of 
her own reflection in the lid-clear eyes of deepest brown; 
lustrous, raven-dark hair; soft lips that just verged on pouting. 
She liked to think that everyone would make a fuss over her even 
if she were not the daughter of the most powerful man in Yotia.
    She handed it to the clock maker, who turned it over in his 
hands as if it was a live mouse. Carefully he placed a thumb 
against the latch, and the top sprang open soundlessly. "Ah!" he 
said, then repeated for emphasis, "Ah!"
    Kayla was suddenly sure that the clock maker had never seen 
such a device in all his days. "It is supposed to play music when 
it is opened," she said.
    "Yes!" said the clock maker quickly. "Yes, of course it 
does!" He closed the box and turned it over in his hands a few 
times. Then he touched his fingers to his lips, his brow pursed, 
and set it down on the counter. He looked up at Kayla and smiled, 
a kind of greasy leer. "Let me call my assistant for this one. 
Young eyes and deft hands and all that." Without waiting for her 
response, he turned and shouted toward the back of the shop, 
"Assistant! Counter!"
    Kayla looked in the direction of the shout and saw the clock 
maker was addressing a slender, blond man who had been working at 
a bench toward the back. She had not noticed him because he had 
not risen and come forward when she entered. That fact struck her 
as odd. Everyone rose and came forward when she entered.
    The young man was tall but not too tall, lean but not too 
lean, and handsome but not in an obvious way. His hair was the 
color of white gold, pulled into a simple ponytail. He ambled 
toward the front counter, raised an eyebrow, and said, "How can I 
help, Good' lady?"
    Upon hearing his accent Kayla was doubly reassured. The 
clipped tone of his words indicated he was an Argivian, and as 
such unlearned in how to treat true royalty. The king was weak in 
Argive, and she had heard the nobles did as they pleased. Second, 
and more important, she thought, he was an Argivian, and young 
Argivians knew how to handle artifacts and old mechanisms.
    The clock maker presented the silver box. "Her majesty has an 
item in need of repairs," he said, stressing the introduction 
enough so there would be no question as to station with the 
stranger. "It's a music box."
    The Argivian picked up the box and turned it over in his 
hands a few times. To Kayla's eyes he was much more sure of 
himself than the clock maker had been. "And the problem is?" he 
asked.
    "It doesn't work" hissed the clock maker. "It's supposed to 
play music."
    "Oh," said the stranger calmly. "Well, let's see what the 
problem is." He flipped the box over and pressed both thumbs 
against the base. The box gave a sharp, distinct snap.
    Kayla bin-Kroog jumped at the sound, and the clock maker 
looked as if he was going to faint dead away. Had the apprentice 
just destroyed a priceless heirloom? Kayla wondered. Then she saw 
that in reality all the young man had done was slip a panel from 
the box's base. Within the case was a maze of gears and metal. It 
did not seem to belong inside a container so delicate and 
precious.
    "Here's the problem," said the Argivian. His quick fingers 
were delicately probing and poking the apparatus. "The mainspring 
is knocked out of its socket. Hold on." He left the box on the 
counter and retreated to his own bench, returning with a thin 
tool with a crooked tip. "This should do it it," he murmured. 
There was a soft click, and the stranger smiled. "There you go." 
He slipped the bottom panel into place with another loud snap and 
handed it back to the princess. Their fingers brushed as he did 
so.
    Kayla bin-Kroog took the box and opened it. Nothing happened.
    The matron scowled deeply. Kayla regarded the stranger coldly 
and lifted an immaculate eyebrow. The clock maker suddenly looked 
apoplectic. "If you've broken the princess's music box -"
    "Well, you have to wind it," said the Argivian, and Kayla was 
sure there was a hint of smugness in his voice. "You have the 
key, don't you?"
    "Key?" said Kayla.
    "Let me see," said the Argivian, holding his hand out. The 
princess handed the box back, their fingers touching again. The 
young stranger took the music box back behind the counter and 
rummaged through several drawers. Finally he lifted his head and 
returned to the front of the shop.
    "Key," he said. "Found one that fit the winding peg." He held 
up a thick, inelegant key made of some dull, common metal, rusted 
along one side. He inserted the key, gave it a few quick turns, 
pulled it out, and then handed the box back to the princess. "Try 
it now."
    Kayla opened the box, and a soft, tinny music filled the 
shop. For a moment she forgot the incessant ticking that 
surrounded them. It sounded like small pixies playing crystalline 
bells. There seemed to be one tune, and a second, softer one 
playing underneath the first.
    She held the box to her ear and said, "I hear two songs."
    The Argivian nodded. "It's a contra tempo. Two distinct 
melodies in different times weave in and out. I remember having a 
music box like that as a child, though, of course, one not so 
elegant and well crafted."
    Kayla smiled, taking the compliment as a reflection on her. 
She closed the box, and the music stopped.
    "Thank you," she said.
    The Argivian held out the thick key. "Take this with you to 
wind it."
    The clock maker lashed out an arm with a speed that belied 
his girth, then held the key aloft, presenting it formally to the 
princess. "The music box of Kroog with the key of Rusko!" he 
said, laying the key in Kayla's dainty hand.
    The princess looked at the Argivian. "You are Rusko?"
    The Argivian smirked, and it was definite smirk. "He is 
Rusko. I am Urza. And you'll be able to have a better-looking key 
made at any jeweler's."
    "Thank you, Goodsir Urza," she said, with a gracious smile 
aimed directly at the young man. That smile had melted courtiers 
and dashing young captains.
    The Argivian named Urza smiled back, apparently unmoved, and 
said, "Be sure not to overwind it. That's probably what knocked 
the spring out in the first place. Just turn the key until you 
get some resistance." He spoke to the matron, whom he apparently 
assumed would take care of such tasks as music box winding.
    Kayla smiled again but did not offer her hand. She glided out 
of the shop, her matron in tow. The fat woman was scowling, as if 
she had not understood what had just happened.
    Out on the street, the matron said to Kayla, "The jeweler, 
then, milady?"
    Kayla put the silver box back into her clutch purse, but held 
on to the thick, slightly rusted key. "Eventually," she said 
thoughtfully, "but not today. I've had enough shopping for one 
excursion."
    With that the entire procession-guards, matron, princess, 
hangers-on and well-wishers-steered their way back to the 
imperial quarter and daddy's palace.

                          * * * * *

    Inside the clock maker's shop, Rusko remained glued to the 
window until the last of the princess's procession had 
disappeared and the street returned to a semblance of normalcy.
    "The princess!" he said half to himself, rubbing his hands 
together. His voice had returned to normal, "The princess of 
Kroog was here! In my shop!"
    "With an overwound music box." Urza shook his head. "Don't 
they have a flunky in charge of such things?"
    "Mind your tongue, lad," said Rusko sharply. "When news gets 
out that she was in my shop, admiring my clocks, we'll have more 
business than we know what to do with."
    "I didn't notice her admiring any clocks," said Urza.
    "That's because you weren't paying attention!" said Rusko 
with a chuckle. "Which is a tragedy for two reasons. One, she is 
royalty, and you should always pay attention to royalty; they can 
hurt you if you don't. And two, even if she wasn't royalty, she's 
incredibly beautiful."
    "I suppose. I hadn't noticed," said Urza, retiring to his 
workbench.
    "Not noticed?" spat Rusko. A wide smile crossed his face. 
"You must have ice water coursing through your veins, lad. That 
or such beauties are ten for a copper in Penregon."
    Urza did not reply, and Rusko shook his head. The young man 
was a hard worker, but seemed to Rusko that he had no interests 
beyond his own bench.
    Three months earlier, the youth had appeared seeking 
employment. He had arrived on some Fallaji caravan out of the 
desert, but his accent marked him as an Argivian, and probably 
well born as well. Rusko guessed he was some errant scion of a 
noble family. Probably got in trouble with his elders for using 
the wrong soup spoon or something, the clock maker thought.
    Rusko had heard the youth had approached the temple schools 
first, seeking employment as a scholar. Of course, his lack of 
religious training counted, against him. He then sought 
employment among the guilds. His Argivian heritage told against 
him there, too, for most of the guilds took native Yotians first. 
Rusko was a minor member of the clock makers and jewelers guild 
(but poised to expand, he always reminded others) and was in need 
of an extra hand. And the Argivian would work for little more 
than room and board.
    Of course, Rusko appreciated the dedicated nature of his new 
assistant. But he worried that as an Argivian Urza was missing 
the finer things in life. A dour and pragmatic people the 
Argivians were, in Rusko's opinion, and his new assistant 
confirmed that view.
    "I think she took an interest in you," he said after a 
moment. "I noticed the way she looked at you when I presented her 
the key."
    "The Key of Rusko," said Urza, looking up from his work. "Why 
did you make such a fuss when you gave her that key?"
    "Ah," said the clock maker with a fatherly smile. "Let me 
expand your education, young man. Rule number one: always sign 
your work. I don't just sell clocks, I sell the Clocks of Rusko!" 
He waved at the assorted timepieces lining the walls. "Always 
attach your name to your work. That way others know what you did, 
and your fame spreads as a result. A hundred years from now, 
people will remember Rusko and his clocks."
    "Only if they are good clocks," returned Urza.
    "Aye, and ours are the finest!" Rusko beamed. "How do they 
know? Because we tell them so! Always show what you can do. And 
always sign your work!"
    Urza had returned to the partially built clock on his bench, 
and now fiddled with the lever arm of a particularly recalcitrant 
timepiece. "Are you listening to me?" Rusko asked.
    "We tell them," said Urza calmly. "Show what you can do. Sign 
your work. I am listening to you." He did not look up.
    Three months. Three months the Argivian had been working for 
him, sleeping in the shop at nights, and Rusko still knew almost 
nothing about him. He had employed an enigma; a hard-working 
enigma, but an enigma nonetheless.
    Someone needed to show the young man there was more to life 
than his work. Rusko sighed. Failing anyone else suddenly 
appearing, that person would have to be he.
    The older clock maker observed, "You Argivians are such dull 
children. So proper and practical. Why does it hurt to admit that 
you've just seen a lovely vision?"
    Urza set down the lever arm. "Fine. She was very pretty. Can 
I get back to work?"
    "I think it's a lack of gods," said Rusko, holding up both 
fingers to frame his point. "The people of Argive don't worship 
that much, do they?"
    "Once," returned Urza. "Not much these days."
    "That's the problem," said Rusko, placing a palm flat against 
the worktable. "No gods, no life. You've reduced your gods to 
sayings and psalms, parables and dry scriptures. Yotia's gods are 
alive and well! We have an overflowing pantheon and bring more in 
from the hinterlands! Bok, Mabok, Horiel the swift, Gaea the 
earthpower, Thindar, Rindar, Melan-"
    "A god for every occasion," said Urza dryly.
    "Exactly!" cried Rusko. "Whatever you do, some deity approves 
of it, or disapproves of it, or has some dire warning about it. 
It's much more exciting that way."
    "Seems like a waste of energy," said Urza. "Unless, of 
course, you're in charge of the temples that benefit from all 
this veneration."
    Rusko waved at hand at his assistant in frustration. "You 
miss the point. A Yotian would at least admit that he saw a very 
pretty and powerful young lady. He'd enjoy that revelation. You 
are just denying it, and in the process you stunt your soul."
    Urza set down his tools and took a deep breath, then smiled 
deeply and shook his head. "I admit it, Goodsir Rusko! She was 
lovely. Radiant. And now that I have admitted it, what can you or 
I do about it? The warlord probably has her already promised to 
some powerful noble or faction leader to seal an alliance."
    Rusko looked hard at the young man, trying to determine if 
the Argivian was merely making fun of him. Then the clock maker 
smiled. "There you would be wrong, my lad. Oh yes. The warlord 
had a wedding all arranged, but the young man in question 
drowned. His ship reefed in a storm en route to Korlis. And they 
call it the Shielded Sea, by Bok and Mabok! No love lost, of 
course." He snorted. "You saw how deeply she was in mourning. She 
is free for a moment, free to pursue her own interests."
    "But only for a moment," said Urza, "for your warlord 
probably has some other plan for his daughter. And then neither 
you nor I will ever see her again."
    Rusko sighed. The lad had all the romantic spirit of a box of 
nails.
    Urza turned once again to his workbench. "Now, if you would 
like to get back to business, I've found why this old caisson 
clock you have is losing time."

                          * * * * *

    The warlord did have a plan for his daughter, though not one 
that Rusko would have thought of. The warlord had spent his early 
days in battle, married late, and fathered still later. Kayla was 
the apple of his eye and the prize of his kingdom. She was not a 
gift he gave away lightly.
    Around him the warlord saw a nation at peace. His last major 
campaign, in which he had seized and held the Sword Marches and 
incorporated them into Yotia, was decades in the past. An entire 
generation, including his daughter, had been brought up in a land 
without war.
    The warlord hated it.
    He was surrounded by soft men and women: courtiers who used 
words instead of daggers; old generals content to spend their 
declining years playing with their grandchildren; dashing young 
captains who had earned their commendations by keeping clean 
uniforms, not by fighting an enemy.
    Soft, all of them, he thought. Kayla's betrothed had been the 
best of a bad lot, and the warlord had agreed to that one only 
after his own counselors made noises about a successor to the 
throne. And then the damned fool ran aground off Korlis and died.
    He did not want to see his line diminished, as had been the 
blood of the weak kings of Argive. His line needed strength. 
Kayla, his angel, was a strong young woman, and deserved an 
equally firm mate.
    He made the announcement the month after the official 
mourning period for Kayla's intended had passed. His daughter was 
to marry to strongest man in the kingdom. And to find this man, 
the warlord had established a test.
    In the central court before the palace, he erected a great 
statue. It was made entirely of a single piece of jade, twenty 
feet in height, crafted with the warlord's face. It took a team 
of fifteen men to winch it into place. His daughter's hand, he 
decreed, would go to the man who could move the statue from one 
end of the court to the other.
    When the first day of the contest arrived, Urza said that it 
was the stupidest thing he had ever heard of, which statement set 
Rusko off again on a comparative study of Argive and Yotia.
    "That is because you have no romance," argued Rusko, locking 
the shop behind them. Closing the shop seemed to be the only way 
to get the young man to leave its confines, and Rusko saw the 
contest as an excellent chance to expose Urza to the finer things 
that Kroog offered.
    "The idea of mighty quests and impossible tasks is in all our 
folklore, " he continued. "Look at the saga of Bish and Kana, or 
how Alorian vied for Titania's love."
    Urza stopped in the center of the street. "But the legends 
say Bish and Kana died on their wedding day, and Alorian was torn 
to pieces by Titania's hounds after she rejected him."
    Rusko made a harrumphing noise. "I didn't say it was an exact 
comparison." He headed off down the street to the court. Urza 
followed, shaking his head.
    The competition was set for the first of every month, when 
the warlord and Kayla would attend. Most of the city closed down 
for those five hours while sturdy men tried to win the princess's 
hand. Servants cleared the court between the statue and the 
opposite end and set out lines of benches on each side as a 
makeshift stadium.
    Urza and Rusko looked down and saw that a group of thick, 
stalwart men had already gathered in a rough line. The smallest 
was twice Urza's size, and several looked as if they could take 
on an elephant bare-handed. From the scars on a few exposed 
torsos, it appeared some apparently had. At the far end of the 
court was a low riser. Seated on a padded bench were the warlord 
and his daughter.
    As Urza and Rusko pressed into the court, a gong sounded. The 
first suitor strode forward to meet his jade foe. He wrapped his 
massive arms around the statue's knees and gave a mighty heft. 
The towering figure did not so much as sway under his assault. 
The strong man grunted, regained his grip, then tried to lift 
again. The statue was immobile. The gong sounded again, declaring 
the attempt over.
    Another burly individual waddled forward, this one so 
muscular that he was wider than he was tall. He tried to pry his 
fingers beneath the edge of the statue but was rewarded only with 
crushed digits. Another gong, and a third individual locked his 
arms around the statue's legs, bending at his knees for better 
support. This contestant gave a mighty bellow as he attempted to 
pull the jade figure from its moorings. The bellow became a 
scream as the muscular man suddenly let go of the statue and 
dropped to the court's floor, gripping another part of his 
anatomy. The gong sounded and a group of temple healers rushed 
forward to attend to the fallen champion.
    "Come, let's pay our respects," said Rusko, nodding his head 
toward the royal bench.
    There was a moving line in front of the warlord and princess. 
The Yotians passed before the pair, quickly bowing and touching 
their fingers to their lips in the fashion of that city. Rusko 
joined the throng, dragging Urza behind him. The clock maker made 
a full bow and finger-kiss, but Urza merely gave a respectful 
headbob. And then they were past the royal couple.
    "She looked at you," said Rusko as soon as they were past.
    "She did not," said Urza, shaking his head. "She's seen a 
thousand people this day alone."
    "She smiled," countered Rusko.
    "She is a princess," said Urza. "Smiling is automatic for 
such people. Were I she, I would be seriously worried that one of 
those muscle-bound warriors will actually succeed in lugging the 
statue around. I don't think his majesty is breeding for 
intelligence in future generations."
    Rusko shook his head. "You're being too logical, again, too 
pragmatic. Probably she is sure that no one will succeed. Sooner 
or later her father will come up with a more reasonable task. 
What's wrong?"
    Urza was staring intently, at the pile of treasure to one 
side of the dais. "What is that?" he asked.
    Rusko blinked. Urza was pointing toward a large pile of gifts 
laid out over a luxurious swath of gold cloth. There were great 
swords, mirrored shields, and armor of the type that no one had 
worn in generations. Bins of rubies, diamonds, and sapphires 
glittered in the sunlight, accompanied by red-velvet boxes 
holding crowns and diadems.
    "That's the dowry," answered Rusko, and quickly added, "I 
know what you are thinking with your logical mind: 'Why does the 
daughter of the most powerful man in Yotia need a dowry?' Well, 
it's a tradition. Those are all old items belonging to the 
previous warlords. Some date back to the dawn of the nation. Some 
were made before Kroog was even founded.
    "What of the book?" said Urza.
    Rusko had not seen the young man this excited in all the time 
he had been in Kroog. He squinted to see the object to which Urza 
was referring to. "You mean the one next to the ivory shield?" 
"Yes, the large one," said the young man, "What is it?" Rusko 
leaned forward. "It's a book," he confirmed. "Definitely a book."
    "Yes, of course it's a book. But look. On the binding are 
Thran glyphs!" snapped Urza.
    Rusko blinked again. The young man was positively thrilled by 
the discovery.
    Rusko removed his lenses, rubbed them on his shirt, and put 
them on his face again. He shrugged. "If you say so. Can you read 
them from this distance?"
    Urza was silent a long moment, apparently puzzling out the 
geo-metric writing. Then he said, "'Jalum.' Was there a Jalum in 
Yotia's history?"
    "Hmmm," considered Rusko. "I think there was an advisor or 
scholar. Or a philosopher. Long ago, before the temple schools. 
Is it important?"
    Urza looked at the table laden with treasure, then back at 
the princess. As he looked, she was just turning away from him, 
apparently intent on the latest attempt to lift the statue. Her 
face was smooth and impassive and very lovely in the noonday sun.
    Urza chewed on his lip, then said, "Goodsir Rusko, I think I 
want to move a statue."
    Rusko could hardly contain his disbelief. "And I want to fly 
to the moon, and kidnap the harim of the Pasha of Sumifa. I'll 
even settle for my head to hurt less after a night of drinking 
brandy. But I don't expect it to happen. That's rule one in life-
don't expect the impossible, and you won't be disappointed."
    "I do expect it to happen," said Urza, staring intently at 
the huge jade statue. Another contestant was trying to manhandle 
it to no avail. "But I will need supplies." He turned to the 
clock maker, his voice hard and decisive. "Metal bolts, ironroot 
spurs, and other things. Will you help?"
    Rusko stammered for a moment. He was all for romance, but 
suddenly this posed a threat to his own pocketbook.
    "Well, I could give you an advance," he said reluctantly, 
"but you're talking about a sizable outlay."
    Urza nodded, then said, "Have you heard about ornithopters? 
The Argivian flying machines?"
    Rusko nodded. "I've heard traveler's tales." He paused, then 
hissed a question at the young man. "You know how they work?"
    Urza nodded again and said, "I ... helped build the first 
ones. I could give you the plans. If I did, would you provide 
supplies for my work?"
    Rusko felt both his heart and his pocketbook opening to the 
young man. He smiled.

                          * * * * *

    "These are wonderful!" said Rusko, thumbing through the 
plans. The first purchase the clock maker had made was a supply 
of parchment and quills, and the young Argivian spent the night 
sketching out the ornithopters. First was a general description 
in neat lettering. Then page after page of details, showing how 
the levers in the pilot's housing functioned, how the wiring 
operated, of what materials the wings and struts needed to be 
made, and to what dimensions they had to be machined for perfect 
performance.
    Rusko was astounded. All this from the quiet scholar who had 
been repairing his clocks. A trained ape could build ornithopters 
from these plans. No, even Rusko could build an ornithopter from 
these plans.
    "Marvelous," he muttered, leafing through the loose parchment 
pages. "Amazing. A work of art." The clock maker could scarcely 
contain himself, for the machine practically leapt off the page, 
fully realized.
    Urza smiled, but Rusko could not tell if the smile was in 
response to his compliments or for his current work. They had 
curtained off the back of the shop, and Urza had begun 
constructing a new machine there.
    Actually it looked as if he were building a statue of his own 
to counter the jade one of the warlord. It looked like a beast of 
curved metal spars, fashioned in the upright form of a man. Its 
limbs were metal frames, cross-bolted in a thick latticework. Its 
upper torso was thinner metal and ironroot, and it pivoted at the 
base of the spine. One inelegantly long arm drooped at either 
side, each looking like that of a gorilla. A roughly hewn helmet, 
with the faceplate that flipped up or down, served as the head. 
The face guard was open now, revealing a tangle of cables and 
gears set around a single, dull gem.
    It suddenly occurred to Rusko that Urza had smiled more in 
the past few weeks than in all the time the clock maker had known 
him. They had not been the polite, for-the-customer smiles or 
smug Argivian-scholar smiles or even put-up-with-old-Rusko 
smiles. The young man seemed more alive as he tinkered with his 
creation. Rusko had only made one suggestion during the entire 
process. "You've got the knees on backward," he said.
    "Supposed to be that way," muttered Urza, not waiting for a 
reply. He burrowed back into the creature's chest with a spanner.
    In two months the creation had blossomed from a mixed 
collection of parts that Rusko had gathered, cadged, or 
"borrowed" from other shops into a towering giant. It was vaguely 
humanoid, and Rusko wondered if it was based on any living 
creature. It was not a question he wanted answered.
    Instead, late at night, as Urza was checking connections and 
splicing wires, he asked another question.
    "Who is Mishra?"
    Urza's rapidly moving fingers almost dropped the splicing 
tool he was holding.
    "Someone important to you, I assume," continued the clock 
maker.
    Urza stared at Rusko, and for a moment there was a flicker of 
coldness on the youth's face. Just for a moment, the quiet, 
solemn man of the past months was back, and Rusko was afraid he 
had lost the smiling Urza forever. Then Urza sighed and the 
moment passed. He turned back to his machine. "How do you know of 
Mishra?"
    Rusko fought a temptation to laugh. "You rarely sleep, Urza, 
but when you do, you talk. You mention Mishra a lot. And another. 
Tacashia."
    "Tocasia," corrected Urza. "Tocasia ... was my teacher. She's 
dead now."
    "Hmmm," said Rusko. "And Mishra?"
    "My brother," said Urza quietly. He peered more intently into 
the creature's interior.
    "Alive?"
    "I suppose," Urza shrugged. He gazed up with the pretense of 
working on the wiring and leaned back. "I don't know. We parted 
on less than friendly terms."
    "Ah," said Rusko. There was a lot going on beneath the 
surface there, and he felt resistance to his questions. "And you 
feel badly about it," he persisted.
    "I wish there was something that could have been done to 
change things," said Urza. Rusko thought the youth's statement 
was probably true, as far as it went, but there seemed to be 
something more, something yet unsaid.
    A silence grew between the two men. Finally Rusko broke it. 
"In Yotia, we believe a man has many souls. Did you know that?"
    Urza shook his head, but a small smile appeared at the 
corners of his mouth. A put-up-with-old-Rusko smile, the clock 
maker thought.
    "You don't wear the same clothes as you did when you were a 
boy, and you won't wear the same clothes when you're older," 
Rusko continued. "The same applies to souls. You have one soul as 
a child, another as a youth, and several as an adult."
    Urza shrugged. "I wear different clothes. I don't know about 
souls, though."
    Rusko stroked his chin. "Most Yotian faiths believe that when 
you die each of your souls is judged individually. Let us say 
your first three souls were basically good. Then you became a 
robber and a thief and grew a fourth, evil soul. Then you 
repented and lived a virtuous life, growing a fifth, more kindly 
soul. When you die, your souls are judged independently. The 
first three souls, and the fifth, will be rewarded for their 
virtue. The fourth soul will be sent to hell, destroyed, or sent 
back, depending on what gods you venerate."
    "You are going somewhere with this?" asked Urza. His eyes 
strayed toward his machine.
    Rusko smiled. "Only that you may be feeling guilty about what 
happened with your brother. Or your late mentor. Don't. You have 
a new soul since you've arrived here: a Yotian soul. Let that be 
your guide."
    Urza stood for a moment, untangling Rusko's advice. Then he 
shook his head. "Until I talk again with my brother, I will carry 
my regrets with me. But thank you for your advice. It's very ..." 
He paused, then broke into a wide smile. "Much like Kroog 
itself."
    Rusko smiled back, taking the young man's words as a 
compliment. "So," he said, looking up at the titanic figure, 
"does it work?"
    "Not yet." Urza pulled a chain from around his neck. Rusko 
saw that the chain was attached to a large gem, a dark ruby 
flecked with streaks of multicolored fire. Urza climbed the step-
ladder until he was level with the great creature's head, and 
pushed the gem inside.
    Standing on tiptoe, Rusko could see the young man touching 
the ruby stone to the dead, inert gem in the creature's head.
    The gem in the creature's head began to glow, slowly, 
erratically at first, then with a stronger beacon, until it was 
as strong as the stone Urza held. It radiated with a sapphire 
light shot through with sparks of white.
    It was, thought the clock maker, like watching someone set a 
fire by placing a burning stick against another.
    As the new gem glowed, the creature began to move. It raised 
one arm, then lowered it, then raised it again. The gears and 
pulleys at the machine's arm and shoulder whined softly as they 
moved. Urza lowered the creature's visor. The light of the gem 
shone through its eyeholes.
    "There," said Urza. "Now the machine has a new soul as well."

                          * * * * *

    It was the third month of the competition, and for Kayla it 
was proceeding much the same way as the first two. A cavalcade of 
horns and gongs sounded. A throng of well-wishers passed before 
her and her father (though there were fewer with each passing 
month, she noticed). A gathering of overly muscled warriors 
waited their turn to attempt the impossible. Again, there were 
fewer than previously.
    On the first day of competition it had all been a great 
celebration. A month later, at the second trial, it was merely 
interesting. Now, two months after the first day of competition 
for her hand, Kayla felt the whole affair was becoming tedious.
    She reviewed the candidates and suppressed a shudder. This 
lot might look well behind a plow (or pulling one, she thought 
wickedly), but as far as leadership material went, they were 
sorely lacking. Some part of Kayla "s mind gave a mental shrug. 
What did it matter? After the wedding, she would make all the 
important decisions.
    At first, as each took his turn, she imagined what life would 
be like with each of the hulking brutes. That proved to be less 
than appealing, so she soon settled on guessing the nature of 
their injuries after they had failed to move the statue. She had 
counted so far that day ten pulled muscles (three in the groin), 
two burst intestines, seven cases of exhaustion, and a head 
injury. The last was from a young man from the Sword Marches of 
the far north, who grew so frustrated that he head-butted the 
statue. The temple healers hauled him off the field by his feet.
    The current contestant was a grunter, gripping the statue and 
trying to pull it down on top of himself. Kayla did not care for 
grunters. She liked the bellowers better. They made more noise, 
and tended to give up more quickly.
    The lists had thinned out quickly, and there were now bare 
spots among the benches for the loyal subjects. She wondered how 
much longer her father was going to continue this exercise in 
futility. Probably, she decided, until one of the lesser noble 
families made a better offer for her hand. Daddy was always doing 
things in secret.
    Kayla was resigned to her fate. She had always been a dutiful 
daughter, and if her father arranged for her to marry a Fallaji, 
she would live in some desert tent beyond civilization. She was 
no stranger to court politics. For years, she knew, she had been 
groomed to eventually marry in a fashion that would make Kroog 
stronger. The fact that the original target of that marriage had 
the misfortune to die before getting the chance to wed her did 
not change the process in the least.
    She looked at her father as he watched the proceedings. He 
had on his solemn face now: cool, thoughtful, and regal. Would 
the common people think less of him if they knew that after the 
first day he had cursed like a sailor at the failure of the 
contestants, storming around the royal suites for a good hour? 
Probably not, Kayla decided. Her father was a great war hero, a 
valiant warlord, and she suspected this farce being played out 
before her represented one last attempt to prove to himself that 
there were still warriors in Yotia.
    And, she was sure, her father felt he could have lifted the 
jade statue by himself when he was young.
    Another bellowing titan pulled a groin muscle, and Kayla saw 
the lists were empty. No, there were three figures left. One 
slender, one fat, and one shrouded in a great cape and hood, who 
towered over the other two.
    The seneschal walked over to the trio, and there was a quick 
consultation among the two smaller figures and the ruler's 
advisor. The seneschal moved to the warlord's side and spoke in a 
low voice.
    "We have one more candidate," said the seneschal, a quaking, 
nervous man who both loved and feared his warlord, "but it's a 
bit unusual."
    The warlord grunted. "The big one?"
    "No, milord," said the seneschal. "The thin one. He says he 
can move your statue by the strength of his mind, if you will but 
permit it."
    A smile crossed the warlord's face, and Kayla knew that it 
was not one of his more pleasant expressions. "Let him. But tell 
him the penalty for wasting the warlord's time."
    The seneschal bowed and retreated. Kayla stared at the 
newcomers. The slender one was attractive, but it was only in 
proximity to the fat one that she remembered where she had seen 
him before. He was the Argivian clock maker, the stranger with 
the wry smile and clipped accent.
    For a fleeting moment, Kayla allowed her to think about life 
with this one. The prospect was not totally unpleasant. She also 
wondered if he could truly move the statue with his mind, or if 
he would sprain his brain in the process.
    Kayla's memory spun for a moment. Urza-that was the young 
man's name. She still had his key next to her mother's music box. 
And his companion, the fat one. She knew she had heard his name 
at the shop, but nothing came to her now.
    Urza stepped directly before the statue. Behind him strode 
the fat man, helping along the titanic cloaked figure. There was 
a smell in the air, like the air before a storm. The Argivian 
bowed deeply.
    "I thank the crown for the chance to succeed in a task that 
has defeated so many others," said Urza. The warlord waved his 
hand, urging the young man to speed up his speech. Kayla was sure 
that after today Daddy would abandon this method of choosing a 
suitor.
    "I will now move the statue by the strength of my mind," 
declared Urza. Reaching back, he pulled the cape from the large 
figure behind him. There was a collective gasp from the crowd as 
the cloth fell away to reveal the figure beneath.
    It was made of metal, and was human in form. At first Kayla 
thought it was a living being, but immediately she saw that she 
had been mistaken. It was a machine. Of course, she thought. He 
is a clock maker, after all, and an Argivian. The Argivians were 
always poking around the old ruins, trying to find powerful 
devices for their own use.
    "I built this, using my mind," said Urza, and the fat man 
made a harrumphing noise. "That and using the services of Goodsir 
Rusko, maker of fine clocks," the youth added. Let what I have 
built with my mind move your statue."
    The large humanoid machine lumbered forward, and for a moment 
Kayla expected it to pitch over onto the stonework. As it walked, 
the Argivian stayed next to it, speaking to it, guiding each of 
its motions.
    The pair reached the statue. Urza pointed to one side of the 
statue, and the machine placed a hand, metal with fingers of 
polished wood, on that location. He pointed to the other side, 
and the machine placed its other hand there.
    Urza patted the side of the creature, and it began to lift. 
After the bellowers, screamers, and grunters, the silence that 
surrounded the artifact was eerie. There was a slight humming, 
like the space between the notes of Kayla's music box. The metal 
humanoid bent at the knees (which seemed, from the princess's 
vantage point, to be constructed backward) and slowly lifted the 
figure from the ground.
    There was a collective gasp from the crowd as daylight 
appeared beneath the jade statue. The construct pulled the statue 
straight up, holding it about a foot off the ground. Slowly the 
great machine spun on its hips, its spine rotating all the way 
around, so that its knees were pointing forward. Then slowly, the 
machine started to walk toward the opposite side of the court.
    It was slow going. The machine could hold the statue, but the 
courtyard had difficulty supporting both the machine and the 
statue. Paving stones crushed beneath the giant's feet, and at 
one point, the great metal creature pitched precipitously to the 
right as the stones turned to dust beneath the weight of its 
tread. There was a whining noise as wires spooled through 
pulleys, and Kayla was sure she was about to see the mechanical 
equivalent of a groin pull.
    Urza was at the machine's side at once, examining the problem 
and shouting orders. The great metal thing responded, tipped the 
other way, and at last reached its final destination. Urza gave 
one last command, and the machine set down the jade megalith so 
that it faced the royal dais.
    The crowd applauded. Some fled the stands to tell their 
friends the king's statue had been defeated by a metal creature 
made by an Argivian.
    Kayla found herself on her feet applauding as well, but one 
glance at her father stopped her. His face was a storm cloud, and 
veins throbbed at his temples. Wordlessly he rose and turned away 
from the dais, thundering back into the palace. Ever dutiful, 
Kayla rose as well, but allowed herself the opportunity to look 
once more at the talented Argivian.
    He stood there in the center of the court, his machine next 
to him, the clock maker on the other side. The common people were 
already spilling into the courtyard to congratulate him. On his 
face was a wide, beaming smile.
    She decided it was a pleasant smile, and smiled back at him. 
She did not stop to see if he saw her mark of favor, but instead 
turned and followed her father through the palace doors. She only 
hoped the warlord would reach a room with thick walls before he 
exploded.

                          * * * * *

    It took fifteen minutes for the warlord to stop cursing, and 
another fifteen before he was using coherent sentences. Kayla, 
the seneschal, Kayla's matron, and a brace of nervous courtiers 
waited for the storm to abate before even venturing an opinion.
    "The temerity!" he shouted at the rafters. "The insult! How 
dare that ... that ..." His mouth opened and closed for a moment 
until he found the proper word. "Weed! That weed thinks he 
deserves my daughter's hand in exchange for some parlor trick!"
    "Well," said the trembling seneschal, "you did say her hand 
would go to whoever could move the statue." The warlord grunted 
harshly.
    "And you did allow him to try," said the seneschal, gathering 
strength as he spoke. "He said he would move the statue with his 
mind."
    "But he didn't!" bellowed the warlord. "That wind-up machine 
did all the moving!"
    "Well," said the seneschal, "your daughter could marry the 
machine."
    Kayla stifled a giggle, but the joke prompted another cascade 
of war-camp obscenities from the warlord. The seneschal fled 
under the assault, and, Kayla thought at the time, out of the 
discussion entirely.
    "And you!" roared the warlord, turning to his daughter, "what 
have you to say of all this?"
    "Say?" cried Kayla. She was suddenly indignant at being the 
target of his yelling. "I had no say when you wanted me to marry 
that hapless mariner." She charged, stalking toward her father. 
"I had no say when you decided to award me to the strongest ox in 
the kingdom. So now, when someone has finally beaten you at one 
of your little games, I suddenly have a say?"
    The warlord stared at Kayla, stunned by her outburst. His 
shoulders sagged with defeat. "I just want what's best for you. 
But to have to give you to this ... foreigner. This ... Argivian. 
This ... weed!"
    "You are the warlord of Kroog," said Kayla coldly. "You can 
do whatever you want. You can banish him if you want. But if you 
want my opinion, here it is. He has a pleasant face, a good 
shape, and seems rather bright. I would not mind being his 
bride."
    The warlord's brows furrowed, and Kayla wondered which part 
her father was thinking about-the fact that she would not mind 
marrying Urza, or the fact he could have the Argivian banished. 
Behind her came the squeak of the heavy-timbered door, and the 
seneschal poked his head back in.
    "What?" snapped the warlord. Kayla thought that the seneschal 
might evaporate entirely. To her surprise the nervous bureaucrat 
stood his ground and managed a convincing mewl. "A visitor 
requests an audience, milord."
    "The weed?" snarled the warlord. "Tell him we have not yet 
ruled as to the legitimacy of his little trick."
    "Not the ..." The seneschal gulped and continued, "Argivian. 
His, uh, sponsor."
    The warlord looked at Kayla, and the princess nodded 
vigorously. Her father could bully most of the staff. Perhaps the 
little clock maker had a better chance of making Urza's case.
    At first it seemed a vain hope. The clock maker bowed three 
times before reaching the warlord. Each bow being a deep, knee-
buckling affair that consumed time and further shredded her 
father's patience. As Rusko rose from the third bow Kayla walked 
to his side and helped the overweight merchant to his feet, 
escorting him to the warlord.
    "Your Grace and Your Highness," gasped the fat little man. 
"Conqueror of the Sword Marches, Bearer of Prosperity, Master of 
our Fates."
    The warlord flapped his hand impatiently, while Kayla 
wondered if the clock maker talked that way in real life.
    "I bring two messages," said Rusko. "The first is from my 
boon assistant and companion, Goodsir Urza, the Argivian." He 
paused and waited for a response.
    "Go on," snapped the warlord, biting off his words as if they 
were bits of meat.
    The clock maker cleared his voice. "Sir, Urza says that he 
understands if you choose to rescind your challenge, though he 
would be very disappointed in losing the companionship of your 
lovely daughter." He bowed to Kayla, and the princess returned it 
with a nod. She wondered if what the clock maker said about 
Urza's disappointment was true.
    "Is that it?" asked the warlord.
    "The first message, yes," replied Rusko.
    "And the second?" inquired the warlord.
    "The second is from me," said the clock maker. He lowered his 
voice somewhat. "And this is it." He reached into his vest, 
pulling out a sheaf of papers. He handed them to the seneschal, 
who in turn handed them to the warlord.
    The ruler flipped through the pages and grunted, "And these 
are?"
    "Plans, my grace," said Rusko. "Plans for a flying machine, 
an Argivian flying machine, designed by the talented young 
Goodsir Urza."
    The warlord looked from the clock maker, to the plans, to the 
clock maker. "The Argivian knows how to build flying machines? Do 
they work?"
    The clock maker bowed deeply. "I do not know for certain. Two 
months ago, I could not tell you that his mechanical man would 
work. But it has."
    The warlord looked through the papers a third time. "And the 
Argivian might have other secrets locked up in his mind," he 
said, almost to himself.
    "I would presume so," said Rusko. "He is a private man, 
closed to all but those closest to him. Definitely in need of a 
woman's touch to bring out his best." Again he bowed to Kayla.
    The warlord grew silent, and Kayla knew he was weighing the 
alternatives. Finally he said, "Daughter, did you mean it when 
you said you would not mind marrying this ... talented ... weed?"
    Kayla gave a small nod and said, "I spoke truly when I say he 
is the best candidate you have found so far."
    The ruler gave out a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes. Handing 
the plans back to the fat clock maker, he spoke. "Very well. Then 
let us go back out and congratulate my future son-in-law."

                          * * * * *

    The ceremony was ornate, even by Yotian standards. Kroog had 
more than thirty major temples and a host of smaller ones with 
important patrons, and every one wanted to have a say in the 
wedding. Kayla tried to count the number of officiating priests 
but gave up after the fifteenth or sixteenth.
    It was tediously long. Sermons were read. Prayers were 
chanted. Spirits were banished. Gods were invoked. More sermons. 
More prayers. The couple kissed icons. They placed hands on 
scriptures. They danced around a ceremonial pyre. They were 
doused with blessed water and drank sanctified wine. They freed a 
dove and burned a scroll of regrets. They paraded beneath 
unsheathed blades. They received benedictions, blessings, and 
well-wishes. In deference to Urza's Argivian heritage, each wore 
a gold circlet on his or her brow, each of the circlets joined by 
a single silver chain.
    Kayla could not say at what point during the day she was 
officially married to Urza, scholar of Argive, new Chief 
Artificer of Kroog. All she could say was that by the end of the 
day there was no question that she was well and truly married.
    And through it all Urza was understanding, not impatient in 
the way most men were about such things (Daddy was visibly 
uncomfortable after the seventh responsive reading). Nor was the 
young man visibly bored, or apparently making a show of being 
tolerant. He seemed to be taking mental notes on everything he 
saw and commenting on nothing. She expected to see that smug 
Argivian smile during some of the more rustic and traditional 
parts of the ceremony, but he took those with good grace as well.
    And after the interminable ceremonies was an equally long 
procession through the streets, as the people waved and cast 
multicolored streamers and waved colored torches. And then a long 
feast of several dozen courses, each course broken by long toasts 
from anyone who felt he had something good to say about the 
princess and her surprising (if still generally mysterious) 
groom.
    And when at last the ceremonies and the processions and the 
feasts were done, long after the midnight bell had sounded, the 
couple was escorted to their own wing of the palace, into the 
bridal chamber. The dowry had been placed there, along with some 
of more tasteful gifts of various powerful well-wishers. The bed 
was made with sheets of Almaaz silk and dusted with rose petals. 
Incense burned from a dozen small braziers, and the room was alit 
with candles.
    The servants left the newlyweds there, closing the doors 
behind them as they departed.
    Kayla took a deep breath and reached out to her new husband. 
Urza slowly took her hand, and the princess realized that the 
slender young man was trembling slightly and almost flinched at 
the touch. She wondered if he even knew he was shouting his 
nervousness to her.
    Instead she said, "You have strong hands."
    "Working with artifacts," he said, his voice rasping a bit, 
"you need strong fingers."
    "And a strong mind as well," she said, and drew herself 
closer to him. His body felt as tight as the spring in her music 
box.
    "Kayla," Urza spoke into her hair, "there's something I need 
to tell you."
    Kayla froze, but only for a moment. Levelly, she said, "You 
can tell me anything."
    "I-" said Urza, then backed away from her and looked into her 
eyes. "I've been told I talk in my sleep."
    She smiled and pressed two fingers against her husband's 
lips. "It's all right," she said in a throaty whisper. "I'm a 
very good listener." And she kissed him.
    Afterward, Kayla's breathing was long and deep, She slept on 
her side, nestled against Urza's lanky frame. He touched her 
brow, softly. She squirmed in bed, rolled over, and fell in 
still-deeper slumber.
    Quietly, Urza rose from his wedding bed. The sky was still an 
hour from lightening, and the city of Yotia was quiet beneath his 
window. Beyond his sight, a city exhausted by its own celebration 
lay wreathed in sleep, and only a few lights still shone between 
the castle and the Mardun River.
    Slowly, Urza crossed the room. He extinguished each of the 
guttering candles in the room, save one. This he took to the 
accumulated dowry. He looked over the pile of treasure, then 
carefully knelt down and extricated a heavy book, marked with 
Thran glyphs on the spine. The Tome of Jalum.
    Urza took the book to the writing desk on the far side of the 
bedroom. He set the candle in its holder and looked at his new 
wife, lying in the darkness, for a long time. Then he opened the 
ancient book and began to read.
    
                           Chapter 7
                           MAK FAWA

    "Up, slave!" snarled the taskmaster, prodding Mishra's side 
with his goad. The stocky young man groaned and tried to turn 
over, earning another sharp prod. In Fallaji the taskmaster 
repeated the order. "Rokiq! Qayim!"
    Mishra coughed through a dust-filled throat that he was 
awake, and he hauled himself to his elbows to prove it. The 
taskmaster moved on to the next slave as Mishra blinked the dust 
from his eyes.
    His dreams had been wrapped in darkness, utter and black. He 
was alone, all alone, without Tocasia, Urza, or any of the 
others. They had abandoned him. And in that darkness of his dream 
there was singing. Lovely singing, that issued from his green 
stone. But he had lost the stone as surely as he had lost the 
rest of his life.
    Mishra blinked back the last of the darkness and knew that 
his waking world was little better than that of his dreams. He 
was in the camp of the Suwwardi. He had been captured and claimed 
by them. He was property now. He was a slave. He was rakiq.
    After Tocasia's death he had fled northward, toward the 
cavern at Koilos. He didn't mean to at first, he had just fled. 
But his feet found their way into the desert and along the long 
shelf of the mountains, inevitably leading toward the lost 
canyon. The scrubby, succulent plants that etched out their lives 
along the desert's borders provided him with life-giving water 
during the trek. Still, he was thin and weak when the Suwwardi 
outriders found him.
    At first Mishra thought they were rescuers, friends from 
among the Fallaji diggers who had come looking for him, sent by 
Ahmahl or Hajar. But the riders who found him were tougher and 
crueler men than the diggers at camp, hard men with wind-carved 
faces and no patience for outlanders found in their desert. They 
wore broad-brimmed, flat helmets that marked them as Suwwardi, 
each bronze helmet inscribed along the brim with the vows of 
courage in battle.
    The warriors dragged him back to their camp, but only because 
it was nearby. Otherwise they would have simply killed him and 
stripped his body. They took his glittering stone as treasure as 
well, but they did not treat it as anything more than an 
attractive bauble. Mishra had the strength to let out a weak 
shout as they pulled the bag containing the gem from his neck. 
That earned him an elbow to the face, a cuff intended both to 
silence and to train.
    The Suwwardi set Mishra to work with the other slaves. Most 
were Fallaji, captured from other tribes and held until proper 
ransom was established or proper loyalties to the Suwwardi were 
ensured. These captives were treated fairly well, as slaves go. 
There were a few other outlanders as well-hardscrabble survivors 
of caravans that did not pay the demanded tolls for traversing 
Suwwardi land. These slaves the tribe worked to death. Of the 
seven other outlanders who had been among the slaves when he was 
first brought there three months earlier, Mishra was the sole 
survivor. There were a few later additions, but they had died 
quickly.
    There had been no additional outlander slaves since then. The 
Suwwardi had apparently stopped taking them.
    So Mishra worked as a slave. He built. He dug. He dragged 
heavy things. He did not ask questions. Another outlander had 
asked questions and his teeth were removed with a chisel. Mishra 
slept when he was allowed. He ate what he was given, which was 
less than the qadir's hounds received.
    And he dreamed. He dreamed of the darkness and the fractured 
power crystal singing to him. He tried to look for it but found 
he was too exhausted to move, held captive in the prison of his 
own flesh.
    During the day, when he laid stone upon stone, or dug a new 
cooking pit, midden, or grave, he thought of the dreams. This day 
he was digging a trench, for some unknown reason. Occasionally 
his spade struck a bit of old metal from the age of the Thran, 
and he tossed it on the pile of churned earth with the other 
garbage.
    As he dug and thought, Mishra did not hear his name being 
called, not the first time, or the second. Only when a hand was 
laid on his shoulder did the stocky man react. Mishra started and 
raised an arm to protect himself. No one touched an outlander 
with good intent in the Suwwardi camp.
    "Master Mishra, it is you!" cried Hajar.
    Mishra looked up at the one addressing him and saw the young, 
lean-faced digger from Tocasia's camp. The one who had 
accompanied him the night that everything fell apart. But this 
Hajar was wearing a Suwwardi helmet, a pair of swords mounted on 
a harness across his back. And he was smiling.
    "Are you all right?" asked Hajar, in Fallaji.
    Mishra waited a moment, then nodded. He had no use for words 
for the past few months, and few spoke to him beyond simple 
orders.
    A shadow appeared on Mishra's right. It was the taskmaster, 
who had fewer slaves to deal with over time and kept his hold on 
his remaining treasures that much tighter.
    "Do not speak with the rakiq," said the taskmaster sharply.
    Hajar laughed, and Mishra realized that the former digger was 
taller than the one who ordered him about. "Do you know who you 
have digging holes for you?"
    Mishra wanted to say that he enjoyed digging the holes, and 
Hajar should not take that one pleasure away from him. But the 
words were lost on the way to his mouth.
    "This man is a great scholar," continued Hajar. "He knows 
things no one other man knows. He has discovered secrets of the 
Old Ones. And you have him digging ditches!" Hajar laughed again.
    "Scholar!" the taskmaster spat into the dust. "That explains 
why he digs ditches so poorly. Now go away."
    Hajar shook his head. "He should not be digging ditches at 
all!"
    "You're right," the taskmaster exploded. "I expected him to 
die months ago. He is an outlander and a slave. He works for me, 
Maurik the Taskmaster, for the moment. You want him to work for 
you, go to the qadir!"
    Hajar paused for a moment, then said, "I shall. Try not to 
kill him before I return." And Hajar was gone, head held high, 
heading for the center of camp.
    Mishra dug energetically, but the taskmaster was displeased 
with his work. A sharp jab in the side with the butt-end of the 
goad reminded the former scholar that he should not have 
talkative friends. Mishra groaned under the blow and slowed only 
slightly as the ache spread through his body. He let the pain 
pass through him, and resumed his digging.

                          * * * * *

    At the end of the day, the Suwwardi held their was the 
communal dinner. The qadir's tent was fed first, then the 
warriors, then the women and children, then the qadir's dogs, and 
finally the slaves. And the Fallaji slaves were fed before the 
outlanders, for there was a reason to keep the Fallaji alive.
    Mishra was chewing a piece of stale, mold-spotted bread when 
they came for him; men in direct service to the qadir, with their 
broad helmets and ornate necklaces of heavy gold. Ceremonial 
guards, the young man realized. The qadir of the Suwwardi must be 
doing very well, to thus equip his warriors.
    The guards spoke a few words, unheard by Mishra, to Maurik 
the Taskmaster, and the brawny master of slaves retired, 
grumbling, to his own quarters. Then the guards half-marched, 
half-dragged Mishra to the qadir's tent, a broad, wax-colored 
pavilion lit from within. The soldiers stopped outside only long 
enough to remove the heavy hobbles that bound Mishra's feet. Then 
they pushed him inside.
    The tent was soft and smoky. Braziers were lit around the 
perimeter, and Mishra caught the scent of sandalwood and desert 
cedar wafting up from them, mixed with other pungent spices. The 
scent hurt his nose and made his eyes water, but it succeeded in 
dampening the stench of the Suwwardi themselves in these close 
quarters.
    The ground was covered with thick rugs woven from the wool of 
mountain sheep, and stained with food and, in some places, blood. 
Great reclining pillows were scattered about. To either side of 
the room were the immediate relations of the qadir, the hangers-
on, the courtiers, and the ambassadors from the other tribes. At 
the center of the tent was a platform, raised and covered with 
slightly cleaner carpets. This was the qadir's place.
    The qadir was a massive man, thick-shouldered, thick-necked, 
and thick-headed. He was beginning to give in to the results of 
his own success-his belly spilled slightly over the belt holding 
his robes shut. As Mishra entered the tent the qadir was helping 
himself to a great bowl of shelled nuts. At one side of the 
Fallaji leader was seated a similarly built, similarly dressed 
younger version of the qadir. On the other side, standing, was 
Hajar.
    Mishra dropped to both knees, in the Fallaji custom, and 
waited for whatever would come next.
    The qadir snorted down a handful of nuts. "This slave-dog of 
the desert is the one you speak of, Hajar?" he asked, in Fallaji. 
His voice poured out the words like thick coffee.
    "That he is, most eminent one," replied Hajar in the same 
language.
    "And he is a scholar you say?" said the qadir. "A most 
respected one," said Hajar, and Mishra noticed that the young 
version of the qadir was not smiling. In fact, he looked bored. 
The qadir leaned forward and stared at Mishra. "Doesn't look like 
much of anything. Even for an outlander." Laughter rippled among 
the courtiers, relations, and ambassadors.
    "Do you judge your horses by their bridles?" asked Mishra, 
"or by how hard they serve?"
    He said it in a low voice, barely more than a whisper. It was 
a desert saying he had learned from Ahmahl, and the young man 
said it in perfect Fallaji. He did not look up as he said it. He 
did not say it proudly, or angrily. But he did say it.
    The room grew quiet immediately. The qadir shot Hajar a 
venomous look that seemed to melt the young man in place. "And 
the rakiq speaks our language as well," the qadir observed.
    Hajar bowed nervously. "I said he was most learned in a 
number of fields." When the thin Fallaji looked up, the qadir no 
longer looked at him. Instead he regarded the outlander through 
heavy-lidded eyes.
    "You know the legends?" asked the qadir. "Of the Old Ones?" 
"I know of the Thran," replied Mishra. "An ancient race they 
were, which predated all other living races in the land of 
Terisiare. They left no bones of themselves, but they left the 
bones of their machines across the deserts."
    "Bones you outlanders pick at like vultures!" snapped the 
qadir. Hajar saw Mishra hesitate for a moment. When he spoke, the 
scholar chose his words carefully. "Those nations of the eastern 
coast seek to understand that which has come before, the better 
to understand what is to be."
    The qadir made a grumbling noise that sounded like an 
unsettled stomach. "There are some things that are best not 
known. The Old Ones may discover you picking through their 
garbage and punish you for your effrontery. And punish us for not 
stopping you."
    Another silence from Mishra, then the Argivian said, "As you 
say, most eminent one." He did not look down now, and his face 
was an impassive mask. Hajar could detect not a trace of sarcasm.
    Neither could the qadir. He leaned back on his pillows and 
snatched a huge metal wine cup from its tray. "So. You are a 
scholar?" he inquired.
    "I am but a student," returned Mishra. "But I have much 
knowledge."
    "You know your Fallaji well," said the chieftain.
    Mishra shrugged. "I had good teachers. It was one more tool 
in learning the past."
    The qadir rumbled again. Hajar had already surmised that the 
leader of the Suwwardi had little time for, or interest in, the 
past. "You know the outlander languages? Argive, Korlis, and 
Yotian?" He spat the last name like a curse.
    "They are one and the same language," said Mishra calmly, 
"though there are differences in dialect and accent. The dialects 
diverged over centuries due to-"
    The qadir held up a hand, and the young man was immediately 
silenced. "You know your calculations?"
    "I do."
    "I have nine patrols of eight men each. How many men do I 
have?" asked the qadir.
    "Seventy-two," replied Mishra immediately.
    "Four of those patrols are mounted on horseback. How many 
legs are there?" said the qadir with a harsh smile.
    "Two hundred and seventy-two," returned the Argivian 
smoothly, apparently without thinking.
    The qadir's face darkened again, and he looked at Hajar. The 
younger Fallaji thought for a long moment, his fingers twitching 
as he sorted mounted and unmounted troops, and number of legs of 
each. Then he nodded.
    The qadir regarded the stocky slave with stony eyes. "You 
will do." To the guards he said, "Take him out and bathe him." To 
Mishra he said, "Rakiq, you will be my son's tutor. Teach him to 
speak your language and master his calculations. Do this, and you 
will be treated well. Fail me, and you will be killed."
    Mishra rose and bowed deeply. "As your will is merciful, 
Eminent One." The two guards flanked Mishra again. One of them 
still carried the hobbles. The other put a hand on Mishra's 
shoulder. The stocky Argivian turned and left without saying a 
word.
    Hajar noted that throughout the entire conversation, the 
young qadir, the smaller version of his father, had said nothing 
and seemed no more interested in his new tutor than in anything 
else in the tent.

                          * * * * *

    Hajar had left the Argivians' camp when the last of the 
outlander students had fled back to their coastal lowlands and 
the bits of metal they had excavated had been carefully shipped 
away on ox-drawn carts. He wanted Ahmahl to come with him, but 
the old digger chose to remain in the area.
    Hajar joined one band of nomads, and then another, finally 
finding his way to the qadir's camp. A distant relation on each 
one's mother's side gave him tentative entrance, and his hard 
work and bravery in a raid against a merchant caravan cemented 
the young Fallaji's position within the camp hierarchy.
    But now he had taken a risk, recommending one of Tocasia's 
students as the young qadir's tutor. His own fortunes would be 
tied to those of the Argivian now, and Mishra's failure would be 
considered his own.
    Hajar visited Mishra's new quarters, a small open-sided tarp 
near the cook's, whenever he could. When Mishra was not teaching 
he was expected to aid in the preparation of meals-simple, 
lumpish tasks such as fetching wood, tending the fire, and 
butchering meat for smoking.
    At first things did not seem to go well. At ten years old the 
young qadir had no more interest in language and calculations 
than did his father. Worse, he seemed utterly repelled by the 
idea of being taught by anyone, particularly an outlander.
    Mishra, for his part, was desolate. "I will be back digging 
ditches back within a fortnight," he said one evening to Hajar, 
as he hobbled to gather more brush to tuck into the fire pit.
    Hajar knew better. To fail the qadir did not result in 
demotion, but in death. Neither he nor Mishra had asked if there 
had been previous tutors, but the implication was that there had 
been; there were Argivian books in the young qadir's quarters, as 
well as an abacus. Both books and abacus had been apparently 
untouched by the chieftain's son's hands.
    "He does not want to learn," said Mishra firmly, "and I will 
not spend my days speaking to a wall." The Argivian let out a 
deep sigh. "All he cares about is battle and the great things his 
father has done and what he will do when he becomes qadir."
    "Perhaps I could speak with the qadir," said Hajar, then 
shook his head at the foolishness of his own idea. The father 
cared even less about knowledge than his son, except he demanded 
that his son know what he did not. It was a demand with the steel 
edge of a sword master's blade.
    "At best, he fidgets," resumed Mishra. "At worst, he sleeps. 
I once prodded him awake, and he had his guards beat me." The 
stocky scholar rubbed his shoulder. "It is not something I want 
to do again."
    "I am sorry it is not working out the way I had hoped," said 
Hajar.
    "I as well," returned the scholar. "And it just seems so ... 
hopeless. I feel empty inside. Empty, and useless." Indeed the 
Argivian looked as if he had not slept for some time. It could 
not be the work, thought Hajar, for his life was slightly easier 
in that regard. It had to be something else. Perhaps his own 
sense of failure gnawed at him.
    Hajar was silent for a moment, then said, "Why did you learn 
Fallaji?"
    Mishra looked up at the younger man. "What?"
    Hajar continued, "The Argivian woman knew our language, but 
she had to deal with Ahmahl and the other diggers. None of the 
outlander students seemed particularly interested in learning 
more than the curse words. Your brother never learned, as far as 
I know. But you did. Why?"
    "My brother was interested in devices, in things," said 
Mishra wearily. "I have always found people more interesting."
    "There were 'people' among the Argivian students," said 
Hajar. "Why did you learn our language?"
    Mishra shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I wanted to hear 
the old legends of your people. The genie nations, the heroes, 
and the princesses. The dragons you call mak fawa and the 
warriors. When they were put in my language the stories always 
seemed dry, shriveled things, bloodless and lifeless. They meant 
more in their original tongue."
    "And don't you outlanders have your own legends?" asked 
Hajar. "Old battles and legends."
    "Well, of course," said Mishra. "There was the tale of the 
Gray Pirate who raided the Korlis coast, and of the warrior-queen 
of Argive who lived five hundred years ago. There are all manner 
of old god stories that they only believe in Yotia and other 
backward nations."
    Hajar smiled. "Perhaps your young charge would rather hear 
about those stories instead. And that might encourage him to 
learn the language as well."
    Mishra thought for a moment, then nodded.
    "And put your calculations lessons in terms of things he 
understands," continued Hajar. "Remember the question the qadir 
put to you? Probably that was how he learned his ciphers and 
fractions."
    Mishra did not say anything for a moment but stared into the 
cook fire. "You might be right," he said at last. "It's worth a 
try at least."
    "Worth a try for both our sakes," said Hajar. He added, 
"Also, you can teach him how to curse in Argivian. I'm sure the 
boy would like that as well."

                          * * * * *

    Several months passed. Things seemed to go better for the 
Argivian scholar, and Hajar allowed himself to relax. If anything 
went wrong at this late date, it was unlikely that he would now 
be remembered and blamed for recommending the young man's tutor.
    Indeed, Mishra's lessons, now couched in Argivian history and 
Yotian mythology, seemed to have more than their desired effect 
on the young qadir. He had gathered a basic feel for the 
outlanders' language, and had professed even an interest in 
Argivian customs beyond the battlefield.
    The youth's temper toward his slave tutor had improved as 
well, and the beatings became less frequent, then disappeared 
entirely. Nor, according to Mishra, did the youth sleep in class 
anymore. Indeed, the young qadir seemed almost to warm to the 
Argivian scholar, and oft-times now Mishra was spared from his 
cleaning duties in order to finish a tale begun earlier in the 
afternoon.
    One evening Mishra had asked Hajar to attend as the young 
qadir recited the tale of the Gray Pirate and the Last of the Sea 
Dragons. There were about a dozen attending, but only Hajar and 
Mishra understood what the boy was saying fully. He would tell 
part of the tale in Argivian, then speak again in Fallaji. The 
Fallaji versions were much more florid, obscene, and bloody in 
their descriptions, but Mishra did not correct the youth.
    Soon afterward Mishra's hobbles were removed, though he still 
was expected to tend the cooking fires when not in the young 
qadir's company.
    Hajar's own life went well. Many of the local tribes swore 
fealty to the Suwwardi. The clan's raids had become more 
effective and the tribes more prosperous. Merchant caravans were 
held for tolls and in some cases outright ransom. Several 
Argivian settlements on Fallaji land were removed by fire and 
sword. When the Argivians sent their slow, heavy-armored patrols 
into Suwwardi lands seeking retribution, the more nimble Fallaji 
had evaded them.
    So it was with some surprise when Hajar, following one such 
raid, was summoned to the qadir's tent. Save for the ceremonial 
guards, no
    one else was present. The qadir leaned back on his pillows, 
turning something large and green in his fingers. Hajar entered, 
knelt in respect, and waited.
    "You know the rakiq tutor," said the qadir presently. He did 
not look in Hajar's direction,
    "I do," said Hajar, rising after being addressed. He suddenly 
wondered how much he should admit regarding Mishra.
    "He has done well," said the qadir. "The boy knows his 
additions and subtractions, his ciphers and fractions. And he 
speaks outlander passingly well, I am told."
    "Very well, indeed," said Hajar. "I have heard him speak, and 
his words are well formed and proper."
    "The boy is doing well," said the qadir. "Perhaps too well."
    The qadir let the statement fall into silence. Finally Hajar 
said cautiously, "How so, Most Eminent One?"
    The qadir held up the green object to his eye, regarding it 
as a merchant inspects his stock. "Do you know what this is?"
    Hajar had never seen it before, but he knew at once what it 
was: one of the power stones that Tocasia and the brothers had 
always made a fuss over. It still held its energy, for it glowed 
with a bright jade sheen. This one glowed even though it had been 
broken, sheared along one side.
    Hajar thought of one of the stories around the diggers' fires 
after the brothers returned from the Secret Heart. Of the pouch 
that Mishra had kept around his neck. Carefully he chose his 
words.
    "It looks like an Eye of the Old Ones," he said, using the 
Fallaji word for the power stone.
    The qadir grumbled, making that low, camel-about-to-spit 
sound that so unsettled Hajar. "Indeed. There are Argivians, and 
Yotians as well, trespassing into the desert looking for trinkets 
such as this. What do you know about this particular one?"
    Hajar was silent, attempting to gather his thoughts, but the 
qadir pressed on. "This one was taken from the rakiq tutor when 
he was captured. It was put among my treasures and forgotten. But 
my son asked about it the other day, and I had it brought out. 
Why does my son request it?"
    Hajar was silent for a moment, hoping that this was another 
rhetorical question. It was not. At last he ventured, "Probably 
the tutor mentioned it to him, and he was curious."
    The qadir gave a low harrumph and said, "And perhaps he wants 
it back, eh? Now why would the rakiq want this particular stone?"
    "Perhaps it has special meaning to him," replied Hajar 
quickly. "Look at the way it is cut along one side."
    "Shattered, not cut," returned the qadir shrewdly. "And 
shattered Eyes are often useless and dull. This one still holds 
whatever fire the Old Ones imbued it with. So this may be 
special. The question is, how special is it?"
    Hajar thought of that last night in the Argivian camp, and 
the unearthly lights that had shown from the brothers' cabin. The 
stones, Tocasia had said; she had said something about the 
stones. Then there had been the blast and the fire, and Mishra 
had disappeared into the desert until Hajar had found him digging 
a ditch in the qadir's camp.
    He had never asked what had really happened that night. He 
had assumed it was something that Mishra's older brother, the 
lean, spooky one, had done.
    Hajar gulped for a moment, then said, "I cannot say, 
Respected One."
    The qadir made that low gurgling noise again and said, 
"Neither can I. And for that reason I will deny it to my son, so 
he is not tempted to pass it into the hands of the rakiq. I will 
keep it myself and see if it carries any power of the Old Ones."
    He slipped the gem into a voluminous pocket of his vest and 
shifted position, facing Hajar fully, now. He laced his fingers 
before his face and said, "The question now is, why would the boy 
ask for something on behalf of a rakiq?"
    Hajar stammered, then said, "It could be that your son heard 
of the stone from the rakiq and wanted it for his own."
    The qadir tilted his head for a moment, as if considering 
that option for the first time. "Perhaps," he said, shaking his 
head. "Or perhaps he wanted to retrieve it for his friend and 
tutor."
    Hajar searched for the proper words. "A qadir's son would 
never be friends with an outlander rakiq."
    "Agreed," replied the qadir. "My fear, though, is that he 
listens to the outlander too much. He leans on him, as a man 
leans on a crutch. And if one leans too often, one forgets how to 
walk on one's own."
    Hajar said softly, "I do not think you need to fear that 
occurring."
    "I fear nothing," said the qadir quickly. "But now the boy 
will ride on our raids as well. He is young but not too young to 
learn a man's craft of battle. He will be taught when he is in 
camp, but otherwise the rakiq will have only the cook fires to 
worry about. Tell me, if he spends his time on our raids, will 
the boy still know enough by the end of next year to be 
considered educated?"
    Hajar thought for a moment. The qadir's son was now more 
knowledgeable than most of the other Suwwardi in camp. But 
somehow he felt that was the wrong answer. Instead he spoke most 
of the truth. "By the end of next year. Yes, he would."
    The qadir leaned back on his pillows. "Excellent. When the 
boy comes of his majority, he will no longer need the crutch. And 
when that time comes, that crutch will be broken and cast aside. 
Do I make myself clear?"
    Hajar looked into the qadir's porcine eyes. It was very clear 
indeed. The qadir worried about his son's loyalties. When the 
time came, Mishra would be taken out into the desert and killed 
quietly. Hajar would oversee that slaying on the qadir's command.
    Hajar heard himself say, "As you wish, Respected One. Your 
words are as law." The qadir waved him off, and Hajar knelt 
briefly, then fled the tent.
    Hajar's mouth felt as if it had been filled with dust. He had 
heard the qadir's death warrant, and he knew if he disobeyed he 
would be signing his own. And for what? A pack of fatherly fears 
and half a stone.
    Hajar walked past the prince's tent and saw, through the 
opening, Mishra and the young qadir talking. Their voices were 
low, but they frequently broke apart and laughed, sharing private 
jokes. The qadir's son motioned, and Mishra poured drinks. He 
lifted his cup and joined the young qadir in a toast of nabiz.
    Hajar frowned. Perhaps the old qadir was not wrong in his 
worries about his son. Perhaps as a youth the qadir himself had 
had a friend upon whom he depended, and who mysteriously 
disappeared one day. Perhaps, thought Hajar, that was the nature 
of being a leader: one relies on others, but one does not depend 
utterly on them.
    Hajar decided to walk back to his own quarters the long way 
around. He would not tell Mishra and could not tell the qadir's 
son. He would hope that once the lad had more battle experience 
he would be less interested in the scholar's teachings. With that 
diminished interest, the qadir's fears and the death sentence 
would vanish. Unlikely, thought Hajar, but possible.
    After all, a lot could happen before the end of the next 
year.

                          * * * * *

    Mishra dreamed.
    As his body healed from its beatings and his spirit recovered 
from its daily exhaustion, Mishra's dreams grew stronger. 
Sometimes he dreamed of Tocasia, sometimes of his brother. But 
most often he dreamed of the stone, as it sang to him out of the 
darkness.
    He had told the qadir's son of the stone, and the boy had 
discovered that, yes, his father still had it in his possession. 
Mishra knew this already, for the stone held him to the camp as 
no hobbles ever could.
    So he dreamed of the stone, imagined it spinning in space, 
singing its plaintive dirge, crying out to him. He wanted it 
back. He wanted to go to it.
    And in his dreams he went.
    In the dream he awoke and realized he was somewhere else, far 
from the Suwwardi encampment, far from the desert itself. Far 
from the world.
    The sky above him was not filled with the familiar Fallaji 
stars, the thick light-dotted soup of the night sky. Instead it 
was overcast and dark, flickering with diffused pulses of 
lightning. He could see in the darkness, and he realized he was 
atop a low, bare tor, surrounded by thick vegetation.
    He heard the singing of his gem in the distance, and he moved 
toward it.
    The vegetation around the bare hillock was thick and tangled, 
but he moved through it as if he were a wraith. It was a riot of 
bright yellows and oranges against darker leaves. He paused and 
saw the leaves themselves had a strange sheen, as if they had 
been stamped from steel plates. The flowers as well were metallic 
and dripped foul-smelling ether instead of nectar.
    He touched one of the leaves, and it reverberated to his 
touch. Its keening matched that of the stone, and he ignored the 
leaf, following the heart-tugging wail of his gem.
    He made a detour around a great pool with an oily film 
dancing across the surface. He looked away for moment, and 
something large and black surfaced in the pond, then dived again. 
When he looked back he saw only slowly spreading rings rippling 
out toward the borders. The water moved oddly, as if it were made 
of something thicker and more syrupy than ordinary water.
    He found a clear-shelled egg and for a moment thought it was 
his missing gem. On closer inspection, he saw that the hand-sized 
egg had a translucent shell, and within that shell a small, gold-
colored creature was growing. No, not growing, he realized; being 
assembled. Smaller golden creatures were moving spans and joints 
around within the shell, assembling it like one of Urza's 
devices. As he watched, the thin form of a lizard's skin and 
skull appeared in the murky darkness of the egg.
    Then the singing began again. He set the egg down and 
followed the siren call.
    It began to rain, and the rain tasted like tears, leaving 
oil-streaked patches on his clothing.
    He followed the song.
    Finally he reached a building, a pyramid among the jungle of 
metal plants. The building's architecture seemed familiar. It was 
made of ropy roots and metallic cables. There were markings along 
the side of the building, but in his dream he could not decipher 
them.
    The plants had pulled their trailing roots away from the base 
of the pyramid, and Mishra saw a set of stairs leading upward to 
a small alcove. Within that cave shown the greenish light of the 
power stone.
    Yes, he had seen this type of building before. He had been 
inside one, once, in a hallway lined with mirrors when he had 
first gained the stone-the stone that now waited for him.
    There was a loud metallic crash to his right among the thick, 
serrated leaves. A huge brass head erupted from the surrounding 
vegetation. At first Mishra thought it was a giant serpent, for 
it had a huge triangular head mounted at the end of a looping 
metallic neck. Then the beast emerged fully, and Mishra saw the 
neck was moored to a huge, elephantine body, with leonine paws 
ending in sharp, steel claws.
    It was a dragon, but a mechanical one, crafted by unknown 
hands and granted inhuman life. Its eyes were dull, flickering 
blue gems; steam vented from its nostrils and leaked from its 
joints. It was an engine built in the shape of a great wyrm.
    The dragon engine saw Mishra and let out a low, challenging 
bellow. Then it began to move forward, half-loping, half-
slithering from its jungle hiding place.
    Mishra froze for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he 
fled up the stairs, toward his lost gem. His dream logic told him 
that if he reached the gem, everything would be fine.
    The stairs seemed to elongate endlessly, and his feet were 
suddenly mired in tar. Still he pressed upward, feeling the hot 
breath of the dragon engine behind him. Finally he reached the 
top of the steps, and his fingers closed around the green gem.
    At the first touch of the gem a wave of peace washed over 
Mishra, and he forgot the steam-dripping engine behind him. When 
he did turn, the creature was no longer trying to scale the 
stairs to reach him.
    Instead it lay along the length of the steps. Its ears were 
laid back along its head, and its eyes flickered not with rage 
but with obedience. Steam dribbled weakly from its nostrils.
    It was waiting for him to tell it what to do.
    Mishra held up the gem, and its light bathed the creature 
fully. It was truly a mechanical engine in dragon form. Its 
forelegs were like that of a dragon, but instead of rear limbs it 
possessed a set of linked plates curled over a collection of 
smaller wheels. Treads, thought Mishra. The device carried with 
it a continual road that could be laid down before it and picked 
up afterward. It made perfect sense.
    "Interesting."
    Someone said the word, and Mishra wheeled around. No one 
spoke again, but Mishra heard the word echoing in his mind. There 
above the alcove was perched the mirror figure from his earlier 
vision, a creature of bones, armor, horns, and tendrils. Somehow 
Mishra knew this was more than just another construct, with its 
exposed muscles of ropelike cables and its backward-pointing 
horns. It was a living thing, a powerful one, and unlike the 
engine it would not be cowed by the power of the stone.
    The creature perched over the alcove regarded Mishra for a 
long moment. The young man was dimly aware that the long tresses 
along the creature's horns were more like draped tentacles and 
moved of their own volition.
    Then the creature laughed at Mishra, a dry, hollow laugh, the 
laugh of a skeleton. "Give me the stone!" shouted the creature 
and leapt down on top of him.
    Mishra screamed. He tried to wake himself up, tried to force 
himself to run, tried to force the dragon engine to defend him. 
But the horned creature laughed, and Mishra felt its clawlike 
grip close around his own hand, the one holding the gem. There 
was a wrenching pain along his arm as the creature pulled the gem 
away, taking Mishra's arm with it.
    Mishra screamed again and woke. He was in his tent, the open-
sided tarp pitched near the cooking fire. One of the guards was 
by the fire, looking at him but not moving either to help or to 
punish.
    Mishra looked at his left arm. It was still there, though 
there were streaks of red along its length, as if a briar had 
worn its way along its length. Or as if claws had grabbed it.
    His fist was clenched tightly; slowly Mishra opened his 
fingers. There was no green gem at the center of his hand. There 
was nothing at all.
    Mishra took a deep breath. It was a dream, more savage and 
lifelike than before, but still a dream. He exhaled slowly. Then 
the ground beneath him began to shake.
    Hajar was on guard duty that night, but at the far perimeter 
of the camp. One of the survivors later said he heard the young 
qadir's rakiq cry out a curse before the abyss yawned open and 
released its hell-creature, but that could have been something 
added after the fact. So much of what happened that night was 
later embellished.
    At first Hajar thought it was nothing more than a night 
tremor, a shifting of the sands cooling after the hot summer 
heat. Sometimes a ripple like that traveled thousands of miles 
from the Sardian Mountains all the way to Zegon. Some said such 
tremors were omens, but then, in the desert, anything the least 
bit unusual was assumed to be an omen.
    But a night tremor lasted for a moment, perhaps two, then 
subsided. This one persisted for a full ten seconds. Then it grew 
stronger. Already the camp was reacting to the assault. The goats 
rushed from one end of their pen to the other, looking for some 
means of escape. Several of the horses, tethered for the evening, 
pulled at the reins, trying to escape. There were shouts among 
the camp as guards called to each other and sleeping Fallaji 
awoke to find the earth rippling about them.
    Hajar shouted but did not know if he made any noise. Already 
the roar of the earth was more than his ears could take.
    Tents came loose from their moorings and collapsed. The low 
fence around the goat pen was shaken free, and the goats, a 
flurry of white and gray, bounded to freedom. The horses pulled 
their pegs loose from the ground and fled into the night.
    Then the mak fawa escaped from its earthen prison and bored 
up through the center of the camp.
    It was a dragon of the old legends, its head a wedge-shaped 
spike that effortless plowed from the ground, followed by a 
chainlike neck, and finally a great body made of metal ribs. It 
took a moment for that to sink in on Hajar. The mak fawa was made 
entirely of metal, its brass hide shining in the moonlight.
    Several of the guards were already fleeing, but more were 
rushing toward the monstrosity. The creature had appeared from 
below, near the center of the camp, near the qadir's tent. In 
some Fallaji, that inspired loyalty, in others, fear. Hajar felt 
nothing more than life-saving caution. Gripping his spear, he 
spiraled around the perimeter of the camp, hoping to pick up some 
reinforcements before charging the beast.
    Some of his brethren would not wait to gain allies and were 
already attacking the creature. In response, it snaked its head 
down in a leisurely gesture and snagged one of the attacking men. 
Its jaws closed on the head and shoulders of the attacker, and 
the warrior screamed. The scream continued as the dragon snapped 
its head up like a whip, opening its jaws as its head reached its 
highest point of the arc and releasing its attacker. The scream 
sailed over Hajar's head and was suddenly cut short when the 
warrior landed in the darkness beyond the camp.
    Other warriors were attacking now, but their curved swords 
and barbed Suwwardi spears had no more effect than if they were 
trying to hack through a stone wall. The dragon's head darted 
forward again and came up with the struggling form of another 
warrior. This one it shook back and forth, like one of the 
qadir's dogs tormenting a hare. It flung that man away as well 
and slowly climbed the rest of the way out of its pit.
    Hajar wanted to charge as well, as many of the warriors were 
doing, to protect their qadir and their camp, to gain revenge 
against the creature. But the part of him that had worked for 
Ahmahl in the Argivian woman's camp knew what the thing had to be 
and who would best know how to handle it.
    He found Mishra huddled beneath his tarp, curled into a small 
ball.
    "The dream," he muttered, his eyes welded shut. "The dream." 
It seemed to, Hajar as if the youth were trying to wish the 
creature away.
    "It's real," snapped Hajar, adding in Argivian, "It is a 
device. An artifact. You know about such devices. How do we 
defeat it?"
    The outlander's words seemed to pull the scholar from his 
panic. "Of course," he said slowly. "It has to be a device. 
Perhaps not Thran, but still a device. I must have the stone!"
    "Stone?" said Hajar, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his 
stomach.
    "A green gem, cut in half," said Mishra quickly. "They took 
it from me when I first came here. With it I can weaken the 
dragon engine."
    "I've seen it," said Hajar, turning toward the battle. 
Quietly he added, "The qadir has it."
    Hajar looked across the devastation that the dragon engine 
had already created. Women, children, and elderly were already 
fleeing the camp, while the warriors had regrouped for another 
assault. The Fallaji youth saw the broad figure of the qadir 
among them. There was a flash of green against the qadir's broad 
chest.
    "There!" Hajar pointed to the large figure of the Suwwardi 
chieftain. "He has it!" He did not wait to see if Mishra was 
following but leapt forward into the fray.
    Hajar was about two hundred paces behind the main mass of men 
led by the qadir. His position saved his life.
    The dragon engine leaned forward and opened its mouth in 
front of the charging concentration of men. There was the sound 
of a whirlwind within the great beast's body, and it breathed a 
gout of red-tinged steam.
    Hajar heard screams ahead of him as the billowing cloud 
enfolded the warriors. He felt the heat and staggered back a few 
paces, then charged forward again into the quickly dissipating 
cloud.
    The men had been cooked where they stood, their flesh peeled 
back and charred by the heat. Hajar felt bile rising in his 
throat, but he looked around for a large form; a form that had to 
be the qadir.
    Hajar found him facedown in the dirt, a growing pool of blood 
beneath his body from where the steam had disintegrated the 
qadir's skin down to the bone. Cursing the task, Hajar knelt next 
to the old man's corpse and began rifling his pockets. Hajar 
looked up only once, to see an assault led by the qadir's son 
make a minimal impact on the creature's armored hide.
    The qadir had been true to his word and had kept the stone 
close to him. It glowed now, reflecting the embers of the charred 
flesh around it.
    Hajar grabbed the stone and made the mistake of looking up 
again. He stared directly into the eyes and maw of the mak fawa.
    There was thought behind those eyes, Hajar realized. This was 
not like the su-chi or the plodding onulets of the Argivian camp. 
There was an intelligence within those eyes and a malignancy 
behind that intelligence. The mak fawa looked at Hajar and knew 
in an instant who he was, what he was holding in his hands, and 
why he could not use it.
    The dragon opened its mouth, and there was the sound of 
desert wind again. Hajar knew what to expect next and bolted for 
the perimeter of the camp.
    His back blazed as the passing cloud of steam dissipated 
around him. Then he was free of it and saw Mishra approaching 
from the other direction.
    Hajar looked back. The mak fawa was already breaking loose of 
its bank of steam. It lumbered forward toward them.
    Hajar turned and tossed the half-stone at Mishra. Then he 
jumped aside, covering his face with his arms on the chance that 
Mishra did not truly know what to do to defeat the dragon engine. 
Maybe, he thought desperately, the dragon would think him dead 
and pass him by.
    For a long moment Hajar held his position. At any moment he 
expected to feel the dragon's wrath. When it did not come he 
slowly moved his hands away from his face.
    The mak fawa was supine, looking for all the world like one 
of the qadir's (no, Hajar reminded himself, the late qadir's) 
dogs. Its steel-taloned paws were drawn up under its forward 
haunches, and Hajar noted that instead of rear feet it had a 
curious set of wheels and plates. The dragon engine's neck was 
bolt-straight and lying flat on the ground, an arrow with the 
beast's metallic snout as its head. Streamlets of reddish steam 
hissed from the corners of its closed mouth.
    At the point of the arrow stood Mishra, holding the green 
half-gem aloft. In his hands the power stone was shining 
brightly, a beacon in the night.
    Hajar stood and staggered over to the scholar. "Did you kill 
it?" he asked.
    Mishra shook his head, and his voice sounded distant. "No. 
This is different. It is not weakened by me. I think it obeys 
me."
    There were shouts, and Hajar saw the young qadir approaching. 
He was bleeding from a nasty cut along one arm, and his reddened 
face looked as if he had caught part of the steam cloud. "Is it 
dead?" he shouted at Mishra.
    "Subdued," replied the scholar. "I think I think I can 
control it now."
    The young qadir nodded and said, "My father will be pleased." 
Hajar started, then spoke. "I am sorry, young one, but your 
father is ..." He let his voice trail off. "You are qadir now."
    As he spoke, he saw a veil come down over the young qadir's 
face. It was as if the news had turned the youth to stone, had 
petrified his features. His face suddenly seemed harder than he 
had moments before when he was just the son of the qadir.
    The new qadir nodded and turned to Mishra. "You can control 
this thing?" It was a blunt question. "I believe I can," said 
Mishra. "Can anyone else?" asked the young chieftain.
    Mishra thought for a moment, than shook his head. "I believe 
that if your father could have, he would." Then another pause. 
"We can check later."
    "Agreed," said the young qadir. "Take this thing away from 
the camp for the moment and remain with it until morning." To 
Hajar he said, "Take me to my father's body. We must inspect the 
wounded and see how much damage has been done. We have lost much 
this night." He looked at the dragon engine thoughtfully and said 
as much to himself as to Hajar, "But perhaps we have gained much 
as well."
    Hajar and Mishra hesitated for only a moment, but it was 
enough to earn the reproach from the new Qadir of the Suwwardi, 
chiefmost of the Fallaji tribes. "Get moving!"
    Mishra said softly, "As you wish, Most Revered One. I remain 
your rakiq."
    "No," said the young man, holding up a hand in the same 
manner as his father had months before. His face softened for a 
moment. "You are no longer rakiq, a slave. I make you now raki, 
my wizard. I will need you at my side, with this amazing device. 
With it we can maintain our hold over the other tribes and gain 
new ones as well. Will you serve me willingly?"
    Mishra dropped to one knee and said, "Of course."
    Hajar was impressed as well. The boy acted as if he had been 
preparing for this moment and knew exactly what had to be done.
    "Thank you," said the youth to Mishra. "Truly your mother and 
my mother must have shared a common mother. But right now, let's 
hurry! We have much yet to do this night!"
    
                           Chapter 8
                            TAWNOS

    The newcomer arrived unannounced at the Palace of Artifice in 
Kroog, capital of Yotia. It had been a long journey from the 
southern coast, and he was bone weary from his travels. Had he 
been sensible he would have bedded down for a day or ten, paid 
for a suitably tailored gown, and then called for an official 
appointment through established channels. However the newcomer 
was unschooled in the ways and practices of High Yotian society 
and presented himself directly to the palace, his letter of 
introduction in the vest pocket of his traveling cloak and his 
gift in a satchel slung over his arm.
    The Palace of Artifice was a separate wing of the royal 
palace itself, flung off from the main buildings in a eruption of 
new construction. There was no one to receive the traveler at the 
main doors, which surprised him slightly, but there was no one to 
block his entry either. Indeed there seemed to be a steady flow 
of clerks, librarians, and petty officials milling about, but 
nothing that looked like an armed guard or even a helpful guide.
    He stopped one of the clerks, a round, friendly looking 
fellow with an armload of scrolls and vials. This individual 
explained that the Chief Artificer could be found in the orniary, 
the central domed workshop at the back of the palace, and that 
the visitor could reach it by going up the stairs toward the 
rear, right at the first intersection, left at the second, 
rightish-but-not-too-right at the star-shaped one, down one more 
flight, and there he would be. The clerk never asked why the 
tall, blond-haired man was looking for the Chief Artificer in the 
first place.
    The friendly clerk's instructions also left something to be 
desired it took another fifteen minutes (and two more helpful 
clerks) for the traveler to finally locate the orniary, which 
was, as promised, a large dome-shaped structure mounted on the 
back of the main building. The newcomer noticed that the circular 
roof of the building was built on a sliding pivot so that it 
might be unbolted and moved to one side.
    Within the orniary was a form of controlled madness. Along 
the far wall was the frame of one of the fabled ornithopters, 
frozen in mid-explosion. Each of the pieces was mounted 
separately, with inscribed lines showing what piece fit where. A 
group of young students stood along one side with trundle-
operated lathes, gently shaping candle-wood spars. Along the 
other side an ornithopter was in the midst of construction, as 
another group of young people stretched canvas over the wings.
    In the center, standing over a huge table littered with 
plans, was the Chief Artificer. His hair was pale blond, almost 
white. While shorter than the newcomer, he commanded a presence 
that made him seem much taller.
    "Three point four inches to the first flange," shouted the 
Chief Artificer to the lathe workers, who dutifully pulled out 
their calipers and began measuring. "No, no!" He stalked over to 
the crew assembling the ornithopter. "Place the skin over the 
lead grommets along the wing first! That will allow the wing to 
unfurl naturally."
    As the newcomer watched, another clerk elbowed his way past 
and handed a scroll to the Chief Artificer. Urza scanned the 
paper for a moment, shook his head, and made the clerk wait as he 
returned to his paper-covered work desk. He pulled out a stylus 
and quickly edited the message. "And tell him I need the supplies 
by noon tomorrow," he snapped impatiently. "No later!" The clerk 
pushed his way past the newcomer and back into the main building.
    Suddenly the visitor noticed the woman standing alongside one 
wall. She stood so still among the pandemonium that the traveler 
at first thought her a statue. She was dressed in a simple blue 
gown, and her lustrous dark brown hair spilled over her 
shoulders. Her arms were folded in front of her, and she wore an 
expression on her face that hinted she disapproved of the entire 
scene around her.
    "Excuse me, miss," said the newcomer. "I was wondering if-"
    The woman turned, and the newcomer choked on his words as he 
recognized the full lips, the dark, fiery eyes, and the fine 
lines of her face. At once he realized whom he was addressing and 
managed a gargle. "Your Majesty, forgive me." He was well on his 
way to the floor.
    His knee had just touched the hardwood when a soft hand 
touched his shoulder.
    "Arise, young man," said Kayla bin-Kroog, Princess of Yotia 
and wife of the Chief Artificer. When he looked up she was 
smiling slightly, as if his manner amused her. He felt the blood 
rush to his face.
    "I'm sorry," he said. "I had no idea who you were." "We don't 
stand on much ceremony here in the lair of the Chief Artificer," 
returned the princess.
    Out on the main floor of the dome, Urza was bellowing at the 
lathe workers. "I said three point four, not three point two! I 
need a tolerance no more than oh point two for these struts!"
    "Is your husb-" The newcomer stopped and began again. "Is the 
Chief Artificer free at the moment?"
    "I can't tell," said the princess, with a catch in her voice. 
"I've been standing here for ten minutes waiting for him to 
notice me. If I have to wait fifteen, I usually assume that he's 
too busy."
    The newcomer looked at her face more closely and nodded. 
"Perhaps it would be better to come back tomorrow," he ventured.
    The princess laughed a tired laugh. "This is about as un-busy 
as he ever gets. Is it important?"
    The visitor reached in his coat pocket and pulled the 
envelope from its hiding place. "I'm his new apprentice."
    Kayla opened the letter and scanned it quickly. The newcomer 
held his breath as she did so, fearful she might find some 
impropriety within the letter of introduction that would prevent 
him from even talking to the mighty Urza. "A toy maker?" she said 
at last. "From Jorilin, on the coast," said the young man 
quickly. She nodded. "We summered there when I was girl, and it 
got too hot even for Kroog."
    "Well," said the traveler, "I've been making toys there for 
the past few years, full journeyman and everything. People 
thought my work was fairly impressive, and they suggested that I 
apply to be one of his apprentices ..." He let the statement 
trail off with a embarrassed shrug. It had sounded so logical 
back in Jorilin, much more logical than it did now explaining to 
the most powerful (and beautiful) woman in Kroog.
    "I see," the princess said, and that amused look returned to 
her face. "His apprentice."
    "One of them, anyway," said the traveler.
    "Please," said the princess. "All these are not apprentices. 
They're drones, toiling around the king bee that is Urza. 
Assistants, students, extra sets of hands, that's all. 
Apprentices have higher demands put on them than this lot. They 
usually don't last more than a month at the outside. He's a hard 
man to keep pace with and a very demanding man to work for."
    As if to prove her point, Urza let out another shout. "I said 
I needed oh point two tolerance here, lathe number one! Are you 
using some number system I'm not familiar with?" There was 
laughter among the younger lathe workers as one blushing youth 
returned to his machine.
    "Perhaps I should come back later," repeated the newcomer.
    "No time like the present," Kayla responded. "He'll be just 
as bad tomorrow, and I won't be here to help. Urza! Husband! A 
moment, please!"
    The Chief Artificer responded to his wife's call by holding 
up a single hand. With the other he held a stylus, checking a 
long column of figures. He did not look up.
    "Of all the ..." muttered the princess, several decidedly 
unregal lines appearing on her forehead. "I swear, he spends 
every living moment working until he is exhausted. Then he wakes 
in the morning feeling he's fallen six hours behind schedule 
because of sleep. Urza!"
    The hand stayed up, and, as if to show he was listening, 
waved back and forth a little.
    "Perhaps this will help," said the visitor, reaching into the 
satchel and pulling out his gift. What he produced looked like 
nothing more than an inanimate hunk of rope of chain. He flicked 
a switch at one end of the chain, and it suddenly stiffened and 
struck forward. It was a snake, suddenly come to life in his 
hands. Kayla jumped at the transformation.
    The snake leapt across the open space as if on invisible 
wings, landing among the papers littering Urza's table. It 
burrowed among them, emerging directly beneath the Chief 
Artificer's notepad. It raised its head, rattled its tail, and 
rasped a hissed warning at the Argivian scholar.
    The entire orniary went dead silent. The lathes stopped, the 
students wrestling with the wing tarps froze, and Urza paused, 
stylus in hand, regarding the snake's fang-filled mouth.
    Then he leaned forward and tapped the snake's snout with the 
end of his stylus. It rang out with a hollow sound, and the 
serpent immediately curled into a small coil. The Chief Artificer 
looked up, a broad smile on his face. "Who did this?"
    The newcomer blushed. "That would be me."
    Kayla stepped forward with the letter of introduction. "This 
is Tawnos, a toy maker from Jorilin. He wants to become your 
appren-"
    Urza did not let her finish but took the letter from her hand 
and said, "Toy maker? And that is one of yours?"
    "One of them," replied Tawnos.
    "Why wood?" asked Urza. "Metal would be a lot more long-
lasting."
    "Wood's lighter," answer the younger man. "And yarrow wood 
produces a more natural sound for the snake when it moves. Metal 
versions tended to clatter."
    "So you tried it," said Urza, his eyebrows raised. "Good. 
That's very good. Spring-driven, I suppose."
    "Clock mechanism," said Tawnos. "I was told you worked as a 
clock maker."
    "For a time," said Urza abstractedly. His hands were busy 
examining the snake, probing, bending, pushing. "Then I retired 
to join the government. Less heavy lifting."
    Kayla began, "Darling husband, my father is expecting-" but 
was silenced with by an upraised hand.
    "It's very lifelike," the artificer observed. "Did you study 
snakes to make it?"
    "We have a lot of coastal snakes," said Tawnos. "That one was 
based on a kind of viper found along the coast. I made it for my 
own amusement, as a kind of practical joke."
    "Urza," Kayla began again but was completely forgotten by the 
Chief Artificer.
    "What about birds?" asked Urza. "I've been trying to improve 
the lift ratio of the ornithopters."
    "It depends what you want," said Tawnos. "Soaring birds like 
gulls or even vultures might be inappropriate as models for 
ornithopters. I should think you want ones that can launch 
quickly from a perch, like predatory owls and other raptors."
    Urza's face brightened, and at that precise moment Tawnos 
knew he had secured his position. "I had not considered that," 
said the blond-haired artificer. "I always considered a bird to 
be a bird, regardless. But you are correct: form follows 
function, and function determines form. Here, take a look at 
these plans, and tell me if I have a soarer or a fast launcher."
    Tawnos looked over the papers littering the desk and inhaled 
deeply. There were all manner of ornithopter plans, showing 
different wing configurations and positions. Some of the machines 
resembled things he had seen in nature, while some looked as if 
they would never fly under any circumstances.
    Suddenly he remembered the princess, who had been trying to 
get two words in edgewise as he and Urza talked. But when he 
looked up from the plans, she was gone, and Urza was shouting at 
the lathe workers again for greater precision.

                          * * * * *

    The princess's heels were shod with metal and always sent a 
message as she moved across the palace's polished marble floors. 
Sometimes it was a leisurely tapping, reassuring the staff that 
her majesty was thinking as she walked. Sometimes it was a slow, 
methodical clack, which usually meant she was walking with 
someone else, usually some official from the hinterland who was 
getting a local tour. And occasionally it was a skipping staccato 
produced by her run, much less common now than in the times 
before she was married.
    The message being tapped out at the moment was a warning. She 
had just been to see her husband, the Argivian artificer, and was 
not happy with the results. The stern rapping of metal on stone 
was enough to send the most hardened courtiers fleeing in terror, 
and to cause even the most experienced servants to reverse their 
directions and quietly back up the way they came.
    As a result, Kayla had empty halls and full thoughts as she 
stalked along the way leading to the drawing room. She fumed as 
she walked.
    He was busy. He was always busy. Given sufficient resources, 
he would devote all his time to his projects. The ornithopters. 
The metal statues. The great plodding beasts that had suddenly 
appeared one morning in the rose garden. He would work until 
exhausted, and he would work everyone around him to the same 
state. If she did not send a guard for him, he would sleep in 
that orniary of his. Sometimes she did let him sleep there, but 
that did not slow him down.
    Of course her husband was not the only guilty party here, she 
realized. Her dear father was just as much a cause of her 
husband's neglect. Always asking for something new. Some special 
favor for this baron. Some particular device for that temple. 
Something to make one guild or another's life easier. A new way 
to haul water. A new way to harvest crops. And of course the 
Chief Artificer could not refuse his warlord anything, 
particularly if it was excuse to develop some new device.
    It was a perfect match. Urza liked to build things, and Daddy 
liked the things Urza built. It didn't matter to the warlord how 
Urza created his wondrous devices, and Urza never thought about 
what her father wanted the devices for. All of their scheming 
left Kayla alone.
    She stopped and stamped a foot hard on the stone floor, 
causing several of the hiding servants to wince and wonder if the 
mark she left could be polished out or would require replacement 
of the stone. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down.
    Actually, she told herself, things were not as bad as they 
might be. The Yotian people, after a brief period of concern 
about the warlord's new son-in-law, quickly warmed to Urza. The 
wedding helped win over the common people and most of the 
merchants. The minor nobility was vastly relieved to see that 
Urza did not care for political power beyond the limits of his 
worktable. And the temples ...
    Well, the temples were a small problem at first, despite 
their supposed enthusiasm at the wedding itself. Argivians were 
nastily irreligious, and the devotion of various gods, real and 
otherwise, was a major political consideration in Kroog. Not to 
mention the fact that all the assembled religions were keenly 
aware that they themselves had had the chance to admit this Urza 
the Argivian into their temple schools but had turned him away 
because of his heritage.
    Things were a little problematic for the first few years, 
what with the churches all waiting for some misstep or 
announcement from Urza that would trample on one group or 
another's beliefs. Urza himself provided the solution to that 
potential problem. First, by staying in his workshop he provided 
little provocation to the temples. Second, he managed to wrangle 
from the Jalum Tome a small bit of old Thran science on the 
temples' behalf.
    It was a simple device, a small amulet with a sliver of 
active power stone mounted on its back. It emitted a low-pitched 
hum that served to keep the wearer calm, and in doing so provided 
a modicum of protection. Naturally anything that smacked of the 
healing arts was snatched up by the temples, who immediately 
pronounced Urza to be a wonderfully fine fellow, even for an 
Argivian.
    So the temples were happy. The merchants were happy when more 
people flocked to Kroog, hearing of their "magical" amulets. And 
the common folk were made happy by merchants hiring more help, 
and by the ornithopters that were now seen flitting among the 
towers, attracting still more people to Yotia. And, Kayla told 
herself, Daddy was happy because he had metal statues, 
ornithopters, and wonders others did not have, and a son-in-law 
who delighted in making more.
    In fact, Chief Artificer Urza was making everyone was happy 
in Yotia except its princess, his wife. To make matters worse, 
Daddy had mentioned to her that he did not have a grandson yet, 
an heir to carry on the title. Was it her fault that the warlord 
kept her husband continually occupied with other matters?
    Kayla knew there were other options for intimate 
companionship, of course, but she had always found them 
distasteful. When she was growing up, the matron had all manner 
of stories of queens and princesses who dallied with some 
handsome young courtier or kind-hearted commoner. But most of 
those stories were cautionary tales that usually ended with one 
or both of the two people involved dead or in exile. Somehow it 
did not seem like a good set of choices to her.
    But she was still young, and beautiful, and there were those 
who looked at her in a fashion that her husband did not have time 
for. It was nice to know that one could turn heads, she 
reflected. Kayla was sure that the tall, brawny toy maker from 
the coast had almost swallowed his tongue when he finally 
recognized her. It was little things such as that that made her 
feel good.
    She thought about the newcomer, Tawnos. He was tall and 
broad-shouldered; she had no doubt he had drifted into craft work 
after spending his youth hauling in the sardine catch off Jorilin 
Point. His blond hair was in continual disarray, giving him a 
lost, puppy-dog look. There was a man, she thought with a smile, 
who was in need of a good young woman to put his life in order. 
And his manners! Pure hinterland; you could even hear the gulls 
when he talked. Under court tutelage, that would change soon 
enough.
    Of course, from the start Tawnos seemed to have developed a 
rapport with her husband. If her husband was sometimes 
unreachable by her, he might listen to a man who spoke in the 
language of inventions, devices, and science.
    Kayla shook her head. Part of her wanted to see the handsome 
young newcomer survive the grind of working with her husband- 
Tawnos seemed like a nice young man. But part of the princess 
knew that if he was to fit into her husband's world he would have 
to alter to fit Urza's needs. She had learned that if one did not 
fit into his plans, one was simply ignored.
    She was walking slowly now, her heels a soft tap against the 
marble. The courtiers knew that the storm was over, whatever its 
cause, and she passed several of the servants, who bowed briefly 
as they carted fresh linens, silverware, more of the inevitable 
scrolls about the palace.
    Finally she reached the drawing room, took a deep breath, and 
entered. The privy council was already meeting.
    Her father the warlord was already there, hunched over one 
end of the long table. On his left hand was Rusko, who had 
arrived at the palace with Urza and showed no sign of ever 
decamping. Indeed, the clock maker had become the semiofficial 
liaison with the merchant guilds in Kroog and would only part 
with that title (and the perquisites included) when either he or 
Kroog was no more.
    On the right side were the Captain of the Guards and the 
seneschal. The captain had been the warlord's squire back at the 
dawn of time but had aged less gracefully than her father, and in 
fact spent most of his time napping. The seneschal looked much as 
he had on her betrothal day. Probably his own frantic nervousness 
prevented any illness or misfortune from getting within twenty 
feet of him.
    The three men were Daddy's closest advisors. And herself, of 
course-always welcome and always paid attention to. The four of 
them formed the warlord's privy council.
    "Is he coming?" asked the warlord sternly.
    "Is he ever?" replied the princess, trying to keep a bright 
tone in her voice. "No, he's wrapped up, breaking in his new 
apprentice."
    The warlord looked a question at Rusko, who merely shrugged. 
"A new one to me. I'd bet this one lasts a month at the outside."
    The princess took a seat next to Rusko. The clock maker used 
to burble in the royal presence, but that had diminished and 
finally stopped some years before. Kayla realized she missed the 
fawning, just a little.
    "What is the situation along the Sword Marches?" asked the 
warlord.
    The Captain of the Guard sniffed and stifled a sneeze. Kayla 
always noticed that direct questions caused the old man to 
sneeze. "Steady," he mumbled. "The Fallaji are getting more and 
more brazen with each month. There's talk that one of the tribes 
is gaining control over the others."
    "Another tribe besides the Tomakul?" asked the seneschal 
nervously.
    The captain fought off another sneeze, then replied, "The 
city Fallaji are token heads, and I've heard that even they have 
agreed to go along with this new desert clan. Usually the tribes 
of the deep desert spend most of their time raiding each other."
    "Except now," said the warlord. "They're raiding more 
caravans now."
    "Or demanding exorbitant 'tolls,' " added Rusko, "or, in some 
cases, 'caretaker fees' for additional caravan guards they 
provide. It's extortion, sucking the lifeblood out of the 
merchant class!"
    "And our patrols?" inquired the warlord.
    The captain pinched his nose. "We have three companies along 
the marches. Once a caravan reaches Yotian territory, it is safe. 
There have been no raids into Yotia proper at all. But we don't 
have enough men to accompany every caravan across the desert."
    "What about the ornithopters?" asked Kayla.
    That question evoked a full-fledged sneeze, followed by a 
handkerchief produced with a flourish and a loud blast of the 
nose. "We could send them along with the caravans," the captain 
said at last, supporting Kayla's suggestion.
    The warlord shook his head. "I wouldn't want anything like 
that falling into the Fallaji hands. How about using them to 
patrol the marches?"
    The captain blinked hard. "We could. We don't have enough of 
them right now."
    "Why not?" demanded the warlord.
    The captain looked as if this query would produce another 
sneezing fit, so Rusko came to his aid. "The limit is not in raw 
machines, or even in young men and women foolhardy enough to want 
to fly them. The problem is power. The ornithopters run off an 
old Thran device, a power stone. The metal statues do the same. 
There aren't a lot of them in Yotia. Urza has been working to try 
to mend broken power stones, but it's an iffy job. We can build 
all manner of ornithopters, but they're just pretty kites without 
the proper stones. That's problem number one."
    The warlord grunted. "Any place else we can get more stones?"
    The seneschal spoke up in a meek voice. "The Argivians have 
collected a large number of stones over the years, but they use 
them for their own devices. And they are scouring the desert for 
more, I understand."
    There was a pause. Kayla could see the wheels turn in her 
father's head. Whenever he started thinking like this, the result 
was normally trouble for someone.
    "Captain," he said finally, "I want you to send exploration 
parties into the desert. They will carry descriptions of the 
stones so they know what to look for. We'll ask Urza about the 
most likely places to find them."
    This last was not a question, so the captain nodded in 
agreement.
    "But what if our parties meet Argivians looking for the same 
stones?" squeaked the seneschal.
    "They'll probably be relieved to meet other civilized men in 
the desert, as opposed to those Fallaji fanatics," snapped the 
warlord. "But just to be sure, I want you to frame a letter to 
the Argivian king. Tell him what we're doing, but frame it in 
terms of mutual defense: All of us against the savages in the 
heartlands. That should calm him down enough. Anything else?"
    Rusko spoke up. "One thing, your majesty." He produced from 
beneath the voluminous folds of his vest a small dish and a 
bottle of black powder. "With the Chief Artificer's successes, 
you have decreed that we keep our eyes open for other devices, 
either in old books or the marketplace, that could be used by 
Kroog to better protect itself. I think I have something that may 
be useful."
    The former clock maker laid the dish on the table; into it he 
poured a small amount of the black powder. The powder was 
crystallized into small spheres and reminded Kayla of shriveled 
peas. Rusko then rose and lit a taper from a nearby oil lamp. He 
touched the lit taper to the crystals, and they popped and burned 
brightly, setting up a cloud of noxious smoke that hung over the 
table.
    That was too much for the old Captain of the Guard, who 
already had his kerchief over his face. The seneschal looked as 
if he was about to bolt for the door. The warlord waved a hand 
through the cloud. "Goblin powder," he grumbled. "What of it?"
    "Goblin powder," agreed Rusko. "Also called dwarven 
fireblack, or black dust, or burningbright. It's a chemical 
concoction that the goblins and dwarves of the north use."
    "And usually blow themselves up in the process," commented 
the warlord. Kayla leaned away from the table, in search of clean 
air.
    "Because it is volatile, tricky, and temperamental," replied 
Rusko. "It's hard to use because you have to be close to it in 
order to light it, and if you are too close when the fuse burns 
down, you get blown up."
    "It is used in small amounts for children's poppers, and 
other noise-makers," the seneschal ventured, "but it has no 
practical use."
    "Ah," said Rusko, holding a hand up. "What if you could set a 
fuse and throw the powder at an enemy before it explodes? Or, 
better yet, if you could fit the container with a flint that 
causes a spark when it strikes the earth?"
    "Sounds temperamental as ever," said the warlord. "You'd have 
to drop it from a great height to create such a spark. If you 
drop it from a wall, you blow up your support in the process."
    Rusko nodded. "And if you dropped it, say, from an 
ornithopter?"
    There was silence around the table. Then the warlord started 
to chuckle. "And the enemy could not throw it back. Yes, I like 
that idea."
    "I have your permission to investigate further, then?" asked 
Rusko.
    "Yes," said the warlord, still chuckling. "Yes, you do. Oh, 
and don't tell Urza about it, at least not yet. If he can't show 
up for the meetings, it serves him right."
    The seneschal sniffed, "At least it will show him that others 
have good ideas."
    "Agreed," said the warlord, slapping the tabletop with his 
hand. "Then we're adjourned. We have a lot to do, and we should 
get to it!"
    But by that time Kayla was already halfway to the door, 
seeking to escape the stench of the burning powder, her heels 
clicking rapidly against the stone.
    
                           Chapter 9
                             ASHNOD

    The invasion party was stalled outside the walls of Zegon, 
and Hajar knew Mishra well enough to realize he was worried. But 
Mishra would not tell the qadir about his concerns. Nor, for that 
matter, would Hajar.
    In the last few years the qadir had grown to manhood, and not 
all his development had been good. The eager young man who was 
interested in Argivian folktales had blossomed into an overweight 
tyrant. He was pampered by his tribe and supporters and appeased 
by the tribes that now followed the Suwwardi. No one said no to 
him. At least no one survived to say no a second time.
    What was once petulance had now transformed into foul-
tempered rants. What once was eager bravery was now 
foolhardiness. He had become fatter than his father ever had been 
but was still convinced he could lead battles himself. His mood 
were mercurial, his responses violent.
    As the qadir grew more tyrannical, Mishra grew more popular 
among the Suwwardi. The former slave knew how to speak to the 
qadir in such a way that he could present the most unpalatable 
options and escape with his head still attached to his body. The 
qadir's war captains noticed this first, then the courtiers, and 
lastly the chiefs of other tribes. Soon those with bad news or 
new plans visited Mishra first for his advice and aid before 
speaking directly to the qadir.
    For his part Mishra was open and welcoming to a people that 
had held him as a slave so recently. He was well versed in desert 
lore and legend and always had the correct analogy, the right 
words, and a ewer of nabiz handy. But he always made clear his 
advice was based upon what was best for the Qadir of the 
Suwwardi; he crossed the qadir directly only with greatest 
reluctance.
    Early on there was little need to argue with the qadir at 
all. There was a moment of wavering among some of the tribes, the 
Thaladin in particular, when word spread that the old qadir was 
dead. But such rumblings of independence were drowned by the 
greater rumblings of the dragon engine now possessed by the 
Suwwardi. Early on the young qadir made it a point, to visit the 
main clans of each of his allies, strong or weak. Each was in 
turn impressed by the power of the great metal beast.
    Some preached that it was a sign from the Old Ones 
themselves, a demonstration that they favored the Fallaji in 
their attempts to keep the desert free of such invaders as the 
Argivians and the Yotians. This despite the fact that the old 
qadir and a number of good Fallaji warriors had all perished in 
the dragon engine's initial attack.
    Similarly, tribes now regarded the young qadir as the ruler 
of the mak fawa, handily ignoring the fact that it was really the 
qadir's wizard, his Argivian raid, who controlled the beast. But 
Fallaji logic was simple in this regard as well. The outlander 
wizard might control the beast, but the qadir controlled the 
wizard.
    The Suwwardi soon discovered that only the raki could control 
the great dragon engine. As soon as he passed the power stone to 
another (with great reservations and only on the qadir's direct 
orders), the dragon engine reared up on its hind treads and 
threatened to run amok. As a few such experiments the gem was put 
permanently in Mishra's hands, and those in the tribe who knew of 
it were informed the gem would stay there. Mishra could put the 
beast to sleep while he rested and make it respond to his 
slightest whim. Indeed, Hajar noticed that soon no real words 
were spoken between the raki and his mechanical servant. A 
gesture or a nod was enough.
    The Suwwardi conquest of the deep desert was not entirely 
without incident. A group of hotheads from the Thaladin clan 
tried to ambush the qadir's procession. The main part of the 
caravan retreated before their assault, and Mishra unleashed his 
dragon engine among the young riders. Fifteen died, including the 
Thaladin chieftain's son, without loss of a single Suwwardi. The 
Thaladin submitted soon afterward.
    After solidifying his position in the eastern desert, the 
qadir looked west. Onion-domed Tomakul was the center of Fallaji 
power, its greatest and oldest city. Mishra said he was more 
concerned about Argivian patrols along the eastern borders and 
the increased activities of the Yotians to the south. In reality, 
Hajar knew he wanted more time to study his marvelous creature, 
but the qadir would not be dissuaded. The party headed west 
toward the capital. Time was of the essence, the qadir said, in 
order to counter any plans made in the halls of the Tomakul's 
many palaces.
    He need not have worried. Tomakul was as rotten as an old 
fruit, waiting for the slightest tap to split apart. In many ways 
the city dwellers were more like Yotians than Fallaji. They were 
preoccupied with wealth, money, and caravans. As long as the 
qadir promised to not interfere with their daily lives, they were 
quite content to open their gates to him. The qadir accepted 
their tribute but would not enter the city. Instead he camped 
beyond their walls in the shadow of his great beast and made the 
city folk come to him.
    Hajar and Mishra had gone into the city. They found it 
beautiful and corrupt, wondrous and diseased. Here trade routes 
from the Sarinth to Kroog converged with those from the eastern 
coastal nations to Terisia City farther west. The last was no 
more than a legend to Hajar, a city of scholars far to the west, 
who traded with the desert folk for artifacts and old tales much 
as the Argivians had.
    The city was a brightly colored cavalcade of different 
peoples: dwarves from Sardia, holy men of distant Gix, and 
minotaur mariners from some far-off islands. There were warriors 
in zebra-hide capes from Zegon and furred traders from the Yumok 
nation in the shadow of its great glacier. Yotian merchants trod 
the city streets as well, visibly nervous among the celebratory 
Fallaji. And there were other folk wandering the narrow byways 
who defied identification of homeland or race.
    But in the end Hajar and Mishra retreated to the desert to 
confer with their qadir. Though Mishra strongly urged his 
chieftain to push on toward the west to this reputed city of 
scholars, the qadir determined they would move south instead. To 
Zegon they would go, he said, to the place that shared its 
heritage with the Fallaji and was rightfully part of their shared 
empire. Mishra argued, but in the end the qadir made it clear the 
matter was closed.
    And now, mused Hajar, they were stalled outside the capital 
city of Zegon, with five hundred men and a mechanical dragon. 
Worse, the dragon was misbehaving.
    It was a simple matter. When they got within a half-mile of 
the capital, the mak fawa stalled. It simply refused to proceed 
any farther toward the city. It could move to the east or west or 
back up, but it would not come any closer to Zegon, and no amount 
of mental commands, hand motions, shouting, or hitting it could 
convince the mechanical beast otherwise.
    The qadir, not one to be denied, was apoplectic. He wanted 
the beast looming before Zegon's front gates when the city 
surrendered. Instead his armies were within sight of the city's 
whitewashed walls but could advance no farther. Hajar could see 
the city guard lined up on the battlements of the outer wall, 
spears in hand, almost taunting the qadir's armies. Some of the 
spears had skulls on their points, no doubt some additional 
Zegoni taunt Hajar was unfamiliar with.
    The only thing the qadir's forces could do was make the best 
of a bad situation. The dragon engine began a long, slow patrol 
around the perimeter of the city, keeping the half-mile distance 
that seemed to hold it at bay like a physical wall. A message was 
sent to the leaders of Zegon, calling to their attention the 
power of the dragon engine and demanding the city's immediate 
capitulation.
    The Zegoni sent back a terse note that they would consider 
the qadir's offer and he was welcome to wait while they made up 
their minds.
    That defiance did not improve the qadir's mood. That evening 
in his tent he railed against his captains and in particular 
against his raki. "Why can't you move it any closer?" he 
thundered. "We don't know why," answered Mishra calmly. "Why 
don't you know?" cried the qadir.
    Because you have demanded we run all over the continent 
impressing the other tribes, thought Hajar. Because we have not 
had the time or the resources to study the beast, other than what 
hurried sketches we can make while moving from place to place. 
Because it has not been a priority for you until now. Hajar 
wondered if Mishra was thinking the same thing.
    Instead the qadir's raki said, "It could be many things. 
Possibly there is something about the city itself that keeps us 
at bay. Or it may be something about the nature of the mak fawa. 
There may be some item the Zegoni have that's affecting the 
engine. We don't have enough information to be sure. Right now 
the question is, do we press on or do we fold our tents and 
abandon Zegon, contenting ourselves with the riches of a united 
desert nation?"
    The qadir slumped back into his pillows, and a serving girl 
bathed his head with a damp cloth. He ignored her and said, "You 
have traveled through this land. It is rich in timber and metals. 
It is properly part of our empire. Its people are Fallaji in 
origin."
    As much as the Tomakul were, thought Hajar. Indeed, from what 
he had seen of the Zegoni, they were much like the city-dwelling 
Fallaji in their mercantile outlook. He wondered idly if all the 
coastal nations had the some unknown means of stopping the dragon 
engine and how the qadir would react if that were indeed the 
case.
    The qadir was still talking. "We go on. We patrol with the 
dragon engine. We start leveling the smaller towns, beyond the 
half-mile radius. We drive people into the capital: panicked 
people, who tell of the monster that lies waiting beyond the 
gates. In the meantime we send messengers back to Tomakul to 
gather more warriors. We'll assemble enough to break down the 
walls if need be."
    Hajar thought the plan represented the waste of a better part 
of a year, but if any of the war captains agreed with him they 
remained silent. A few advisors had argued loudly with the qadir 
in the past. They had disappeared soon afterward. The only one 
who seemed to get away with it was Mishra, and he had several 
tons of dragon to support his argument.
    But Mishra only nodded and said, "We will need siege 
machinery. Nothing complex. Simple battering rams to assault 
their gates from all sides. That, in addition to a large amount 
of troops, should be enough."
    Hajar wondered, not for the first or last time, why Mishra 
did not simply use the power of the dragon engine to escape from 
the qadir's petty tyranny or to establish himself as qadir. The 
former digger thought he knew the answer to that question, 
though. The raki could overturn the qadir and even maintain a 
core group of tribes to support him. But to what end? He had no 
apparent desire to rule over an empire or even over a small part 
of one. He would rather be the power behind the throne.
    Hajar was still turning these matters over in his mind as he 
and Mishra walked back to the raki's tent, located on the 
outskirts of the encampment on the off-chance that the raki might 
summon more dragons in the dead of night. Mishra was quiet, as he 
always was after one of the qadir's explosions.
    A guard stood outside of the raki's tent, which was unusual. 
More unusual, the brazier within was already lit, and the tent 
issued a warm, inviting glow.
    "Visitor," said the guard. His accent was atrocious, and 
Hajar immediately pegged him as one of the westerners from the 
tribes around Tomakul.
    "It is late," said Mishra.
    The guard shrugged.
    "Does the qadir know?" asked Mishra, earning another shrug.
    Hajar felt his irritation rise at the guard. What good is a 
guard who doesn't guard anything? Is this the kind of man to whom 
we are trusting our empire?
    "I see," said Mishra without apparent anger. "Go back to your 
duties."
    The man gave a gold-toothed smile and faded back into the 
darkness.
    Mishra stepped into his tent, regarding the interloper. "I've 
been expecting you," he said, much to Hajar's surprise. "I'm glad 
you made yourself at home in my absence."
    The visitor was a woman, among the most cruelly beautiful 
women Hajar had ever seen. Red hair was rare in the desert and 
was taken as an evil omen among the Suwwardi. Hers was the red of 
a flickering camp flame. It rolled over her shoulders in thick, 
wavy curls. Her eyes were the gray-green of the sea that lapped 
Zegon's shores, and just as stormy. She was dressed in mannish 
armor of the outlander style, but the armor had been cut and 
shaped more to favor her figure than to offer any real 
protection.
    Hajar realized he had stopped breathing. He inhaled deeply 
and wondered if she had noticed.
    She was reclining on Mishra's pillows, and she stretched as 
he entered. "I was expected?" she asked. Her voice was soft but 
carried a razor's edge with it.
    "You or someone like you," replied Mishra calmly. "You 
represent Zegon's rulers, and you're going to propose a deal to 
save your city."
    "I don't remember telling anyone that but the guard I 
bribed," said the woman. "If he told you, I'll have to have him 
killed."
    "Not to worry," returned Mishra. "He will be punished enough 
for letting an outlander into camp, regardless of the bribe. He 
will be made an example of, and in the end he will wish you had 
killed him. May I offer you some nabiz?"
    "Please," said the woman, and Mishra motioned for Hajar to 
put a ewer of wine on the brazier. He sat down opposite the woman 
and waited for her to begin.
    Instead she stared at Hajar. "Your manservant," she said 
coldly. Hajar bridled at the insult.
    "He is my bodyguard," said Mishra.
    "He should not be here," said the woman shortly.
    "Go," said Mishra to Hajar, still staring intently at the 
woman.
    Hajar began to protest, but Mishra cut him off. "Go to your 
tent. Tell no one. If I need anything, I will shout."
    Hajar wavered a moment and looked at Mishra. The Argivian 
revealed nothing but merely watched the woman sitting among his 
pillows. He seemed as he was with the qadir, thought Hajar: 
closed and unapproachable.
    The Fallaji sighed deeply and bowed, then backed out of the 
tent. His face marked his disapproval.
    "You are right, of course," said the woman as soon as Hajar 
had left. "I have been empowered by the rulers of Zegon to 
negotiate on their behalf with the Fallaji invaders."
    "But you are not Zegoni," observed Mishra.
    A small smile played across the woman's face. "And you are 
not Fallaji."
    "I am Mishra, raki of the Suwwardi," returned Mishra.
    "I am Ashnod," said the woman, "of nothing in particular."
    "Is Zegon your home?" asked Mishra, running a hand over the 
rim of the metal ewer. The nabiz was almost ready.
    "I did not say that," answered Ashnod.
    "And you are loyal to them?" inquired the raki.
    "I did not say that either," responded Ashnod. "I merely told 
you they empowered me to speak on their behalf. They agreed quite 
readily. I'm afraid some of them feel that if I make a muck of 
things and get myself killed, they can forswear me and will 
breathe more easily."
    "And the offer you are presenting is ... ?" inquired the 
Argivian, reaching for the heavy metal cups.
    Ashnod cocked her head for a moment, then said, "Just a 
moment."
    She reached down to floor at the base of the pillows and 
brought up a long staff. It was made of black thunderwood and was 
topped by a tangle of copper wires and the narrow skull of some 
sea creature. She raised the staff quickly and pointed it at the 
doorway.
    Ashnod barked a string of words, and the tangle of copper 
wires sang a discordant song. Wisps of lightning raced along the 
tracery of wires and into the skull itself. The staff lurched a 
fraction in her hand, but Mishra saw no obvious beam or other 
discharge.
    He did see the effect. Just outside the tent entrance, Hajar 
gave a choked scream and fell into view, clutching his chest.
    Mishra was on his feet at once, crossing the tent and 
kneeling beside his bodyguard. Hajar twitched as he stooped 
beside him.
    "So cold," managed the Fallaji. "It feels so cold."
    "We were to be left alone," said Ashnod stonily. She lowered 
the staff. Her forehead was damp with perspiration. "I hate it 
when underlings cannot follow orders."
    The chill wave of nausea passed through Hajar, and slowly the 
world righted itself. "She ..." he gasped, "she did ... this."
    "She did," agreed Mishra, helping his bodyguard to his feet. 
"Because you disobeyed an order. I told you to go to your tent." 
"But-"
    "Go now, old friend," said Mishra. Hajar looked at the young 
man, and there was nothing. No, there was the faint trace of a 
smile on his face. Mishra was pleased. By Hajar's loyalty? No, 
thought the bodyguard, there was more to it than that. He was 
pleased by something the woman had done? He was pleased Ashnod 
had attacked the bodyguard with her witch staff?
    Hajar pulled himself to his feet. "And Hajar ..." said 
Mishra.
    Hajar turned.
    "Thank you for not screaming too loudly," said the Argivian. 
Again the ghost of a smile. "I want to talk to our guest before 
any guards arrive," he said. "Now go."
    Hajar stumbled into the night. Mishra watched him disappear 
in the darkness before turning back.
    Ashnod had taken the opportunity to pour the nabiz into its 
brass cups and was reclining on the pillows again, looking as if 
nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The skull-tipped staff 
was back at the base of the pillows.
    Mishra took his own cup and sat down opposite her. Then he 
laughed.
    It started as a small chuckle, descended into a chortle, then 
moved into a full-fledged belly laugh. At length he offered his 
cup in a toast and said, "That was very foolish."
    Ashnod looked indignant and did not raise her cup in 
response. "He was spying on us and disobeyed your order."
    Mishra took a long pull on the nabiz and chuckled again. "No, 
not attacking Hajar. But by attacking him the way you did, you 
tipped your hand."
    Ashnod gave him a cross look, and Mishra smiled. The woman 
noted it was a warm grin, without malice, and relaxed for the 
moment.
    "That staff," Mishra said. "You made it?"
    "Yes," she replied.
    Mishra nodded to himself and smiled again. "That's what is 
keeping the dragon engine at bay, isn't it? The guards along 
Zegon's walls held similar staves. You made the staves and told 
the Zegoni rulers they could keep the great, evil Fallaji away 
from their city."
    Slowly Ashnod nodded. "Your engine is a big target."
    Mishra continued, "But your staves have a flaw. They take a 
lot out of the user."
    Ashnod was silent.
    "After using it only briefly, you are sweating," added 
Mishra.
    Ashnod grunted. "Men sweat. Women glow."
    "You were glowing like a horse after a hard race then," 
Mishra chuckled. "And if the city guards were similarly affected, 
they would be debilitated. The rulers of Zegon would not be 
pleased by that."
    Ashnod snorted. "The rulers were all too quick to adopt my 
staves for their defense," she said. "Once the guards started to 
weaken from their use, those same rulers panicked."
    "And sent you into the desert to sue for peace," added 
Mishra. "They probably said it was your idea that encouraged them 
to resist, so it was your fault."
    "You've met the Zegoni before," said Ashnod, a small smile 
crossing her lips as well.
    "I've dealt with their type in many forms," said Mishra, 
leaning back. "So tell me, what do they want? Bare minimum."
    Ashnod took a deep breath. "Tomakul's deal. They surrender, 
pay some tribute, recognize your boy as ultimate leader, and get 
back to their lives."
    Mishra considered. "Sounds reasonable. Not to say that the 
qadir will be reasonable. After all, you did stop us in our 
tracks, if only temporarily. I'll see what I can do."
    The Argivian set his cup down. "Now let me see your toy."
    Ashnod leaned forward and hefted the staff. She looked into 
Mishra's eyes for a moment, as if trying to determine what 
malice, if any, lay within. Then she handed the staff to him.
    The Fallaji raki turned the staff over in his hands. "I see 
some Thran influences, but this is new. How does it work?"
    "It affects the nerves of the body," replied Ashnod. "The 
lightning in the staff upsets the body's mechanism that allows 
one to feel and distinguish pain. Too much upset, and the target 
is incapacitated. At the range of your dragon engine, it was not 
severely affected, but it would come no closer."
    "Nerves," said Mishra, nodding and tapping the small power 
crystal that had been set within the staff's skull.
    "Right," agreed Ashnod, setting her cup down and leaning 
forward. "The body has all manner of systems within it. Living 
tubes for blood, soft wires for nerves, strands of cable for 
muscle." She reached out, touching Mishra's arm. He did not 
flinch or pull away. "You are no book scholar. Your arms are like 
spun steel."
    "Life in the desert is hard," said Mishra softly. "I never 
thought of the body as a machine."
    "It is the best machine!" said Ashnod, releasing his arm. 
"Tested in the field, continually growing, and self-replicating! 
Once we understand the mysteries of our own bodies, we understand 
the world. Everything else will fall into place. Your dragon 
engine is a wonder, but it is a crude imitation of living 
things."
    Mishra chuckled. "This is the first red conversation I've had 
in a long while."
    Ashnod curled up amongst the pillows. "There is a lack of 
intellectual companionship among the Fallaji?"
    Mishra laughed and leaned forward. "Most of the conversations 
I've had with the Suwwardi are along the lines of, 'You give me 
that' in various forms, followed closely by, 'You and what army.' 
" The young man chuckled again and set down the staff. "I hadn't 
considered the body as a machine, but it makes sense. After all, 
we create things in our own image. Perhaps the Thran did as 
well." He moved over and sat next to Ashnod.
    Ashnod leaned close; Mishra could smell her musky perfume, 
accented with the tang of drying sweat. It was a pleasant 
combination.
    "I think I can convince the qadir to accept your ruler's 
request," he said softly.
    "I thought you could," said Ashnod. "You seem very capable."
    "There's that."
    Ashnod wondered if Mishra smiled at anyone else in that 
fashion. The raki added, "And the fact that our most revered one 
is still as impatient as a child. If he had to wait for 
reinforcements from Tomakul he would explode from the delay. Of 
course, there is one other thing."
    Ashnod pulled away from him. "One other thing?"
    Mishra said, "The Zegoni must be seen to pay for their token 
resistance. They must suffer more than Tomakul, which threw open 
its gates to us. We will need an additional guarantee."
    "Guarantee?" asked Ashnod.
    "The Fallaji take hostages to encourage obedience," said 
Mishra, "Surely taking their premier artificer would be 
sufficient?"
    Ashnod's eyes became slits. "And would I be a Fallaji 
hostage, or yours?"
    Mishra smiled again, and there was a touch of maliciousness 
in the expression. "The Fallaji have little use for women," he 
said, "beyond the basics."
    "The basics do not include intelligent conversation, 
correct?" inquired Ashnod.
    "You have the general idea," returned her companion. "You 
would be viewed more as something we are denying the Zegoni, as 
opposed to something to benefit the tribe."
    Ashnod leaned forward and touched Mishra's cheek. "Hostage is 
such a nasty word. How does 'assistant' sound?"
    Mishra's eyebrows raised for a moment, then settled again. 
"Is that really what you came here for?"
    "Am I so transparent?" she asked, coy once again.
    "As glass," said Mishra and laughed. "When would you like to 
begin your lessons?"
    "Lessons in the morning," said Ashnod in a throaty whisper. 
"This evening we are alone. I don't think your bodyguard is 
coming back anytime soon."
    Mishra smiled and closed the grate on the brazier. There were 
no more words that evening.
    In the morning it was announced that the City of Zegon, 
fearful of the great dragon engine, had joined the Fallaji 
Empire. Tribute would be paid, and obeisance made to the great 
and revered Qadir of the Suwwardi, ever the first among equals.
    As terms of their surrender, the Zegoni agreed to remove the 
gates of their city so they could never stand in opposition to 
the Fallaji again. And they gave up their best artificer, who 
joined the Fallaji camp as the raki's apprentice. If any of the 
warriors felt uncomfortable about the presence of the cold-eyed 
woman with the cursed hair in their midst, they did not say so; 
at least not where the raki could overhear.
    Soon afterward, word arrived that the outlanders along the 
coast were making heavy raids into Fallaji lands, and the 
invasion force turned east again.
    
                           Chapter 10
                             KORLIS

    The Chief Artificer had missed so many meetings of the privy 
council that his absence was no longer even commented upon. Rusko 
was there as his official representative, but Kayla knew that 
Urza hardly spent any time talking to Rusko anymore either. The 
Chief Artificer spent most of his time working with the new 
apprentice, Tawnos, who had lasted much longer than Rusko had 
predicted, much to the clock maker's chagrin.
    There was a new Captain of the Guard; the old one had finally 
retired to spend time with his horses and grandchildren. The 
warlord chose this one himself, and the new captain mirrored many 
of the ruler's qualities-he was impulsive, decisive, and active. 
Patrolling the borders was not enough, this new captain said when 
he first rose to the position. The Yotians must secure a corridor 
to Tomakul itself in order to protect the caravans.
    Now the privy council picked through the rubble of that plan. 
Armed patrols to Tomakul encouraged even larger attacks from the 
desert nomads. Fallaji tribesmen were now raiding into the Sword 
Marches, which had been relatively free of such incursions since 
the warlord had driven the native tribes out in his youth. Yotia 
did not have the manpower to both maintain its borders and 
guarantee safe passage to the desert capital.
    "We need to pull the plants out by the roots," said the new 
captain. "Go into the desert, find the Fallaji base, and crush 
it!"
    "If you can show me where it is and guarantee that it would 
still be there when we get there, I will gladly try," grumbled 
the warlord. "But the desert is like an ocean. Most of it is 
empty, and we do more damage to our own forces than to the 
Fallaji by taking the battle there. They are at home in the 
desert. We are not."
    "There are the ornithopters," said the captain. "We can scout 
the desert with them."
    "Still few in number," said Rusko. "There are no more than 
two dozen in all, and the Chief Artificer is wary of exposing 
them to the risk. We practically had to break his arm to convince 
him to allow them as scouts along the border."
    "And what of the search for more Thran Stones?" asked the 
warlord.
    "Slow and tedious," said Rusko. "There are raiders 
everywhere, and they seem to be able to smell out our exploration 
parties. Bok and Mabok preserve us!"
    "T-T-The Argivians have the same problem," stammered the 
seneschal. "They have been attempting to find more stones as 
well, but have met heavy resistance."
    The warlord stroked his chin. "Perhaps it is time to provide 
a unified front."
    "With the Argivians?" hiccoughed the seneschal. "And the 
Korlisians as well," returned the warlord. "Perhaps it is time to 
bring the coastal nations together. Do you think a combined 
front, offering peace, could lure these savages out of their 
desert?"
    The captain sputtered for a moment, then said, "You think we 
should talk with those savages? After all the men we have lost?"
    "You're not listening," said the warlord patiently. "I asked 
if a combined front, offering peace, could lure their leaders 
into one place."
    The captain cocked his head to one side, then said, "Yes. 
Yes, I think it would." An ugly smile passed over his face.
    "They would be more likely to accept the invitation," added 
the seneschal, "if it were extended by the merchants of Korlis-"
    "-Who do not share a border with the Fallaji," finished the 
captain, "and as such pose no immediate threat."
    "And the Korlisians," added the warlord thoughtfully, "want 
to get their own ornithopters, which both we and the Argivians 
have. This would be an excellent opportunity for them to gain 
them, should they get the Fallaji leaders to the table."
    The warlord chuckled and the captain joined his merriment. 
For Kayla, entirely too much was unsaid. The men masked their 
thoughts with a cover of words.
    "So we are talking peace with the Fallaji?" she asked.
    "Yes," replied her father, his face suddenly somber. "We are 
talking peace. But we will also make sure we talk from a position 
of strength." He thumped the table with the flat of his hand. 
"Meeting adjourned. Goodsir Rusko, I want you to stay and update 
me on your"-he glanced at Kayla-"special project."
    The captain and seneschal left, speaking animatedly about the 
diplomatic requirements for the proposed gathering. Kayla 
departed as well, her metal heels sliding softly against the 
marble floor. Something else had happened at the table, something 
she was present for but not privy to. Previous conversations had 
been enigmatically concluded in her presence.
    It boiled down to one thing, she thought: Daddy was up to 
something. Even though she was a grown woman, he still sought to 
spare her certain harsh facts about the world: Her mother's 
death; the plans for her marriage; anything that smacked of 
secrets, battle, or hardship for others.
    He was up to something now. Of that Kayla had no doubt. And 
it involved Rusko but not her husband.
    Despite herself, her footsteps took her toward the orniary. 
She found her husband and the broad-shouldered Tawnos alone in 
the domed room. They had dismissed the remainder of the students 
for the day. Tawnos was stripped to the waist and bending a thick 
spar of candlewood along a graceful line chalked against one 
wall. Kayla knew enough to recognize it as a wing support for one 
of the ornithopters. The tall toy maker grunted with the effort, 
and his muscles bulged as he bent the spar to match the chalk 
line exactly.
    "Hold it!" said Urza, dropping beneath Tawnos's grip and 
wiring the newly curved section back to the ornithopter's main 
spine. "Now bend it the other way."
    Tawnos gasped and twisted the beam in the other direction, 
forming an S-shaped curve. Kayla was impressed. Candlewood was 
light, but the spar the young man was manhandling was the 
thickness of her wrist. And, she thought, Tawnos looked very good 
stripped to the waist.
    "Husband, we need to talk," Kayla said.
    Urza quickly held up a hand and waved it slightly, but Kayla 
would not be dissuaded. "No, we need to talk."
    Urza looked up at his assistant. "Go ahead. I'll wait," said 
Tawnos through clenched teeth.
    Urza turned toward his wife. His hair had gone entirely 
white, probably, thought Kayla, due to the amount of work he'd 
been doing. He was dressed in the heavy leather smock that had 
practically become his second skin over the years. "I'm sorry, 
dear," he said, "but I am very busy."
    "You are always very busy," snapped Kayla, "except when you 
are sleeping. And even then you seem restless." She relented and 
held out a hand to stroke his cheek.
    Urza flinched slightly at the touch. He reached up and gently 
took her hand. "It's just that we may have a way to improve the 
diving speed of the ornithopters. Tawnos has suggested that if we 
truly shape the spar to resemble a predatory bird's wing, then it 
would be more maneuverable as well."
    Kayla nodded and pushed his words aside unconsidered. "I 
think Father is planning something."
    Urza sighed, and looked at his assistant. Tawnos gave a good-
natured nod, but his veins were standing out at his neck from 
holding the candlewood spar in its twisted position. To Kayla 
Urza said, "Your father is always planning something. That's what 
he does best."
    The princess sighed and shook her head. "It's not that. He 
wants to negotiate with the Fallaji leaders and to get the 
Argivians and Korlisians involved as well."
    "That's good," said Urza abstractedly, watching the way the 
wing spur lined up against the chalk mark on the wall. "Most of 
the Fallaji I've known have been rational men, even if there are 
problems with the caravans and a few hotheaded leaders. And your 
father is too sharp to let Argivians get away with anything. 
What's the problem?"
    "He never wanted to talk to the Fallaji before," Kayla said.
    "People change." Urza shrugged, his eyes never leaving the 
line of the wing.
    You don't, thought Kayla, but instead she said, "I don't 
know. I just think something is wrong with this situation."
    Urza looked at Kayla and sighed deeply. "Your father is a 
reasonable man. An old war-horse, but a reasonable man. There are 
reasonable men among the Fallaji. Even among the Argivians. I'm 
sure things will work out."
    "Uh, Master Urza?" called Tawnos. "It's beginning to slip a 
little."
    "I have to go," said Urza. He turned back to the spar.
    "But what about-" began his wife.
    Urza held up a hand as he walked away. "Your father wants 
peace. Sounds good, though a little odd. Argivians involved. 
Probably he'll tell you what's going on eventually."
    There was the sound of a metal-heeled foot stomping the floor 
behind him, and the brisk clatter of heels storming out of the 
room.
    It ended in a resounding slam of the orniary doors.
    "What was that about?" asked Tawnos, sweat streaming down his 
face.
    "I'm not quite sure," returned Urza. "Kayla worries about her 
father too much. Bend the wingspar a little more convex there. 
That's it. Now, hold it.... "

                          * * * * *

    The announcement was made the following month. 
Representatives of Argive, Yotia, and Korlis were to meet in 
Korlis to discuss the problems with the desert raiders. Runners 
were sent under a flag of truce to Tomakul, Zegon, and other 
Fallaji towns to invite the qadir of the Suwwardi to attend as 
well. Safe conduct was promised to all attendees.
    The coastal nations selected not Korlis's main city itself as 
the site for the meeting, but rather an outpost town, Korlinda, 
located farther up the Kor River, on the haunches of the Kher 
Ridges themselves. Should the Fallaji appear, the warlord said, 
they would have less distance to travel. Kayla thought there was 
another purpose behind the location. The Fallaji would be far 
from their traditionally claimed land, and the civilized nations 
would have ample warning of how large their party was before it 
arrived.
    Urza was pried loose from his orniary only by the 
announcement that two of his older ornithopters would be provided 
as a gift to the people of Korlis. A full force of a dozen winged 
machines would appear at the meeting, and two would be left 
behind. After Urza complained that he would have to be present to 
tell the Korlisian how to maintain the ornithopters, the warlord 
graciously extended an invitation to the artificer.
    Knowing he had been outmaneuvered, Urza protested no further 
but instead worked out a schedule that provided for a minimum 
amount of time away from his shop. The warlord and his entourage 
would leave early; he would follow with the ornithopters five 
days before the session began. He also left detailed instructions 
for Tawnos and the students to follow while he was gone. Tawnos 
thought at the time that Urza spent more time detailing the tasks 
that needed to be done in his absence than the tasks themselves 
would take, but he merely nodded when the Chief Artificer handed 
over the ream of parchment.
    Urza's metal humanoid would also be sent out to the meeting, 
but would go by wagon. Rusko was in charge of this move and used 
one of the spring-axled wagons Urza had developed the previous 
year. The clock maker was particularly interested in a vehicle 
that would not rock excessively, though Urza pointed out that his 
metal creation could walk to Korlis and probably make better time 
than Rusko would. Rusko, for his part, invoked a number of Yotian 
and non-Yotian deities and insisted he did not want to have to 
come back and tell the artificer that his great creation had been 
lost due to a broken limb assembly or had been spotted by farmers 
while walking through eastern Korlis and accidentally dismantled.
    In the end Tawnos was left behind with the school; Kayla 
remained behind as well. The warlord cited the dangers of travel, 
even through friendly lands. He needed her and the seneschal, he 
said, to remain behind and run the country in his absence. He 
did, however, take the Captain of the Guard with him. The royal 
party left at midsummer's day, and Urza left twenty days later 
with his flight of ornithopters.
    The natives of Kroog threw celebrations at the drop of a 
plumed hat, and both departures were filled with much pomp and 
cheering. The warlord rode out at the head of his royal caravan, 
mounted on a powerful horse, the descendant of ones he had ridden 
in his great war triumphs. For many of the natives of Kroog, that 
was how he would be always be remembered: astride his stallion in 
full armor, cantering at the head of his forces.
    Yet even that departure paled before the celebration when 
Urza and the ornithopters took off.
    They had cleared the palace's great court for the departure, 
and for the week before Urza camped on the site with his craft. 
He double-checked every strut and spar and made sure there were 
sufficient spare parts to cover every eventuality. Tawnos 
mentioned to Kayla that they were carrying enough components to 
knit an additional ornithopter if need be.
    The crowds started gathering as the week progressed, watching 
Urza move between the machines, checking figures with Tawnos, 
testing and retesting wires, and going over charts and schedules. 
An electric thrill mounted as the crowd swelled. All had seen the 
ornithopters before; they were a common sight in the skies over 
Kroog. Yet never had the citizens seen so many together at once.
    On the morning of the departure Kayla appeared to wish her 
husband well. The crowds watched the couple embrace and imagined 
quiet, tender words spoken between them. Then Urza gave the 
signal to Tawnos. Tawnos in turn waved to the rest of the flight 
to prepare their crafts as Urza climbed into his ornithopter's 
white housing.
    As one the ornithopter pilots engaged their power stones, and 
the great winged devices came to life. Slowly they pumped the 
air, limbering up the wings that had been carefully prepared and 
preened for days previously. A wave of applause swept through the 
gathered crowd. A few of the pilots waved from the windows, 
bringing another, louder round of clapping.
    Then the beating of the wings intensified. Urza's craft, the 
one with the double-curved wings, took a little hop, and then 
suddenly was airborne, as effortlessly as a bird in flight. The 
two ornithopters behind it took similar hops, and they were aloft 
as well. Then the two behind those joined in the flight. In turn 
each pair of ornithopters arose from the courtyard like a flock 
of startled doves. The assembled citizens of Kroog cheered as 
they took to the sky.
    The ornithopters took a long, leisurely arc around the palace 
of Kroog, beating wings to gain altitude, and the crowd yelled 
itself raw as they did so. The people waved pennants and threw 
the small smoke-poppers that had become popular of late. Some 
climbed the higher spires and waved great flags. The ornithopters 
locked their wings and gave a wing dip in response to the 
shouting populace. Then they were gone, dancing into the morning 
sun.
    The people watched them until they were lost from sight, 
until other buildings or the low hills to the east blocked the 
view or, for those who had climbed the spires, when the 
ornithopter fleet had become small, indistinct dots on the 
horizon. A few watched the princess, however, and some claimed 
that her eyes were wet and that she dabbed them with her kerchief 
as she turned back to her palace, the seneschal at her side.
    In the days and months that followed, some would say she had 
wept because her husband was leaving her. Some would say it was 
because she had dreamed what was about to happen and knew she 
could not change it. And some would say that she knew that the 
end of her small part of the world and the destruction of Kroog 
would begin at the Council of Korlis.

                          * * * * *

    The machines performed remarkably well, and took only four 
days to make the trip to Korlinda. Urza had ordered Rusko to set 
up a series of base camps between Kroog and Korlinda as the clock 
maker pushed eastward with the wagons. All the camps were in 
Yotian territory and in clear terrain. Each was fully operational 
by the time Urza's ships reached it, ready with soft beds and hot 
meals for the pilots after they had completed their day's flying.
    The weather was clear and pristine, and even the storms that 
regularly lashed the southeastern coast of Terisiare seemed to 
have gone on holiday. Urza had allowed for an extra day of flying 
time in case of heavy thunderstorms, which normally roosted in 
the southern Khers, but there was not so much as a heavy ground 
fog for the entire trip.
    Indeed the most difficult problem the pilots faced was the 
Yotians themselves. At every base camp a collection of spectators 
assembled, all curious about the Chief Artificer and his mighty 
machines. They clustered around the fields, waiting for the 
craft, and on occasion the ornithopters would be forced to pass 
close over the crowd in order to disperse them and create a large 
enough site on which to land. One of the pilots observed it was 
like herding sheep, but he said it too close to the Chief 
Artificer. That pilot spent the rest of the flight in the rear of 
the formation and did not speak again for the rest of the trip.
    And once they had landed, there were requests for favors-in 
particular, for rides. Urza at first refused, but the pilots, 
even after a full day at the controls, were willing to volunteer 
the time to take young children and teenagers aloft. Finally Urza 
gave his assent but made clear he was not going to provide rides 
himself or allow anyone to fly his white craft with the double-
curved wings.
    The pilots had all been chosen by Rusko, who said he had done 
so to save Urza time. They were at least five years Urza's junior 
and had an enthusiasm the artificer did not remember having 
possessed at the same age. The majority were known for stunt 
flying, for pushing their crafts as far as they could go, and 
several had walked away from nasty crack-ups. Urza would have 
chosen those with a better technical background and a higher 
safety rating, but he knew anyone properly vetted and trained 
could be a suitable pilot for the ornithopters. Indeed during 
this trip even the most cavalier of the young men flew dead level 
and kept in formation with Urza's ornithopter for the entire 
journey.
    The site that had been chosen for the council was near the 
meeting point of the three "civilized" nations of eastern 
Terisiare. Where the river Kor tumbled from the Khers into the 
first of several level plateaus stepping down to the Shielded Sea 
was a suitable spot. It was also connected at the point with an 
anomalous sliver of no-man's-land, an undulating strip that 
followed the inhospitable peaks of the
    Kher Ridges, as yet unofficially claimed by any side in the 
dispute.
    The site was a huge, level field with a great, open-air 
pavilion erected in the center over a raised platform. Four other 
camp areas surrounded the central pavilion, one for each of the 
attendees. When Urza arrived, three sides of the square had been 
complete. The warlord's Yotians formed the western side of the 
square, the mercantile Korlisians were to the south, and the 
Argivians occupied the eastern side. The space to the north of 
the pavilion was empty. That had been reserved for the Fallaji, 
though none knew if they would appear.
    Urza set down his ornithopter to the west, near the Yotian 
camp. The other pilots followed with military precision. Each 
ornithopter swooped, hovered for moment on back-pushing wings, 
then settled in place. There were no crowds here, no rush of 
commoners hoping to catch a glimpse of the Chief Artificer and 
his pilots. The Yotians were familiar with ornithopters, and the 
representatives of the two other nations feigned disinterest for 
purely political reasons.
    If Urza had hoped to meet any of Tocasia's former students 
among the Argivian delegation, he was disappointed. The Argivians 
were, to a man, bureaucrats and diplomats with strong connections 
to the Argivian king. Argivian politicians considered that the 
artifact-hunting scholars and their supporting nobles held 
radical views in the matter of the Fallaji, namely that the 
desert should be free and open for Argivian exploration. The 
Crown, though weak, felt otherwise: Argive should end where the 
hills grew rough and waterless, and the Fallaji should be left to 
their desert ways. Since the Crown chose who went to Korlinda, 
all the Argivians sent were isolationist in nature, hoping to 
obtain a quick treaty, recognized borders, and a safe retreat 
back home. The warlord was visibly irritated by their presence.
    The Argivians did bring their own ornithopters, but these 
were primitive in design, little advanced beyond the constructs 
that Urza, his brother, and Tocasia had pulled from the 
embankment of the dry wash many years before. Urza learned from 
the Argivian pilots that the Crown had put a claim on all salvage 
from the desert and had appropriated most of Tocasia's legacy. 
The noble houses continued to dig and explore the desert, but 
many no longer told the Crown what they found there.
    The Korlisians were pure merchants; the ruling council of 
that nation had rested in the hands of the guilds for 
generations. The current lord of the council was a portly woman. 
Her opinion, and the opinion of the well-dressed merchants in 
attendance, was that they would negotiate dear but without a 
doubt would secure unmolested trade routes to Tomakul. The 
warlord seemed to tolerate them only slightly more than he did 
the Argivians.
    Each of the civilized countries brought its own honor guards. 
Yotia's force was the largest, Argive's was the most ornately 
armored, and Korlis's was the best-equipped, as benefited 
mercenaries in the merchants' employ.
    Urza retreated to his own tent, where Rusko already had un-
crated his metal humanoid. The transit had not been kind to the 
metallic titan, and something had jarred loose in one of its 
ankles. Urza spent the first night and part of the next day 
fixing it so the mechanical creature would be fit to operate in 
time for the opening ceremonies.
    The opening came and passed without the Fallaji's presence. 
Official introductions were made and professional courtesies 
established. There was much talk of cooperation, most of it over 
the course of a large feast in the pavilion the first night. The 
Fallaji did not appear during the day, nor did any of the 
outriders report signs of them.
    Urza spent most of that day dressed in the high-collared, 
stiff-necked gowns of office, which he had worn previously only 
once: at his official appointment as Chief Artificer. The robes 
were fire-red with white piping and covered his body from neck to 
ankles. In the summer warmth of the highlands they were 
unbearable, and Urza's only consolation was that the official 
dress of most of the rest of the assemblage looked even more 
uncomfortable.
    The second day came and went in similar fashion, though by 
the day's end the alliance of the three coastal nations was 
already starting to fray. The representatives of the Argivian 
king refused to admit there were any incursions from Argive into 
the Fallaji territory. The king did, however, have a surplus of 
functional power stones, which he was willing to use as 
bargaining chips to buy agreement from the Korlisians and 
Yotians. The warlord was insulted by such a blatant bribe but 
knew both his country and the merchants could use the Thran 
stones. The Korlisians were already on the verge of self-
destruction since only two ornithopters were to be left behind 
and no fewer than five major guilds felt they had the rights to 
them. Tense words threatened to break into open squabbles, and by 
the end of the second day all parties took their evening meals in 
their own camps.
    There was still no word from the Fallaji, and many were 
starting to say the conference would disband without them 
appearing. The warlord spoke of insults to the Yotian people by 
their absence, and the
    Argivian diplomats spoke of patience. The Korlisians seemed 
visibly worried they would not get their ornithopters if the 
Fallaji did not appear, since the warlord had thrown an armed 
guard around the flying craft.
    The Fallaji appeared on the morning of the third day, without 
warning. There was a low mountain fog that day, and as it slowly 
burned off, the desert people were suddenly ... there.
    None had seen them arrive, but as the mist lifted there 
appeared lines of tents clustered around a large, white central 
tent. The desert people outnumbered any two of the other groups 
combined, and all apparently were warriors.
    A path had been cleared from the Fallaji tents to the main 
pavilion, and down this pathway came a strange procession. First 
marched an honor guard of warriors with gold, broad-brimmed 
helmets. Then came a litter carrying the qadir of the Fallaji's 
self-styled empire. But it was at the object behind the qadir 
that most of the assembled personages gawked in a way they had 
not done when the Yotian ornithopters had arrived.
    It was a huge device made of brass, fashioned in the shape of 
a dragon. The morning sun glittered off the condensation along 
its flanks, and its head twisted slowly from side to side. Its 
front legs were like those of a legendary dragon, but its rear 
quarters were a collection of cogs and treads, and it churned the 
earth as it moved.
    The procession moved forward with slow, stately grace, in 
part to give the other members of the council time to prepare for 
the official meeting. The warlord assembled his staff on the 
pavilion first, including Urza and his mechanical man. The device 
that had won Kayla's hand seemed woefully insufficient to deal 
with the titanic monster that approached. Urza followed his 
father-in-law's pitying look at his creation, and his own 
countenance grew stern.
    The Korlisians gathered as well, their lord patiently waiting 
alongside the warlord as the Fallaji approached. The Argivians 
were late; its representatives pulled on their ceremonial jackets 
just as the procession reached the base of the pavilion.
    The honor guard parted, and the litter carrying the qadir 
came forward. Urza noted that the ruler of the Fallaji Empire, 
though younger than he, was already running to fat, and his flesh 
strained at his ceremonial robes.
    A stocky individual stepped out from behind the litter and 
Urza's jaw dropped in shock. Mishra stood among the Fallaji.
    He was dressed in jade green robes, cut in the desert fashion 
with high slits along both legs to allow the wearer to ride and 
fight easily. He wore a cloth around his forehead, this also of 
green, embroidered with gold lettering in the Fallaji tongue.
    In his amazement Urza did not notice for a moment the female 
accompanying his brother, a stunning red-haired woman bearing an 
ornate staff, one tipped with a dolphin's skull.
    Mishra halted next to the qadir's litter, as if listening to 
last-minute instructions. His eyes flicked across the assembled 
group and stopped when they reached Urza. It could have been a 
trick of the morning light, but to Urza it seemed as if Mishra 
nodded at him.
    Urza returned the greeting with a slight bob of the head. 
Mishra stepped forward and addressed the gathered representatives 
of the other nations.
    "Greetings, most respected authorities and agents of the 
Eastern Nations. I am Mishra, the chief advisor of the qadir of 
the Suwwardi, first among equals of the Fallaji peoples. His most 
wise and respected excellency gives you his greetings, his 
apologies, and asks for your indulgence.
    "He gives you his greetings, for he hopes that matters will 
be resolved here to avoid further bloodshed on all sides. He 
makes his apologies for being so tardy in his arrival. We came 
here by mountain paths that many had thought lost, and had to 
proceed carefully. And last, he begs your indulgence, for his has 
been a long journey, and he would appreciate an opportunity to 
rest before attending to the task at hand. He would like to 
return to this pavilion after the noon meal to formally begin his 
work. He and I thank you for both the invitation and for your 
patience in this matter."
    Mishra made a deep bow. The qadir did not wait for a response 
from the other council members. Instead he silently raised his 
hand. As one, the Fallaji procession reversed course. The dragon 
engine backed toward the Fallaji camp, followed by the litter and 
the honor guard. Mishra and the woman took up the rear, but the 
dark-haired young man lingered just long enough to look over his 
shoulder.
    Urza shouted, "Brother!" and stepped forward, away from the 
rest of his delegation. He could hear the other delegates 
suddenly burst into a buzz of gossip. He looked back and saw the 
warlord look stern. Rusko was at the warlord's side and whispered 
something in the ruler's ear. The warlord nodded, and Urza turned 
back to his brother.
    Mishra turned around entirely now. The woman next to him 
tightened her grip on her staff, but the younger brother raised a 
hand and dismissed her as well. She hesitated a moment, then 
turned and followed the rest of the retreating Fallaji.
    Mishra stood statue-stiff as Urza descended from the 
pavilion. The younger brother did not extend his hand, but rather 
stood calmly, hands folded before him. Urza stopped a few feet 
away and assumed an identical position, hands folded in front of 
him.
    "Brother," repeated Urza.
    "Brother," replied Mishra.
    A long silence grew between them, and each studied the other. 
To Urza, Mishra looked more weather-beaten, tanned, and muscular 
than the last time he had seen him. To Mishra, Urza looked leaner 
and older than before. The younger brother noticed small lines 
were already growing around his older sibling's eyes. Urza's 
flesh was the pasty color of the city dwellers.
    Finally Urza said, "It is good to see you are well."
    Mishra replied, "I am well enough. And you?"
    Urza nodded briefly, then added, "I am surprised to see you 
among the Fallaji delegation."
    "I must confess that I am not surprised to see you among the 
Argivians," returned Mishra.
    "Yotians, actually," corrected his brother.
    Mishra nodded smoothly. "Ah. Of course. That would explain 
why the Yotians are suddenly so interested in raiding for power 
stones and Thran devices."
    "Exploring," said Urza. "Yotians do not raid."
    "Of course," repeated Mishra, a tight smile appearing on his 
face. "It must be as you say. We shall let the diplomats parse 
the words for us."
    Urza gave a stiff nod. "I had heard that the Fallaji had 
unified with surprising speed. But I had not heard your name 
mentioned."
    Mishra gave a pronounced bow. "I am but a simple raki, a 
servant of the qadir, his name be most revered, his thoughts be 
most wise." Another silence followed his words.
    Urza let the pause play out, as if unsure what to say next. 
"I am the Chief Artificer of Kroog," he said finally.
    Mishra allowed himself another smile. "How very nice. I 
thought I recognized a metal soldier among your ranks. One of 
yours?"
    Urza nodded, and Mishra added, "Clearly influenced by the su-
chi you studied as a lad. It shows in the knees."
    Urza said, "I built it as a challenge," but did not 
elaborate.
    Another uncomfortable silence grew. This time Mishra broke 
it. "I trust you have been well?"
    "Very well," said Urza; then his eyebrows shot up. "I am 
married, you know."
    "I did not know," returned his brother. "I am surprised to 
find there exists a woman who could tear you away from your books 
and researches."
    "Her name is Kayla. She is the warlord's daughter," said 
Urza.
    "Ah," said Mishra quietly, but said nothing else.
    Another silence. Behind Urza, most of the delegates had 
dissolved into tight little groups. The warlord remained in the 
pavilion, watching the two brothers talk.
    Finally Urza said, "That young woman who was with you. Is she 
... ?"
    "Ashnod?" Mishra shifted as if uneasy. "She is my apprentice. 
She is very talented."
    "Most likely," replied his older brother. "I too have an 
apprentice. Tawnos. Another Yotian. And a school with about 
twenty students."
    "Ah," repeated Mishra, his face very cold. "Very good for 
you. It sounds as if you are thriving."
    "And you," asked Urza, "do you have a school?"
    Mishra shook his head. "The desert does not allow such 
luxuries. We must fight to stay alive. Learning is what you pick 
up as you go along."
    "You seem to have picked up an interesting device as well," 
remarked Urza.
    "Yes," said Mishra, and this time the smile was genuine.
    "It does not look like any Thran device we ever uncovered," 
said Urza. "Where did you find it?"
    "Beneath the sand," returned his brother. "I had a hunch. It 
just came to me."
    "You always had a talent for such things," said Urza. A 
tentative smile shaped itself on his lips. "Perhaps later you'll 
tell me the full story and favor me with a chance to look at it." 
He added quickly, "I've made some changes to Tocasia's original 
ornithopter. I'd like to show them to you as well."
    Mishra was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I would like 
that very much. Later, perhaps, when this conference is 
resolved." He bowed deeply and backed away a step, lowering his 
head to indicate the conversation was over.
    Urza half-turned away. The Mightstone around his neck felt 
heavy. He touched the stone, then turned back. "Mishra?"
    Mishra looked up. His hand was touching the pouch resting on 
his chest. "Yes, Brother?"
    Urza's face twisted for a moment, and his next words were 
halting, "It... is ... good to see you again."
    "And you," said Mishra smoothly.
    "After this is all finished," said the older brother, "we 
need to talk. You and I. About what we have been doing. About the 
past."
    "The past exists all around us," said the younger brother 
calmly. "The only question is whether we chose to dig it up or 
not."

                          * * * * *

    The warlord summoned Urza at once when he returned to the 
Argivian camp. As the artificer entered the warlord's tent, the 
ruler was seated in his camp chair, flanked by the Captain of the 
Guard and Rusko.
    "Your brother is Fallaji?" spat the warlord.
    Urza shook his head. "My brother is not Fallaji, but he 
serves their qadir, as I serve you."
    "Why did you not tell me?" demanded the sovereign.
    "Until today, I didn't even know he was still alive," 
returned Urza.
    "I see," said the warlord, leaning back in his camp chair 
Rusko, watching quietly from his side, thought the ruler did see, 
though not necessarily what Urza intended. The warlord's enemies 
had an ally obviously every bit as talented as his son-in-law. 
The taste of that revelation was sour.
    "What has he been doing with them?" asked the warlord.
    "I do not know," returned Urza, shrugging expressively.
    "How did he end up with them?" continued the warlord. His 
feet kicked restlessly at the stool in front of him.
    "I do not know," repeated the Chief Artificer.
    "What can that mechanical behemoth do?" demanded the warlord. 
His voice was rising in volume, and Rusko felt the temperature in 
the tent growing hotter.
    Urza held up his hands before him to show his lack of 
knowledge. "We spoke of it only briefly."
    The warlord rubbed his lower lip; his fingers came away 
stained with blood. "Here's one I hope you can answer. Can you 
build one like it?"
    Urza thought for a moment. "Probably. If I get a chance to 
examine it. Mishra says that he found it in the desert. But it is 
much more advanced than any Thran device I've ever seen. I do not 
think it is Thran at all."
    The warlord muttered half to himself, half to the captain and 
Rusko, "We have patrols scouring the sand for stones, and his 
brother finds an ancient mechanical behemoth, fully functional."
    "He says he found it," said Urza stoically. "I don't know if 
that's the truth."
    "You don't know if your brother is truthful?" said the 
warlord quickly, raising an eyebrow.
    "I didn't say that, either," said Urza, hotly. "We ... we did 
not part on the best of terms."
    "So Rusko has told me," said the warlord.
    "Later, we will talk, he and I," offered Urza.
    "If there is a later," said the chieftain, shaking his head. 
"These Fallaji played a trick on us, with their behemoth. We were 
prepared to show them our power, demonstrating our ornithopters 
and the mechanical man. Instead they roll up with a legendary 
beast the size of a ship. The Argivians are all ready to bolt, 
and the Korlisians want to thank everyone for coming, take their 
ornithopters, and go home. No, those desert raiders aided by your 
brother pulled a fast one on us. And we have to respond."
    Urza did not question the warlord's words, even when he was 
dismissed and Rusko and the young captain remained behind. He did 
not even visit the ornithopters, which were the hub of much 
additional activity. Instead he went to his own quarters and lay 
in his hammock, waiting for the meetings to begin and for a 
chance to see his brother again.

                          * * * * *

    A table had been set up beneath the pavilion, four-sided, 
with great chairs on three of the sides. The one on the west was 
occupied by the warlord, flanked by Urza and the mechanical man. 
The Yotian ruler's mood had not improved since his talk with 
Urza, and the old man seemed on the verge of exploding.
    The chair on the south was occupied by the lord of Korlis, 
flanked by two mercenary guards from different units. The eastern 
chair was occupied by a nervous Argivian diplomat, with two 
equally nervous bureaucrats at his side.
    The northern seat was a low bench, desert style, set for the 
Fallaji qadir. He arrived in his litter and half rolled, half 
waddled onto his seat. He was supported by Mishra on one side, 
and the red-haired staff-wielder, Ashnod, on the other. The 
Fallaji had left their brass behemoth back at their camp, though 
its serpentine neck was clearly visible behind them.
    The Korlisian lord began the meeting softly. "We welcome the 
representatives of the Fallaji to the conference. I hope we may 
be able to resolve matters that have vexed us all individually 
and to come to a mutually beneficial compromise."
    "With your kind permission," interrupted Mishra, "on behalf 
of His Most Eminent Quadir I have a statement to read."
    The Korlisian lord's mouth flapped open for a moment. Then 
she nodded. The warlord sputtered a protest.
    Mishra began without further encouragement, his words louder 
than the complaining warlord. "We, the Fallaji people, welcome 
the opportunity to speak with the men of the eastern coastlands. 
Know that we are a unified people under our qadir, and our empire 
stretches from Tomakul to the Argivian border, from ice-fed Ronom 
Lake to the warm Zegoni coast. We are many gathered together, and 
as such we are mighty.
    "Whatever else may be decided by this conference, we must 
make clear that it is our ultimate goal to regain all the land of 
the Fallaji people and to protect that land and the resources 
that it contains from all invaders, raiders, and would-be 
conquerors."
    The warlord started at the words, and interrupted with a 
snarl. "Not a bad little speech for a race of invaders, raiders, 
and would-be conquerors. Do the people of Tomakul and Zegon agree 
with your statements, or are they just waiting for someone to 
strike your young puppy of a qadir across the snout on their 
behalf?"
    Mishra raised an eyebrow at the interruption, and even Urza 
was surprised by the heat of the warlord's words. He put a hand 
on the ruler's shoulder to calm him.
    However, it was the qadir who answered, in the clipped accent 
of an Argivian. "Have a care, old man. You do not wish to cross 
me."
    Urza looked at Mishra, and Mishra nodded back at his brother. 
The qadir had learned Argivian from his raki and knew enough to 
realize when he was being insulted and to respond in kind.
    The warlord would not be dissuaded. "Have a care yourself, 
child warrior. Do not trifle with those who possess more 
experience and wisdom than you."
    Urza started to speak. "Perhaps now would be a good time to 
adjourn and think about-," but the qadir was already talking 
again.
    "Do you know who I am?" demanded the young Fallaji. "I am the 
Qadir of the Suwwardi tribe. Once, long ago, we lived in the 
Suwwardi lands north of Yotia. You called them the Suwwardi 
Marches."
    "The Sword Marches," shot back the warlord. "When I was a 
younger man, we cleaned that land of raiders and brought true 
civilization to it."
    "It is Suwwardi land and belongs to the Fallaji people," 
snapped the qadir.
    "There have not been any Suwwardi there since your 
greatgrandfather's age," rejoined the warlord hotly.
    "Yes," hissed the qadir. "You drove my great-grandfather from 
our land. My grandfather wandered the empty wastes. My father 
gathered the tribes. And now I come to you with my empire at my 
back and demand the return of my family's land."
    Urza looked at Mishra, but his brother had a blank expression 
on his face. Could it be he had not known about the qadir's 
demands? The Korlisians and the Argivians were talking as well 
now, as chaos erupted at the table.
    "You are an old fool," continued the qadir, with a 
contemptuous sneer, "to hope to prevail in the face of our 
obvious power."
    "I'll show you what I know of power," replied the warlord. 
"Take a lesson, child!"
    The warlord made a gesture. The Captain of the Guard, waiting 
outside the pavilion, turned, raised his hand, and then dropped 
it. Out by the Yotian camp Rusko turned and waved to the 
ornithopter crews, already at their machines.
    In a matter of moments the sky around the pavilion was heavy 
with the beating of great canvas wings.
    The flight of eleven ornithopters (lacking only Urza's new 
one with its double-bent wings) came in low over the pavilion. 
The qadir looked up in shock, but Mishra was already next to him, 
shouting something in Fallaji. Urza was yelling at the warlord as 
well.
    "What is this?" the artificer roared. "Why are my 
ornithopters in the air? Why wasn't I told?"
    "It's a lesson in power!" the warlord shouted in return, his 
teeth bright like a shark's. "You would do well to pay attention 
to it as well."
    The ornithopters banked over the pavilion and made a beeline 
toward the Fallaji camp. Three of the craft banked right, and 
three veered left. The remaining five headed straight for the 
dragon engine.
    Small objects fell from the ornithopters, jettisoned by their 
pilots. They were black bits of shadow that plummeted into the 
Fallaji camp.
    Where they landed the ground erupted in explosions of flames 
and smoke. There were screams as the flames spread, and more 
bombs dropped.
    Urza shouted, but his voice was drowned in another round of 
explosions. The five ornithopters that bore down on the dragon 
engine glided in low, trying to fling their bombs along the base 
of the great metallic creature. A string of eruptions blossomed 
beneath the beast, and it wheeled and gave a metallic scream but 
seemed otherwise unhurt.
    The dragon engine exhaled a huge gout of reddish mist 
directly in the path of one of the ornithopters. As the craft 
passed through it, the ornithopter came apart in mid-air. Its 
wings folded upon itself, and it crashed among the tents, 
releasing a larger gout of flame as the rest of its deadly cargo 
exploded.
    Within the pavilion reaction among the delegates was 
instantaneous. The Argivians flung themselves under the table. 
The Korlisian mercenaries grabbed their lord, one by each arm, 
and dragged her backward, away from the table, while she shouted 
orders and obscenities at them. The warlord was laughing now, 
taunting the young qadir.
    The Fallaji ruler rose from his bench with a speed that 
surprised Urza. His hand lashed out. The warlord saw the blow 
coming and tried to lean away from it, but the youth was too 
quick. Before either brother could react, a curved blade jutted 
from the old man's chest, blood spouting from the wound like a 
fountain.
    "No!" shouted Urza, and felt his Mightstone heavy on his 
chest. He laid one hand upon it, and with the other activated his 
mechanical humanoid. "Stop him!" Urza shouted.
    The mechanical man lurched forward and grabbed the qadir by 
the front of his robes. The young man let out a choked cry as 
inhumanly long arms reached across the table and snared him with 
fingers of ironroot and metal. Simultaneously the red-haired 
woman lowered her staff and pointed it at Urza's metallic 
creation. Lightning danced along the dolphin's skull, and Urza 
felt a wave of nausea pass over him. It felt as if every part of 
his skin had become acutely sensitive. The movement of the breeze 
inflicted horrible pain. Gritting his teeth, Urza barked another 
command, and the mechanical being pulled the qadir toward itself 
across the corner of the table.
    Out on the battlefield, the Fallaji were attempting to 
regroup. Mishra had signaled his dragon engine, and now the 
beast's serpentine neck dodged and darted among the diving 
ornithopters. It caught one and flung it to the ground, the 
canvas wings catching fire as it did so. On the ground, the 
Yotian troops charged, trying to kill any Fallaji who escaped the 
bombing. Some of the Korlisian mercenaries joined them in the 
assault.
    Ashnod shouted, and Mishra turned to see the qadir in the 
grip of the metal man. He spun toward the dragon engine to signal 
one last command, then wheeled to face Urza and his mechanical 
creation. Mishra gripped a thin hide pouch around his own neck, 
and green lambent power leaked out between his fingers. He 
concentrated that power on Urza's machine.
    Urza caught the backwash of the energies and staggered. The 
mechanical creation was more greatly affected. Sparks danced at 
its joints, and steam began to seep from beneath its helmeted 
face. Its fingers loosened, and the qadir dropped free, clutching 
his throat and gasping for breath.
    Ashnod shouted something, and Mishra nodded. Suddenly the 
northern side of the pavilion was shattered as the dragon engine 
smashed its way onto the raised platform. Ashnod let her staff 
down, and its fires died. She tucked the staff under one arm, 
grabbing the qadir with the other, and dragged the ruler toward 
the engine as if he were no more than a puppet.
    Urza felt the pain subside. He focused his Mightstone at his 
metal creation. "Mishra," he shouted, his head still spinning, 
"we have to stop this!"
    Dimly he heard his brother's voice snarl back, "So you can 
betray us again, brother?"
    Urza started to reply, "I didn't know-" but the stress of the 
Might-stone and Weakstone proved to be too much for the 
mechanical beast between the brothers. It exploded at the waist, 
its torso spinning around its central pivot and its head jutting 
flames. Urza screamed as the flames arched around him. The last 
thing he saw was Mishra, running back toward his dragon engine, 
his creation framed by a wreath of smoke from the ornithopter 
bombs.

                          * * * * *

    The searchers found Urza in the shattered pavilion, cradling 
the dead body of the warlord. The blasted legs and hips of his 
mechanical humanoid still stood next to him, the fragments of its 
head and torso scattered around the lopsided platform.
    The Captain of the Guard arrived and saluted. "The enemy is 
in full retreat, sir."
    Urza said nothing, and the captain continued. "We inflicted 
heavy casualties on the Fallaji troops with minimum losses to our 
own. We lost four ornithopters in the attack. Several of the 
Korlisian mercenaries joined in the assault and want to be paid 
for their contribution. The Argivians have already fled without 
drawing a sword."
    Urza looked in the pale, quiet face of the captain as the 
soldier continued. "The enemy leader and"-he paused-"your brother 
have escaped with their engine into the mountains. We will scout 
for them with the remaining ornithopters."
    Urza said something softly that the captain could not hear.
    "Beg pardon, sir?" he asked.
    "I just asked why," said Urza sadly, looking at the warlord's 
face. "Why did he do this?"
    "You heard the Fallaji devil," the captain said. "They wanted 
to invade Yotia. To regain land they lost generations ago. It's 
the desert way, carrying grudges for generations-"
    "No," said Urza, his voice now filled with steel. "He was 
ready for this. This ambush. The ornithopters. The bombs. Goblin 
powder, wasn't it? The warlord was preparing for an attack all 
the time. It should have been a massacre. If not for my brother's 
engine, it would have been."
    The Captain of the Guard shifted uneasily but said nothing.
    "And why did he not tell me?" asked Urza bitterly. "Why not 
tell me he was going to use my machines like this?"
    The captain stammered, "I-I couldn't say, sir."
    Urza laid the body of the warlord on the shattered floor of 
the pavilion and turned toward the captain. "Yes, you can say," 
Urza said icily. "You can say everything you know. Who knew about 
this? What were the full plans? What did you hope to accomplish? 
Why did you not tell me? Why did you not tell the princess? You 
can, and will answer those questions."
    The captain shifted his feet uneasily.
    "Because," Urza continued, turning back to the body, "because 
I have to go back to Kroog now and tell my wife her father is 
dead. And I will need all the reasons I can muster to make her 
understand. Because I don't understand it myself."
    
                           Chapter 11
                       AFFAIRS OF STATE

    Tawnos moved softly through the halls of the palace, with a 
subtle grace that belied his large frame. In the months since the 
death of the warlord, everyone had learned to move more quietly 
through the marble halls of the palace of Kroog.
    The news of the warlord's death struck the Yotians like a 
cold wave of seawater. It was sudden, unexpected, and decisive. 
For most of the Yotians, the warlord had been the only leader 
they had ever known, and he had seemed immortal.
    Now he was dead. Cut down by a Fallaji blade, said one story. 
No, said another, his heart was burst by Fallaji magic. No, 
contended a third, he was boiled alive by the steaming breath of 
a diabolic machine, a machine controlled by the Chief Artificer's 
evil brother. No, the ruler was wearing one of the Chief 
Artificer's amulets, and it exploded. The warlord saved the Chief 
Artificer from a red-haired demoness summoned by the Chief 
Artificer's evil brother. Even when the truth was finally 
determined and circulated, the other tales survived and grew in 
the telling.
    One tale both true and widely popular was that Urza returned 
from Korlinda late one evening, piloting his distinctive 
ornithopter and bearing the body of the warlord. It was said he 
flew without rest from Korlinda. Others noted he did stop 
briefly, but the flight took him only two days. He laid the body 
to rest in the palace shrine and sent word to the temples of the 
news. Then he visited the new queen with the sad tidings.
    The state funeral was lavish and lasted ten days. People came 
from the farthest reaches of Yotia to pass before the warlord one 
last time and pay their final respects. Guards had to be mounted 
along the funeral bier, not to protect the body but to help move 
those who collapsed alongside, fainting from despair. The most 
notable casualty during this procession was Kayla's matron, who 
flung herself in tears onto the bier and eventually had to be 
dispatched to relatives in the country to recover.
    Queen Kayla and her royal consort, Chief Artificer Urza, 
appeared only on the last day. Their faces were drawn and tired, 
and they neither spoke nor smiled during their grim vigil.
    After the body was interred within its great shrine, the 
queen retired to her quarters, and the Chief Artificer went to 
his orniary. A calm settled over Kroog, but it was a false peace 
as the merchants returned to their stores, the guildsmen to their 
crafts, and the scholars to their temple classes. The calm only 
barely hid the anger of the people. The Fallaji had killed their 
beloved warlord, and the desert people would pay.
    There were incidents. Fallaji traders (and in one case a 
Zegon jeweler) were lynched in the streets. Bands of young 
adventurers rode into Fallaji territory seeking revenge, and when 
they did not return, additional bands set out to seek revenge for 
them. In order to prevent further foolhardiness, the army swung 
its doors wide open to anyone who wished to join. Recruitment 
tripled in a month.
    Eventually the queen appeared in public, but she looked worn 
by her ordeal. Some noted that the warlord had protected her for 
too long from the duties of her position, and now she was feeling 
the strain. Others said she was meeting with the nobles and the 
guild leaders, assembling her own response to the Fallaji. Many, 
including Tawnos, noticed that when she appeared, she appeared 
alone.
    The Chief Artificer, it was whispered, had retreated to his 
lab to prepare a secret weapon with which to defeat the desert 
tribesmen. Some said that it was a new version of ornithopter, a 
more powerful bomb, or a gigantic version of his metal soldier, 
which had now gained the sobriquet of "Urza's Avenger" for its 
attempt to seek revenge against the warlord's murderer. When the 
machine's fragments were returned from Korlinda with the 
returning army, it was interred alongside the warlord, like a 
faithful dog with its master.
    Rusko had not returned, and Tawnos learned that while the 
clock maker had survived the attack, he would not be coming back 
to Kroog any time soon. The Captain of the Guard had been 
reassigned to a patrol unit to the west along the Fallaji 
frontier and replaced in his duties within the palace. Over the 
course of the month every pilot who had gone to Korlinda was 
transferred as well, also to units along the long frontier with 
the desert tribesmen. The seneschal remained, but seemed to be on 
a short leash, with Queen Kayla holding the other end.
    Every other official, courtier, and servant in the palace was 
made suddenly aware that if the new queen noticed something she 
did not care for, that something was removed. Everyone moved 
around the palace on tiptoe and spoke in whispers.
    The Fallaji were, for their part, surprisingly quiet. They 
launched a brief raid into the Sword Marches, which provoked a 
counterraid deep into the desert before it ran out of both 
supplies and enemies. Soon after the order came down, signed both 
by the Queen and the Chief Artificer: Every inch of Yotian ground 
would be held, but no one would raid Fallaji territories without 
explicit orders. Many took this as a sign that the queen's 
consort was working on something very deadly and decisive for the 
Fallaji.
    Of all the people in the city of Kroog, only Tawnos knew what 
the Chief Artificer had been doing for the month following the 
warlord's death. Urza had stayed in the orniary night and day. He 
had dismissed the students for the moment, sending them to mourn 
the warlord and never calling them back. He allowed Tawnos to 
remain, though, and his chief apprentice worked hard, keeping the 
machines oiled and the canvas supple. Mostly, however, Tawnos 
stayed out of Urza's way.
    Once or twice a day Urza would emerge from his lair to meet 
with the newest Captain of the Guard or to send a terse message 
to some bureaucrat or other. Then he retreated again to his lair.
    And in his study, he stared at a piece of blank paper mounted 
on his drawing board. He stared at it for hours. At first Tawnos 
wondered at what marvels Urza was dreaming up. But after the 
fifth day, the young toy maker became convinced that his master 
was simply overwhelmed by the responsibility that awaited him 
outside the orniary.
    Tawnos had ventured his opinion on the current situation to 
Urza just once. He had heard others note that the Chief Artificer 
would not strike against the Fallaji because the desert tribesmen 
were led by his evil brother, whom Urza had not seen since they 
were both children. Some argued that Urza hesitated because he 
wanted to kill his brother himself. Others argued that he was 
afraid of the brother and did not want to fight. Tawnos cut away 
the implications of cowardice and put the question to his master. 
Why had he not struck back?
    Urza almost exploded. "War is a waste of resources!" he 
shouted. "We lost four ornithopters in that fruitless assault, 
and I cannot replace them until I get more power stones! Why 
should I waste time, gold, and precious lives in battle? To chase 
ghosts in the desert? Why don't I just burn down the city and 
save my brother the bother?"
    The outburst was as surprising as it was sudden. Afterward 
Tawnos moved more quietly in the orniary as well.
    Messages arrived, and Tawnos received them at the door. To 
those sent by the Captain of the Guard, Urza responded in a short 
note delivered by Tawnos. Sometimes the message was from some 
merchant or craftsmen. Half the time the artificer would respond; 
other times he crumpled the letter and tossed it away.
    Some messages were marked with the signet ring of the queen. 
These Urza left unopened by his drafting table. A flurry of them 
appeared for a while, and then they gradually tapered off.
    Finally such a note arrived for Tawnos, demanding his 
presence in the queen's quarters that evening. A meeting at 
midnight, the missive said, and no one, not even Urza, should be 
told.
    Tawnos moved quietly through the corridors. There were no 
guards in the private wing of the building, and had not been 
since the warlord's funeral. It was late, and even the servants 
had abandoned their continual fussing and retired for the 
evening.
    He reached the doors to the royal household. In the distance 
he heard the temple bells sounding the midnight hour. He knocked 
softly.
    For a moment there was nothing, and Tawnos feared his rapping 
had not been heard. Then a weak voice said "Enter."
    Tawnos pushed the door open gently. "Your Majesty?"
    Queen Kayla was seated by the window looking out at the city 
of Kroog spread below. She was dressed in a sheer gown covered by 
a crimson robe. She held a large brandy snifter in her hand, and 
even from across the room Tawnos could see it was filled higher 
than it should have been.
    The queen said nothing, and Tawnos entered, closing the door 
behind him. "Your Majesty?" he repeated.
    Kayla sighed deeply. "No," she said. "Don't call me that. I 
have been 'Your Majesty'd' to tears today. Today and every other 
day." She took a sip of the brandy. "Call me Kayla. Can you do 
that, Tawnos Toy Maker?"
    Tawnos opened his mouth and tried to form his lips around the 
words, but they refused to cooperate. Finally, he said, "I'm 
afraid I can't, Ma'am."
    Kayla snorted, a pretty, ladylike sound. "Ma'am will have to 
do, then-at least for the moment." She spun in place on the 
window seat and set her slippered feet to the floor. "Would you 
like something to eat? I had the kitchen send up some chilled 
meat and cheeses."
    She waved an arm at a nearby table. It had been set with fine 
crystal and silverware and a pair of elegantly twisted candles. 
Porcelain plates as translucent as the wings of an ornithopter 
were laden with food. There were meats, both chopped and shaved, 
cheeses, fruits, and several pickled items that Tawnos could not 
immediately identify. "If you wish, Your . . Ma'am," said Tawnos, 
moving toward the tables.
    Kayla crossed paths with him, en route to her own seat. As 
she passed, she stumbled, spilling a bit of her drink and 
brushing against the apprentice.
    "Sorry," she murmured, holding a hand out against his chest 
to steady herself.
    "Not to worry," replied Tawnos. He inhaled a heady lungful of 
her perfume mixed with the fumes of brandy. If forced to guess, 
he would say that the brandy was older than the warlord had been.
    Tawnos tried to recall the last time the queen drank more 
than a single glass of wine with dinner. He came up empty but 
surmised that Kayla had already refilled her goblet at least once 
before he had arrived.
    Carefully, Tawnos sat down, unsure what to do next. He 
thought of himself as a simple coastal boy, lacking the 
sophistication of High Yotian society, but he was fairly certain 
of how the evening was shaping up.
    Kayla stabbed a morsel of cheese with her knife and waved the 
cheddar-tipped utensil at the apprentice. "So," she said. "How is 
he?"
    "He who, Ma'am?" parried Tawnos, looking over the pickled 
things, trying to determine what exactly they had been in life.
    His answer amused Kayla. " 'He who?' he asks. He who is my 
loving and dedicated husband, that is who. He who you see more 
regularly than I these days." She bit off the last words neatly, 
and leaned back, evidently pleased she had managed to say them 
without tangling her tongue.
    Tawnos grasped at words. "He ... He is well, Your Majesty." 
"Kayla," said the queen.
    "Kay ... Kayla. Ma'am." Tawnos blushed as he said it. "I 
write to him, but he does not respond," she sighed, popping the 
bit of cheese in her mouth and looking for another target.
    "I know," said Tawnos quietly. "But he has been busy. With 
patrols and things. His designs."
    "Ah yes." The queen raised her hands toward the ceiling. 
"Urza's wonderful designs! How I envy him! He can lock himself up 
in his room and not talk to anyone, least of all his wife, 
because he is always working on his wonderful designs!"
    Tawnos suddenly realized he had answered her original 
question wrong from the start. But how was he to know that she 
wanted to hear Master Urza was miserable?
    The queen seemed deeply interested in her brandy glass; then 
she suddenly looked up. "I didn't expect much from the marriage, 
you know. I hoped for someone to talk to. Or a least someone to 
listen. An heir or two to make Daddy happy. And now, no heirs, no 
Daddy, and not even a husband anymore." She looked over at 
Tawnos. "So, are you?"
    Tawnos blinked. His head was swimming from the perfume. "Am I 
what?"
    "Are you someone I can talk to?" asked the queen. "Because 
I've had it with people whom I can talk at. Who make all the 
right noises but really don't engage in conversation at all." She 
was motioning with both arms now, the ancient brandy slopping 
over the sides of the glass. "I can talk at the seneschal, and I 
can talk at the matron, or I could when she was here. But there's 
no one I can talk to.
    "I mean, I felt I could talk to Urza," she added softly. "Not 
often. If there was daylight, he worked on his plans, his 
wondrous devices. But often enough. And I always liked listening 
to him, even if I didn't understand what he was talking about. 
And now... now ..." She let her voice trailed off.
    When Tawnos had been a very young man, he had worked on his 
uncle's fishing rig. One morning, when he was not paying 
sufficient attention, the boat had been breached by a large wave, 
and he had been knocked overboard. The young Tawnos panicked, 
floundered, and found himself struggling underwater. He was saved 
by his uncle, who pulled him aboard and suggested gently that the 
young man find another line of work.
    At this moment Tawnos felt much the same way, though no 
helpful uncle was in sight.
    "I am sooooo jealous of you, you know," Kayla said, her eyes 
becoming hooded slits as she charged off on a new tack. "I mean, 
he spends all his time with you, and when he talks about lift and 
drag and pulley ratios and snail-gears, you honestly understand 
what he's talking about. I'm not dumb, but on my best day I 
couldn't venture a guess about ideal pulley ratios."
    Tawnos started to speak. "Everybody has their own strengths 
and weakne-"
    "Am I so horrible?" she demanded, leaning across the table 
and grabbing his hand. "Am I so repulsive?" As she leaned forward 
her robe fell open, the gown beneath almost transparent in the 
candlelight.
    Tawnos closed his eyes tightly. "No," he said, "you're not 
horrible at all."
    "Then why won't he come home?" she said, drawing back. Her 
hand still clutched him, and her voice was filled with unwept 
tears. "He sleeps at his work. You know that. That's what I need 
to know. Why won't he come back to me?"
    Carefully, Tawnos pried the queen's fingers from around his 
wrists. As he spoke, he was aware that Kayla was listening for 
the first time that evening. "I think," he said calmly, "he's in 
pain himself."
    "Him?" said Kayla, leaning back. "The great thinking machine? 
The paragon of logic? The chief artifact of Kroog?"
    "All that," replied Tawnos. "And the man who stood next to 
your father when he was killed. The man who could not save him 
from dying. Have you talked to him about what happened at 
Korlinda? I mean, really talked?"
    Kayla looked at him and blinked.
    "I'll take that as a no, then," said Tawnos.
    "But he didn't know what Daddy was planning," she said. "I 
didn't realize it myself."
    "Right," answered Tawnos. "But that doesn't make it any 
easier. Urza came back, and everyone treated him like a hero 
because he survived and your father didn't. And he has to come 
back to you... ." He motioned with his hands.
    "So he doesn't come back," finished Kayla, softly. The 
fuzziness of the alcohol seemed banished for the moment. "He's 
punishing himself because he thinks I blame him. Or I should 
blame him, even if I don't. Which I don't."
    "Uh-huh," grunted Tawnos.
    "So I should march down to his workshop and we should talk 
about this?" she asked.
    Tawnos held up both hands, remembering his own experience at 
being direct. "Perhaps it would be better to start with something 
else. Something not directly connected with the past few months. 
Do you two have any happy moments together?"
    "Wait," said Kayla, and Tawnos thought of an overworked 
engine, leaking steam and straining to function. "Yes. Yes I do."
    "Start with that," said Tawnos.
    The queen's face brightened visibly. "Yes. Yes I know what 
will work." She crossed over to the writing desk and penned a 
short note, then handed it to Tawnos. "Here. Give this to Urza. 
Make sure he reads it. Tell him it is urgent."
    "Of course," said Tawnos, rising from his chair. "He'll still 
be awake at this hour."
    "And Tawnos," she said. The apprentice turned, and Kayla 
leaned forward, pressing her lips against his cheeks. "Thank 
you."
    Tawnos blushed, the blood in his face clear even in the 
candle-light, "It is my pleasure. The kingdom can't take much 
more of everyone walking on eggshells around you two."
    "Not that," she said. "That was for being a better person 
than I might be."
    Tawnos made sure Urza read the message, and fifteen minutes 
later, the Chief Artificer poked his head into his own living 
quarters. "My queen?" he said. "Kayla?"
    Queen Kayla bin-Kroog was seated at a table set with fine 
crystal and laden with meats and cheeses.
    "Ah, my Chief Artificer. Thank you for coming on such short 
notice."
    "Your note said there was an emergency," said Urza, his eyes 
adjusting to the candlelight. "A technical emergency?"
    "Yes," responded the queen. "I have a small music box. An 
heirloom. I think it's broken."
    She motioned to the place setting opposite her. On the plate 
was a small silver box.
    Carefully Urza opened the box, then turned it over slowly in 
his hands. "I think that all is wrong with it is that the spring 
has wound down again." he said at last.
    Kayla opened her eyes wide. "Wound down?"
    Urza nodded and cleared his throat. "Yes. I would need a key 
for it."
    "A key," she said, and opened her robe. The sheer gown she 
wore was almost translucent in the candlelight. Around her neck 
she wore a pink ribbon, and hanging from that ribbon was a 
battered metal key, red with rust along one edge. "Would this one 
do, Lord Artificer?"
    Urza looked at the key and at the music box. He stared long 
and deep into the queen's eyes. "Yes," he said at last. "I think 
that will do indeed."
    And for the first time in a month, Urza smiled.
    The Chief Artificer did not come to the orniary the next day, 
nor the day after that. On the third day, Tawnos arrived to find 
a sheaf of parchment marked with detailed instructions, starting 
with recalling the students and quickly moving on to a list of 
improvements to ornithopter design and plans for building new 
avenger-style mechanical men. There was no sign of Urza, and a 
marginal note to Tawnos indicated that he should not be expected 
until mid-afternoon. If then.
    Tawnos allowed himself a healthy grin and quickly began to 
fulfill Master Urza's list of demands.
    
                           Chapter 12
                            PHYREXIA

    The winter dust storm boiled out of the south, a major 
sirocco that reached from horizon to horizon and climbed almost 
to the zenith of the sky. It was a grandfather storm, one that 
the old people spoke of, a storm that blotted the sun with its 
shadow. The storm breathed dust-laden winds capable of flaying 
the living flesh from those caught in the open. Along its leading 
edge great tornadoes spawned and danced, only to be sucked back 
within the advancing wall of churning black dust.
    The storm overtook the lumbering form of the mak fawa and 
swallowed it whole, disturbing neither the storm nor the dragon 
engine. The mak fawa continued to roll forward, unfazed by the 
swirling winds and pounding sand that assailed it. Though one 
could no longer see across the width of the creature's body, the 
engine plodded forward with the resolute and absolute confidence 
of a machine.
    Mishra and Ashnod huddled in a cramped space beneath the 
creature's back plates. The dragon engine had not been designed 
to carry passengers within, but there was a low-roofed hollow 
along the beast's spine, and the raki and his apprentice crouched 
there, listening to the sand rasp against the metal flesh around 
them.
    "How can it see where it's going?" shouted Ashnod over the 
clatter of blowing sand.
    "It does not need to see," replied Mishra. "It knows, as 
surely as I know, what direction it needs to go. It seeks out the 
Secret Heart of the Thran. I can feel Koilos's call, and because 
the machine responds to me, so can it feel the pull, like a 
raptor returning to the same nest with each passing season."
    Ashnod stared at the stocky man huddled next to her. Mishra's 
tendency to cloak his words in allusions and mysticism bothered 
her. Did he truly believe what he said, or was it all just verbal 
play to cover the fact that he did not know?
    Ashnod wanted to believe the former, because otherwise they 
were charging blindly through a Grandfather Storm, navigated only 
by a vague feeling in Mishra's heart.
    It was in the winter of the year of the Korlinda massacre, 
the year that the warlord of Kroog perished at the hands of the 
young qadir, that Mishra and Ashnod set out for Koilos, the 
Secret Heart of the Thran. They told no one among the Suwwardi of 
their plans or of their destination, not even Hajar and 
particularly not the qadir. The idea that the tribe's raki was 
seeking out the Secret Heart of the Thran once more would not 
have been a comforting thought to the leader of the Fallaji.
    The retreat from Korlinda had been harrowing, and only one of 
every five men who entered Korlis returned to Fallaji lands. The 
survivors had traveled by night, cowering in mountain passes, 
constantly seeking places to hide the huge mak fawa from the 
pursuing ornithopters. The qadir had at first wanted to turn 
around and launch an immediate counterattack. Cooler heads, and 
the fact that they were a mere fraction of their initial numbers, 
convinced him to withdraw and take comfort in the apparent death 
of the warlord.
    Ultimately the qadir blamed his raki for the ambush. Mishra 
should have known that his talented and treacherous brother was 
among the enemy. Mishra should have told the qadir immediately 
upon discovering that fact. Mishra should have concentrated on 
protecting him, the qadir, instead of giving commands to his 
dragon engine during the attack.
    And of course, Ashnod thought ironically, Mishra was at fault 
for coming out of this debacle more popular among the Fallaji 
than ever. The other tribal chieftains made sure that the raki 
was all right and asked about the health of the qadir as a 
secondary matter. While the qadir had slain the ancient warlord, 
it was Mishra and his engine who were credited with saving those 
who made it back to the Fallaji lands. No one blamed Mishra for 
the ambush save the qadir, but the chieftain made his complaints 
well known to anyone who was nearby, and no one would disagree 
with the corpulent young man.
    The qadir had other complaints upon their return. Mishra 
should have found more machines by now similar to his mak fawa. A 
single dragon engine was too big a target and too vulnerable. He 
reminded
    Mishra of the difficulties they had experienced at Zegon. If 
the Yotians could field dozens of their machines, the qadir 
should be able to do the same.
    Of course no one doubted Mishra's loyalty, the qadir said, or 
his talent, though in mentioning them the young chieftain managed 
to bring both into doubt. It had been many years since the raki 
had first conjured the mak fawa, and now his people needed more. 
There were whispers, which the qadir assured Mishra were 
completely disbelieved by anyone who truly counted, that the raki 
was afraid of his brother's flying machines and his brother's 
power.
    Ashnod had watched the entire dressing-down, silent as a 
woman among the Fallaji was expected to be. After the qadir had 
dismissed them, she snarled quietly to Mishra, "But what have you 
done for me lately?" Mishra merely returned to his own tent and 
began to issue orders.
    They needed to locate more finds of Old One artifacts, 
preferably ones that were nearly operational. Scouts were sent 
out with orders describing what to look for. Within the month 
they had returned with news of a large device located near the 
banks of the Mardun River. The qadir, busy reconfirming his power 
over the other tribes, allowed his raki and the raid's woman to 
investigate.
    The site was large, and the remains were generally complete. 
The machine was evidently some sort of transport used by the 
Thran to haul unknown equipment. It appeared to be a great wagon 
or wain and had been overturned in whatever accident that had 
claimed it. Rust blossomed along both sides of its skeleton, and 
its spoked wheels were twisted and shattered. The wire-laden 
framework that held the power crystals was missing, if it had 
existed at all.
    Mishra shook his head. It would require time and effort to 
put this monstrosity back together, and even then it would be but 
a fraction of the grandeur of the mak fawa. The qadir would not 
be pleased.
    The morning after surveying the find, Mishra left Hajar in 
charge of the excavation and departed, taking both the dragon 
engine and Ashnod with him. They headed east, and traveled night 
and day, the dragon engine a tireless mount. They slept within 
the creature's metal carapace and now hid there while the great 
storm blossomed out of the southern horizon.
    They were trapped within the beast's body for ten days and 
nights while the storm whirled around them. They had sufficient 
supplies and light, but the protected hollow was barely 
comfortable for one and tight for two. To pass the time, Mishra 
told Ashnod the story of his first visit to Koilos. He also took 
the opportunity to inform her how she might better conduct 
herself among the Fallaji. Soon Ashnod was willing to consider 
braving the storms outside to avoid listening further to Mishra 
point out her foibles, great and small.
    "I did nothing wrong," she finally said in frustration on the 
tenth day of the storm, after Mishra mentioned (for the fifth 
time that day) a recent incident in the qadir's camp.
    "The warrior you struck down would disagree," replied Mishra.
    "He said I thought like a man," she said, exasperated.
    "It is an old desert saying," replied Mishra. "It is meant to 
be a compliment."
    "Trust me," said Ashnod, "it isn't."
    "You did not need to cripple him," said Mishra sternly.
    Ashnod forcefully placed a hand against Mishra's broad chest. 
"Would you prefer if I said I turned my staff on him because he 
insulted my gentle, feminine ears with lewd and guttural 
suggestions?" she asked. "Because he did that, too."
    Mishra did not respond immediately. Instead he pointed to the 
outer hull and said, "Listen."
    Ashnod paused. "I don't hear anything."
    "Exactly," said Mishra. "I think we have passed through the 
storm at last. Check outside,"
    Ashnod blinked at the man. "And if this is only a momentary 
lull in the winds? What happens if they kick up again while I'm 
outside?"
    Mishra leaned against the inner wall. "You're the apprentice. 
That means if a task is dangerous or unpleasant, it's your job."
    Muttering, Ashnod inched toward the access plates and 
carefully peeled them back and peered outside. There was a wall 
of blackness along the north, but the sky above was bright blue, 
and the sands had already settled in the wake of the great storm.
    "It's over," said Mishra, following her out from their hiding 
place within the mechanical beast. "We can ride on the outside 
for a while."
    "And not a moment too soon," muttered Ashnod, not caring if 
Mishra heard her or not.
    In the wake of the storm, they saw no other living thing. The 
desert had been wiped clean, and old rock formations had been 
buried as new ones were exposed. At last, after another week of 
travel, they reached the canyon of Koilos.
    The site was untouched by the storm and apparently 
undisturbed since Mishra was last there. The bleached bones of 
the roc were still scattered in front of the cave entrance, mixed 
with the wreckage of other ancient Thran machines.
    As they moved through the valley, Mishra grew quiet and 
somber. Ashnod thought the man was reliving old memories, some 
apparently painful.
    They pawed through the wreckage and the ruins immediately 
around the cavern's mouth, but after several days work the two 
had come up with nothing that could be immediately pressed into 
the qadir's service.
    "Those metal spiders might have been useful, once," said 
Ashnod that evening. "But your brother definitely did a number on 
them when that machine exploded. They weren't in the best 
condition before, and now they're little more than scrap."
    In the firelight Mishra flinched just a bit at the mention of 
his brother. Ashnod had discovered that the subject of Urza was 
off-limits around the younger brother, a fact that made her all 
the more curious about their relationship. Mishra did not respond 
to her comment, and Ashnod saw him staring at the roc bones at 
the base of the plateau and the cavern they partially concealed.
    Whatever answer was at Koilos lay within the caverns. That 
night Mishra slept badly and awoke screaming. Ashnod calmed him 
as best as she was able.
    "I dreamed of the wind, of a great dark wind," was all he 
said, the night sweat evaporating in the still air. "It swept 
around me, it spoke to me, and it carried horrible secrets it 
wanted to tell me."
    "It will be all right," murmured Ashnod. "It's just a dream. 
Dreams aren't important."
    "They are to me," said Mishra, staring into the darkness. In 
the morning they entered the caverns. The long corridor had been 
brightly lit once, Mishra had said, but it was now dark again, 
and they brought oil lamps with them. Ashnod ran a hand over the 
inner walls of the tunnel. There were bricks there, but she could 
not see the joints.
    They passed the wreckage of the su-chi guardians. Mishra 
picked up one blackened, narrow-headed skull and smashed it 
against the wall. It cracked like a walnut, but instead of meat 
inside there was a power stone, an Eye of the Old Ones. It was 
slightly chipped but still held the fire of the Thran energies. 
He grunted approval, and they continued. They reached an 
interminable set of stairs and came at last to the great cavern, 
the lair of the Thran machines. It was bathed in a flickering 
light of inconstant crystalline plates along the ceiling. The 
centermost machine was made up of a great series of plates and 
mirrors surrounding an empty spot.
    Mishra placed the stone from the su-chi's head in the void of 
the machine. Immediately there came a low humming, a throbbing 
that seemed to issue from the walls itself. The flickering 
stopped, and the entire cavern was bathed in a soft light.
    "How did you know to do that?" asked Ashnod.
    "I just knew," replied Mishra. He sounded as if he were a 
thousand miles away. Then the raki shrugged, apparently shaking 
off an old memory.
    Ashnod examined the bank of glyphs and lights before the 
great machine, set into a podium that looked like a huge, open-
faced book. She did not touch the glyphs but studied each in 
turn.
    Somewhere among the signs was a mechanism that opened other 
doors, doors that had held the mechanical humanoids whose remains 
littered the entrance. If they could find them, she and Mishra 
reasoned, they could bring back new wonders for the qadir. 
Working wonders.
    After a short while, Mishra asked, "Well?"
    Ashnod shook her head. The glyphs were simple geometric 
shapes and could be labels, instructions, or dire warnings. They 
provided no clue as to the purpose of the machines. She pointed. 
"This one might be the symbol of a doorway."
    Mishra looked over her shoulder, and assented. "Press it," he 
said.
    "Is this something else you just know?" asked Ashnod.
    Mishra frowned. "I'm guessing as much as you. But press it 
anyway. It feels like the right thing to do."
    Ashnod brushed the glyph with her long fingertips and, 
somewhere in the depths of the mountain there was a low chime, 
more felt than heard. Something deep within the Thran machine had 
engaged, and Ashnod hoped that it was connected with other, 
working mechanisms.
    She held her breath.
    A light appeared in the air to their right. First a mote, 
hanging in space, it soon expanded, twisting the air around it 
until it formed a thin, glowing disk, positioned perpendicular to 
the ground, hanging unsupported. Slowly Ashnod walked around it. 
It seemed as thin as the qadir's temper and had a soft, almost 
enticing radiance to it. Along the surface of the disk Ashnod 
could almost see a set of scribed hairlines, forming the shape of 
a child's star.
    Ashnod looked at Mishra, but he did nothing. The disk grew 
until it was twice the size of a man.
    Ashnod leaned her black thunderwood staff forward and pressed 
its butt end against the disk. The light offered no resistance, 
nor did it dissipate at the touch. She leaned forward, and the 
staff passed easily through the disk.
    But the staff did not come out the other side. Ashnod had 
shoved three feet of wood into a wafer-thin glowing disk, and 
nothing came out the other side.
    Ashnod withdrew the staff. The immersed end seemed unharmed.
    Ashnod looked at Mishra again. "We've found our doorway," 
said Mishra calmly.
    "Who goes in first?" asked Ashnod. Mishra looked at her. 
After a moment, she nodded. "Right," she said. "If it's dangerous 
or unpleasant, it's the apprentice's job."
    Ashnod stepped through the glowing disk. The light surrounded 
her and saturated her. For a moment she thought she heard, 
faintly, the voice of an old woman shouting. But then that passed 
as well, and she was in another world.
    The first thing that she was aware of was the heat: not the 
desert heat, dry and comforting, but a wet, damp heat she had not 
felt since the swamps of Almaaz. It settled on her like a 
blanket.
    Now she felt the smell, a pungent scent of rot and decay. No, 
there was more to it than that, she thought. It smelled of oil 
and chemicals, too. It smelled of goblin powder, of fire, and of 
steel. For a moment she thought she was back at Korlinda, fleeing 
as the bombs dropped around them.
    There were colors. A riot of jungle plants surrounded her, 
all in bloom, bright splotches against a sea of dark green leaves 
and vines. But the colors were wrong. They were too hard, too 
bright, too alien, and they had a metallic sheen to them. And the 
vines-they were uniform, more like cables than any natural thing. 
She touched one of the flowers and pulled her hand away quickly. 
Whatever juice the bloom was leaking was slightly caustic and 
stung her skin.
    A dragonfly settled on the flower, but on closer inspection 
Ashnod saw it was not truly an insect but rather a tiny machine 
made of silver wire and gold plates. She reached out to grab it, 
but the dragonfly was gone in a wink, darting deeper into the 
jungle.
    She turned around. Mishra was stepping through the radiant 
disk, emerging like a swimmer from the sea.
    "Yes," he said, "it is just as I remembered it."
    "You've been here before?" asked Ashnod.
    "Only in dreams," replied Mishra. Indeed, there was a 
distracted, dreamlike quality in the way he spoke. Ashnod gripped 
her staff more tightly and looked at the sky. It was overcast and 
glowed with a reddish hue, like hot coals under a blanket of 
snow. "Phyrexia," Mishra said at last. Ashnod looked at him and 
said, "The dreams again?" Mishra nodded absentmindedly. "Words 
carried on the black winds," he said. "This place is called 
Phyrexia." He stared into the middle distance, trying to get his 
bearings. "That way," he said at last, "I think the ground slopes 
down to a pond or something."
    Actually it sloped down to a lake, a large, black mirror 
covered with rainbow patterns of oil. Several large machines, kin 
to the mak fawa back in Koilos, waded through its oily expanse, 
dredging other pieces of metal from the lake's shallow floor. 
There were four of them, Ashnod saw.
    "You stay here," said Mishra. "Keep your staff ready." "What 
are you doing?" asked Ashnod.
    Mishra blinked at her. "I'm going to try to control them. As 
I controlled our dragon engine." He spoke as if the answer to her 
question was obvious.
    "And if they don't want to be controlled?" asked Ashnod. 
"That's why you have to keep your staff ready," returned Mishra. 
"Be prepared to run."
    Ashnod waited nervously as Mishra crept forward. One of the 
dragon engines, the smallest, saw him first, and let out a low, 
bleating cry. The other three looked up at once.
    All four converged on Mishra, the smallest reaching him 
first. Ashnod held her breath as the small metallic dragon leaned 
forward toward the newcomer, sniffing him as a dog would a 
stranger.
    Mishra stood calmly, as if being sniffed by engines of mass 
destruction was a common occurrence.
    Then the dragon engine dropped on its haunches and laid its 
head against the ground. The other three did the same. Ashnod 
could see these were not identical to the mak fawa she knew. 
Their heads were blunter, shaped more like shovels, and their 
hides were duller than the brass monster they had left behind.
    Mishra waved for Ashnod to come ahead, and she stepped into 
the clearing by the lake, her staff still at the ready.
    Mishra nodded grimly. "It's not the stone," he said. "I 
thought it was my power stone that controlled them, but it's not. 
It's me. I can think what I want them to do, and they will do 
it." He seemed more puzzled than pleased by the discovery.
    "Good," said Ashnod, wondering for a moment exactly how good 
it was. "But these seem large to take back through the portal. 
Can you master something smaller?"
    There was a gong in the distance, the deep chiming of an iron 
bell. The dragon engines looked up and almost bolted back into 
the oily lake. The bell tolled again, this time close, and the 
dragon engines started to waver, caught between their obedience 
to Mishra and their fear of whatever was approaching. The bell 
tolled a third time, and Ashnod could now hear the twisting, 
rending noise of metallic vegetation being ripped from its roots. 
The three larger engines panicked and splashed back into the 
lake. The smaller one remained but whined like an engine caught 
between gears.
    Part of the forest to their left disappeared, and a true 
giant lumbered forward. It was shaped like a land-going ship, set 
on treads, with a great maw set into its prow. Within the maw 
were spinning sets of teeth, like great scythes. They ripped 
through the plants and trees of the jungle with ease. When it 
struck a particularly large tree, the shattered bits of trunk 
made the booming, bell-like noise.
    And standing above the mouth on a platform was a tall, 
demonic figure. It seemed to be made of metal as well, and shards 
of dark bone erupted from its leathery skin. It wore armor that 
seemed almost a part of it. A rictus grin of exposed skin gleamed 
along it fleshless face. A pair of horns nested among a tangle of 
swaying, wormlike tendrils that sprang from its head and swept 
backward like banners made of human skin.
    "Run!" shouted Mishra, but Ashnod needed no encouragement. 
She followed the raki back up the hill toward the glowing disk 
that led to safety.
    The vegetation tore at her robes as she ran, as if it were 
trying to ensnare her, to hold her in thrall for the dark machine 
that pursued them. Something tore a long gash along one arm, and 
a flower fluttered in her face, nearly blinding her with its 
acid.
    She looked back only once, to see that the smallest of the 
dragon engines had not fled back to the lake but was standing, 
bleating plaintively. The demon machine with its spinning scythes 
was almost on top of it.
    The machine did not slow down as it rammed the smaller 
creature. The dragon engine disappeared in a flurry of silver 
wire and metal plates.
    Ashnod turned around and ran faster. Behind them, the machine 
had turned and was pursuing them up the hill.
    Mishra was waiting at the portal but would not go through 
without her. She dived into the portal headfirst. Part of her 
mind noted that they had not truly established that the disk led 
back to the caverns. But, she thought wrily, anywhere they landed 
would have less terror than the Phyrexian beast that followed 
them.
    She sprawled across the cold stone floor of the chamber, her 
staff skittering ahead of her and slamming against the far wall. 
She turned in place, and saw Mishra nimbly dash through the disk 
as well. He turned to the book-shaped embankment, and his hands 
hesitated over the collection of glyphs. He touched one, and 
nothing happened.
    Ashnod shouted, and Mishra reached out to grab the power 
crystal from its cradle among the mirrors. He pulled it from its 
socket and cursed as the warm crystal burned his flesh. The stone 
that could power the su-chi was insufficient to maintain the 
great Thran machine and was overloaded with power. Mishra dropped 
the smoking stone, and it smashed against the floor into a 
hundred shards.
    The golden disk winked out of sight.
    Ashnod held a hand to her chest and felt her heart thundering 
against her ribcage. For the first time she considered the idea 
that the mak fawa might have other masters in addition to Mishra, 
and that those masters might object to trespassers.
    To Mishra she said, "The creature on the machine. You knew 
what it was?"
    Mishra nodded, gasping for breath. Ashnod said, "From your 
dreams?" Mishra nodded again.
    "Remind me to pay more attention to dreams," Ashnod muttered 
quietly, half to herself.
    Mishra shook his head and blew on his burned fingers. "We got 
what we came for. Come along, now."
    Without the su-chi's power stone in its cradle, the lights 
began to flicker again. Mishra headed for the mouth of the cavern 
at a rapid clip. Confused, Ashnod followed.
    She caught up with him at the entranceway. "What do you 
mean," she said, "we got what we came for? We had to leave 
everything behind and slam the door behind us to avoid that... 
that machine demon."
    Mishra held up a hand. "Shush. Watch."
    There was a tremor that ran up the length of the canyon, and 
Ashnod saw one of the surviving buildings along the valley floor 
cave in on itself. Then, near the cavern entrance, the ground 
erupted. A shovel-headed dragon's head launched from the sand 
like an arrow, trailing its serpentine neck behind it. There was 
another eruption and another dragon's head. And then a third. The 
three engines from the lake, transported from there to here. All 
three clawed their way from the sand and half-slithered, half-
rolled toward the cavern entrance.
    They knelt before Mishra, recognizing him as their new 
master.
    "Impressive," said Ashnod. "So what do we do now?"
    Mishra smiled. It was an unpleasant grimace, but it was the 
first smile Ashnod had seen from him since they entered the 
canyon. "Now?" he said thoughtfully, as if turning over 
possibilities in his mind.
    He looked at the dragon engines and said, "Now we call 
another peace conference."

                          * * * * *

    Back in the cavern, there was a flicker of light, and the 
golden portal opened again. This time it could only manage to 
create a disk a few inches in circumference. A leathery hand, its 
flesh dotted with shards of dark metal bone, reached through the 
small portal and clawed at the air. Once, twice, a third time, it 
scrabbled about, looking for something solid to grab hold of. 
Then the lights of the portal wavered again, and the hand pulled 
quickly back, withdrawing seconds before the portal closed 
entirely.
    And everything was quiet in the Caverns of Koilos for another 
few years.
    
                           Chapter 13
                          PEACE TALKS

    The offer of peace talks came after a year of semi-regular 
fighting along the northern desert borders of the Sword Marches 
It caught Tawnos and the rest of Yotia by surprise.
    The offer came without warning or preamble. A Fallaji rider 
appeared at one of the Yotian outposts under a flag of truce, 
bearing a message for the Queen of Kroog from the Qadir of the 
Suwwardi. The message was relayed to one of the ornithopter bases 
deep within Yotian territory and from there borne by air to the 
privy council at Kroog.
    The council consisted of the queen, the seneschal, the 
Captain of the Guard, and Tawnos. For a brief period a year 
earlier Urza had attended the meetings faithfully, but soon he 
began sending his apprentice as his proxy. With the arrival of 
the qadir's message, though, Urza appeared in the council at the 
queen's right hand. Tawnos stood behind the Chief Artificer's 
chair and to one side. The apprentice noticed that Urza's eyes 
did not leave the ornately scribed scroll now spread before them.
    "An offer for peace," said Kayla.
    "An offer of truce," corrected the seneschal, with a slight 
quaver in his voice. "A cessation of hostilities, a pulling back 
of forces, while peace is being discussed."
    "How bad are the hostilities?" Kayla turned to the Captain of 
the Guard. The Newest Captain, as he was still thought of by 
many, was a thoughtful man and paused before he responded.
    "Sporadic but serious enough," he said, and paused again. The 
mannerism bothered Tawnos, but the others at the table had grown 
used to the captain's habit and let him gather his thoughts.
    "They fall into two groups," he said finally. "One seems to 
be a traditional raid of the Fallaji type, a rapid push into our 
territory, looting a random town or caravan they encounter, then 
retreating before our forces can arrive. The other type of 
assault is carried out by a larger, more organized force that 
seems intent on destroying a specific target such as a bridge, a 
mill, or a fort. The dragon engine often accompanies these raids. 
There is less looting but more destruction."
    "Those are organized attacks," said Urza softly. "The others 
are just parties of desert raiders, seeking their own loot and 
glory. The attacks with the dragon engine are more organized and 
have a firm objective in mind." His eyes did not leave the 
parchment bearing the truce offer. "Those organized raids have my 
brother's approval and show his planning."
    "Approved or not," ventured the seneschal, "the effect is to 
demoralize the people of the Sword Marches and all along the 
River Mardun. The Fallaji regularly raid the territories on the 
far side of the river, and rumors swirl that they plan an attack 
across it sometime in the near future."
    "Are they indeed planning such an attack?" asked Kayla, her 
voice firm and her manner dispassionate. Tawnos noticed that in 
council she usually let all sides speak, then made her decision.
    The seneschal looked at the captain, who paused, then said, 
"We have no knowledge at this time. We have fortified encampments 
on the far sides of the river, with bonfire towers to warn of us 
of any massed movements. The river is wide enough that even if 
they found or built sufficient boats, we would be prepared for 
any assault long before they could launch it." Another pause. 
"However, maintaining garrisons along the Mardun stretches our 
resources even further."
    Kayla thought about what the Newest Captain said, then 
nodded. "We can use the ornithopters for additional patrols."
    "Those resources are stretching thin as well," said Urza. "We 
have nearly thirty machines in six patrols of five each. If we 
get the power stones from Argive for which we have asked, then we 
can double that number, but the Argivian Crown is being"-the lean 
man bit his lip-"reticent."
    Kayla nodded again. From what Urza had told her, the 
Argivians were practically swimming in power stones, most of them 
from Tocasia's original encampment. However, it appeared that 
prying the stones from the ground was simple compared to prying 
them from the Argivians' hands. Instead she said, "What is the 
status of the flights?"
    Urza answered while the captain was pausing. "Five of the 
flights are in the field, at bases throughout the northern Sword 
Marches. The sixth is here at the capital. The Sword Marches 
flights operate from permanent bases. I was thinking that we 
could establish a series of such bases along the border and move 
the flights from one to another as need be."
    The captain frowned and said, "That would be taxing on the 
pilots."
    "We have more capable pilots than we have craft for them to 
fly," Urza replied. "The additional camps would give us 
sufficient maneuverability and increase our ability to respond. 
And perhaps they would give us the same element of surprise that 
the Fallaji are currently enjoying."
    The captain shook his head. "The pilots need their rest."
    "Should the machines sleep just because the men do?" asked 
Urza. There was a brittle irony in his voice.
    Tawnos had seen this battle before. When it came to the 
ornithopters, the Master Artificer held more sway than the 
Captain of the Guard did. The captain paused for a moment, then 
shrugged his shoulders in defeat.
    Kayla watched the interplay coolly, then said, "Urza, provide 
any plans for multiple bases to the captain. In the meantime, it 
sounds as if we are stretched thin indeed."
    "We have more than just ornithopters," said the captain. "We 
have foot patrols, civilian riders, and cavalry patrols." He 
paused for a moment, and looked at Urza. "But yes, the continual 
raiding has stretched us thin."
    "Then we will accept the offer to talk," said Kayla. "Perhaps 
together we can come up with a solution."
    "Unlikely," said Urza. "Their demands, made back at Korlinda, 
were direct and left little room for negotiation. They want all 
the land they consider 'traditional Fallaji territories.' That 
includes the Sword Marches. Are you prepared to give that to 
them?"
    Kayla shook her head firmly. "It is part of my father's 
legacy, for good or ill. Still, we will talk, if nothing else, to 
show the Yotia they deal with now is not the one they dealt with 
at Korlinda."
    She rose from her seat, indicating the council was ended. The 
captain and seneschal rose as well. Urza, however, remained 
seated.
    The Chief Artificer reached out and tapped the parchment. 
"The question is," he said to Tawnos, "are they the same Fallaji 
we dealt with at Korlinda?"

                          * * * * *

    The offer was accepted, and word was relayed back to the 
borders by ornithopter. Negotiators set a date at the end of the 
next month, at Kroog itself. A route of safe passage was proposed 
by the Fallaji through the heart of the Sword Marches. The 
Captain of the Guard protested, and the seneschal counteroffered 
a route along the Mardun River, just skirting the edges of the 
contested borderlands. The seneschal expected the Fallaji to 
reject any deviation from their demands but was pleasantly 
surprised when they accepted the alternate route without change.
    In the capital city of Kroog, preparations were subdued. 
Anti-Fallaji graffiti was carefully washed from the alleyway 
bricks, and a great open area was cleared before the city's thick 
walls for the expected troops. Again, the seneschal was pleased 
to discover that the Fallaji would be bringing little more than 
an honor guard. He was less pleased to hear they would also bring 
the dragon engine.
    Urza and the Newest Captain took their own precautions. The 
palace troops were drilled to within an inch of perfection, and 
the normal garrison was supplemented by troops from the coastal 
regiments. They recalled a second flight of ornithopters from the 
Sword Marches to Kroog to join the five craft already there. Urza 
wanted ornithopters aloft directly over the Fallaji procession as 
it moved south, but the Fallaji bridled at this, making their 
displeasure known through the seneschal. For several days, Tawnos 
was sure that negotiations would break down over this point, but 
Urza at last relented. There would, however, be a regular cavalry 
escort while the Fallaji were in Yotian territory.
    Urza also took pains to review all the pilots of the 
ornithopters at the capital, in some cases interviewing the young 
men himself. Tawnos accompanied the Chief Artificer on several of 
these interviews, though he was puzzled by Urza's action-most of 
the pilots were handpicked and trained by Urza in the first place 
and were intensely loyal to the Prince Consort.
    As Urza talked to them, though, Tawnos saw what the artificer 
was worried about. Loyalty was not an issue; it was assumed, and 
indeed, Urza was considered halfway between a legend and a saint 
by his pilots. His questions focused on how the pilots felt about 
the Fallaji, about the desert, about the long-running battles 
they had been fighting. He was, Tawnos realized, looking into 
their temperaments, trying to discern if any would, accidentally 
or purposefully, attempt to finish the job the warlord had 
started. He was examining them as if they were just another 
component in a larger device, checking them for signs of wear and 
tear.
    Indeed, there were two individuals who confessed a hatred of 
the Fallaji, and one who promised his loyalty even when he 
disagreed with diplomacy. Urza relocated these young men to other 
flights and replaced them with more even-tempered individuals.
    In considering Urza's actions, Tawnos realized the Chief 
Artificer had been caught by surprise once before and did not 
want to repeat the mistake a second time. With a precision that 
the apprentice had previously seen the Chief Artificer dedicate 
to his inventions, Urza investigated every unit stationed at the 
capital. He knew every merchant who had claimed injury from the 
Fallaji. And, Tawnos knew, Urza had walked every inch of the 
walls that flanked three sides of Kroog, and along every inch of 
the shore of the Mardun, which served as the fourth protective 
barrier for the city.
    Still, the older man had little hope for the negotiations, 
and said as much to Tawnos. The qadir wanted nothing less than 
the land that Kayla's late father had conquered, he reiterated, 
and she would not give it up.
    Then why negotiate at all, Tawnos asked.
    Urza sighed deeply and said, "Sometimes even foes should get 
together to talk. Nothing may come of this talk, but if the sides 
can discuss without incident, that gives hope for the next 
meeting."
    Tawnos thought there was more than that. The meeting for 
which the Chief Artificer was planning so carefully was not 
Fallaji and Yotian, he realized, nor queen and qadir. The meeting 
was between himself and his younger brother.

                          * * * * *

    The messages started arriving soon after the Fallaji reached 
the borders of the Sword Marches, arriving at regular intervals, 
as Urza had ordered. The Fallaji contingent was smaller than that 
which they had presented at Korlinda, as the qadir had promised. 
The dragon engine was present, but it was being used to pull a 
great metal wain, almost as big as itself, with huge, gearlike 
wheels. While hitched to the wain, the engine moved slowly, 
keeping pace with the rest of the troops.
    The Yotian council argued about the presence of the wain. The 
seneschal suggested it might be a gift. The Newest Captain 
thought it might contain additional troops. Urza told Tawnos it 
was a display of power, a reminder that Mishra had not been 
merely resting since Korlinda. In the end Kayla chose not to make 
an issue of the unexpected addition to the Fallaji party. Urza 
ordered one of the flights, grounded at the border, to return to 
normal operations, and a second to parallel the Fallaji party, 
remaining to the east and out of sight.
    On the fifth day of the Fallaji journey southward, five days 
before the arrival of the party in Kroog, there were new rumors 
of a massing of Fallaji troops on the far northern border of the 
Sword Marches. The seneschal thought that, if true, it might be 
one of the more traditional raids, perhaps by individuals who 
wanted to see the negotiations crumble. The captain argued that, 
regardless of purpose, any Fallaji incursions would be disastrous 
at this time and the ornithopters were needed to scout in the 
desert.
    Urza at first refused, only to be overruled by Kayla. 
Reluctantly, the Chief Artificer allowed three flights (including 
the one shadowing the dragon engine) to be reassigned to the far 
north. Urza did not explain to Tawnos the factors that convinced 
him to change his mind, but several of the household staff heard 
a serious row in the royal quarters. Tawnos knew that Urza spent 
the next few nights working late at the orniary. The Chief 
Artificer claimed to be working on improvements to the avenger-
style automatons, but thereafter he attended the council only 
when specifically summoned by his wife.
    On the tenth day the Fallaji arrived before the walls of 
Kroog. The battlements had been hung with colorful banners, as if 
festive bunting would conceal the strength and purpose of the 
stonework beneath. The walls were bedecked with most of the 
populace of Kroog as well, as were the windows of every building 
that commanded a view of the visitors. The merchants had made a 
killing selling telescopes, an Argivian fancy consisting of two 
polished lenses set along the length of a metal tube. Indeed, 
Kroog seemed a city of observers as the Fallaji party neared. Her 
Majesty, the Prince Consort, Tawnos, the seneschal, and the 
Newest Captain waited with other bureaucrats at the north 
gatehouse for the Fallaji to present themselves.
    There were fewer Fallaji than there had been at Korlinda, and 
the sunlight sparkled off the polished brass of their wide 
helmets and heavy shoulder ornaments. But few counted the number 
of men, for the dragon engine captured everyone's attention.
    Tawnos, standing with the others at the gatehouse, was amazed 
by the beast. It was as if a living thing had been transformed 
into a machine. It was a dragon whose muscles had been replaced 
with cables, its hide with plates of metal, its eyes with great 
gems. It moved like a living thing as well, with little flinches 
and muscle tics, swinging its head slowly from one side to 
another, apparently curious about its surroundings.
    Urza had told Tawnos of the engine and had said that Mishra 
found it beneath the desert. But this was no Thran creation, 
Tawnos thought, and it was as far removed from the Chief 
Artificer's avengers as a living bird differed from the 
ornithopters. Tawnos was impressed, and that was with a prior 
warning from Urza. He could only imagine what the rest of the 
populace were thinking.
    The dragon engine was in harness, like a caravan ox, and 
pulled the huge wagon almost as large as itself. The wain, 
though, held no sense of wonder as did the mechanical beast 
harnessed to it. The wagon looked like a metallic four-story inn 
that had been suddenly given wheels and turned loose on the 
world. Its sharp angles and exposed rivets marked it as 
originally being of Thran design. Numerous portals and 
battlements bristled along its flanks, set with catapults and 
small ballista. The weapons were unloaded for the moment and 
wrapped beneath tarps that no more concealed their purpose than 
the banners did the walls of Kroog.
    Kayla had ordered the ornithopters displayed outside the 
walls, one flight to either side of the north gate. They were on 
the ground, their crews standing ready next to them. They were 
intended both as reassurance and as warning, much as a sheathed 
sword laid upon a table might remind one's opponent that while 
there was no intention of treachery, the negotiators were 
prepared to fight. The pilots, in blue and white tabards, waited 
patiently by their machines. The Fallaji formed a line opposite 
them, a respectful distance away.
    The dragon engine and its burden drew up before the gates and 
came at last to rest. As it did so, Tawnos noted something Urza 
had not mentioned. A dull throbbing came from the beast as fluids 
gurgled through hidden tubes and hydraulic joints shifted in 
place. The humming was akin to a heartbeat, and Tawnos could feel 
it more than he could hear it.
    The machines came to rest, and after a short interval, a door 
opened in the side of the great wain. A staircase was lowered, 
and down the stairs came two figures. Neither was the qadir. 
Instead Mishra led the way, followed by his assistant. Tawnos had 
not met either, yet from the way Mishra carried himself, Tawnos 
knew he must be Urza's brother.
    The younger brother was shorter, heavier, and dark-haired, 
with a tightly-trimmed beard. But there was something in his 
walk, and in the face beneath that beard, that marked him as kin 
to the Chief Artificer of Kroog, Prince Consort of Yotia. Mishra 
was bedecked in the flowing robes of a desert prince, his head 
bare, and his face beaming with a great smile. He blinked in the 
afternoon sun and waved to the crowds on the battlement. There 
were catcalls among the responding cheers, but the younger 
brother seemed not to notice.
    Yet much as the wain was diminished by the dragon engine that 
served it, so to was Mishra dimmed by his companion. She was a 
slender woman with hair the color of blood-stained rubies, 
dressed in dark clothes, a flowing cape billowing behind her. She 
carried a simple, unadorned staff of black wood and seemingly did 
not recognize the crowd's shouts, for she kept her gaze forward. 
From Urza's description, Tawnos knew this must be Ashnod.
    No qadir emerged from the metallic wain, and in the gatehouse 
the Yotian leaders held a quick conference. If the qadir was not 
present, noted the seneschal, then the queen should not appear 
either for the initial welcoming. A group similar in protocol 
should respond to the Fallaji's initial delegation. More might be 
taken as a sign of weakness, less as an insult.
    That meant Urza and Tawnos would greet the new arrivals. The 
Chief Artificer nodded, his face stiffening slightly as he saw 
his brother on the field. Tawnos thought the artificer would 
rather speak with his brother privately, but this was not to be. 
The queen would remain at the gatehouse as the artificer and his 
apprentice met the Fallaji representatives.
    Urza was stiff and formal as they crossed the open space 
between the city and the Fallaji. Tawnos kept an appropriate two 
paces behind and to the right, marshaling his own features to a 
calm demeanor.
    Urza stopped before Mishra and Ashnod and without preamble 
raised his empty hands slightly, as if he were a priest giving 
benediction. "Welcome to Kroog, Brother," he said.
    Mishra flung both arms outward, and for a moment, Tawnos 
thought the younger brother was going to rush his elder and hug 
him. Instead, Mishra bowed deeply. Tawnos noted that Ashnod gave 
a short bob of the head as well.
    "We are honored by your invitation," said Mishra, rising 
again. The smile on his face could be earnest, thought Tawnos, or 
it could be the pasted-on smile of a Fallaji trader.
    "We are honored by your presence," said Urza, though his 
words sounded to Tawnos's ears dry and bloodless. "Is your qadir 
with you?"
    "Alas!" said Mishra, bowing again deeply, "I fear that his 
Most Wise and Earnest Presence could not accompany us on our 
mission of peace and mercy. Our empire is wide now, and there are 
other matters that require his attention."
    Urza was silent for a moment, and Tawnos could see the 
muscles tighten along his jawline. "We should have been told if 
your leader was ... otherwise occupied," he said at last.
    "We understand your disappointment," replied Mishra quickly. 
"Be assured that it is shared by our most puissant and powerful 
master. I will not He to you, Brother. After his last experience 
with your people, he wishes to be cautious. He has entrusted to 
me the power to negotiate fully on his behalf. However, if we are 
unwelcome because of his absence, we apologize and will humbly 
retreat the way we came." He bowed a third time.
    Tawnos realized the younger brother was not making his 
exaggerated movements for Urza but rather for the large number of 
Yotians lining the walls. Even if the Chief Artificer had wanted 
to, he could not now send the Fallaji representatives away.
    Tawnos held his face in a mask of solemn indifference, as he 
had back when as a lad he listened to his uncles speak. He kept 
his eyes forward, looking past Mishra into the middle distance.
    After a few moments, he realized he was looking at Ashnod 
over her master's left shoulder. She too had the impassive look 
on her face of a child who is expected to behave herself while 
the parents talk.
    Tawnos blinked, realizing the red-haired woman might think he 
was staring at her, and moved his gaze a few feet to the left 
toward one of the wheels of the great metal wain.
    As he did so, Ashnod caught his eye and winked. It was a 
flutter, accompanied by the ghost of a smile. Tawnos started, his 
eyes darting back to the scarlet-haired woman. But by that time 
her face was an impassive, diplomatic mask.
    All this occurred in the time it took for Urza to respond. 
"You are welcome as the representative of your people," he said. 
"Let me present you to the queen. If you will follow me?"
    A brief bow here, and Mishra added softly, "And let me say 
you are looking well, Brother. I would have been heartbroken if 
you had perished at Korlinda."
    "It is ..." began Urza, and paused. The world seemed to turn 
around them for a moment; then he continued, "It is good to know 
you are safe as well. About Korlinda-"
    Mishra held up a hand. "We can speak of the matter at length. 
Let me say that I have given it much thought over the past year. 
We will talk. But for the moment, we should not keep your queen 
waiting."
    Urza's face tightened for a moment, then relaxed, and he 
nodded. "Of course." With that he spun on his heel and walked 
back toward to the gate. Mishra followed, accompanied by the 
woman. Tawnos brought up the rear.
    The red-haired woman hesitated as she passed the apprentice. 
She turned slightly, and said, "You must be Tawnos." She held out 
her hand.
    Automatically, Tawnos took her fingers and bowed slightly 
over them. "I'm sorry. Yes, I'm Tawnos, apprentice to Urza. You 
are Mishra's chief apprentice Ashnod?"
    Ashnod withdrew her hand, and again a small smile played over 
her face. "Chief and only," she said. "It's typical of those two 
that they wouldn't bother to introduce us. Brilliant, Mishra is, 
but he sometimes has the social graces of an atog. It must run in 
the family, eh?"
    Tawnos tried to form a response, but by the time he had 
thought of something relatively innocuous, she had turned back 
and was following the two brothers toward the gate. Tawnos shook 
his head slightly and brought up the rear, arriving at the gate 
as Urza was presenting Kayla, rolling off her various titles like 
a schoolmaster reading the roll.
    "... flower of the Mardun, Warlord's Daughter, Queen of the 
Yotians and Warlady of Kroog, my wife, Kayla bin-Kroog," 
concluded Urza. "Mishra, the chosen representative of the 
Fallaji. The qadir was unable to attend and begs our 
forgiveness." Tawnos noted that Urza was looking at the seneschal 
as he said it, and that the nervous man flinched at the implied 
accusation. Kayla offered her hand to the younger brother.
    "Urza spoke to me of your beauty," said Mishra, bowing deeply 
over her hand. "But I had forgotten his capacity for 
understatement. For him a majestic tree is only so many board-
feet of lumber, and a desert vista only so many miles to cross. 
So, too, I see that he has seriously unvalued your charm."
    A small smile played across Kayla's face. Tawnos thought the 
queen was amused, though she had long since become immune to 
fulsome praise. "Urza had spoken of his brother," she said, "but 
I must admit that I was unprepared for one so eloquent."
    "I have few regrets in life," said Mishra, still grasping the 
queen's hand lightly, "and one of them is that I never had a 
sister. With you as my brother's wife, that is now remedied." 
With that he loosened her hand, and she gently withdrew it.
    There were other introductions: Ashnod, Tawnos, the seneschal 
and the Captain of the Guard, and arrangements were made for the 
Fallaji to bivouac around their dragon engine. But the part that 
Tawnos remembered later, after it was all said and done, was the 
stony stare with which Urza favored his younger brother as Mishra 
flattered Kayla, and Mishra's toothy white smile as he regarded 
his brother's wife.

                          * * * * *

    Sounds of the fight carried all the way down the hall. Tawnos 
had passed a gaggle of chambermaids speeding away from the royal 
quarters. Then he heard the arguing voices reverberate like steel 
balls against the surrounding walls. Closer still, the air itself 
gained weight and potency. He felt as if he were back on the 
seacoast watching a squall wade ashore, pushing the air in front 
of it. Undeterred, he pressed forward.
    The door to the quarters was shut, but that did little to 
blunt the noises from within. This close, Tawnos could make out 
words, and he paused a moment before knocking.
    "The answer is no!" shouted Urza.
    "Its a good trade!" rejoined Kayla just as loudly. "They will 
leave the Sword Marches alone!"
    "It's not yours to trade away!" thundered Urza. Tawnos had 
never heard the Chief Artificer that loud before, even when he 
was bawling out the most incompetent of apprentices.
    Tawnos hesitated at the door. Would it be better to interrupt 
and make them aware that their fight was resounding through the 
palace, or to wait for a lull in the shouting?
    Tawnos knocked. There was a testy growl of, "What?" from the 
other side, coupled with a more feminine, disciplined, "Enter."
    Tawnos entered the room cautiously and said, "The Fallaji 
delegation is waiting for the tour of the orniary, Chief 
Artificer."
    Urza shot his apprentice a look as frosty as the Ronom 
Glacier. Yes, thought Tawnos, this was a particularly bad time to 
interrupt. Across the room, Kayla was standing, hands folded in 
front of her. In the privy council, that usually meant that a 
particular subject was closed.
    "If you want me to conduct the tour ..." added Tawnos, but 
Urza already had his hand up.
    "I'll be there," said the Chief Artificer, as Tawnos knew he 
would. The idea of his brother padding through his research area 
without
    Urza being present was unthinkable.
    To his wife, Urza snapped, "This discussion is not over, my 
wife."
    Kayla nodded curtly. "You are correct, my husband."
    Urza gave a sharp half-bow, and left the room. Kayla said, 
"Tawnos, remain a moment."
    Tawnos looked at the Chief Artificer. Urza scowled, then gave 
Tawnos a nod. "Come along when you can," he said, and then he was 
gone, his formal cape billowing behind him.
    Tawnos turned back to the queen. "Your Majesty," he said, 
then added, "Ma'am."
    "You heard our 'discussion' out in the hall?" she said.
    Tawnos took a deep breath. "I think they heard your 
'discussion' in the domes of Tomakul."
    Kayla smiled and slumped into one of her chairs, a heavy, 
throne-like monster with ornately carved arms.
    "I did not hear much of it," continued Tawnos quickly. "The 
stonework carries the intensity but not the nature of your 
words."
    Kayla laced her hands, templed her fingers, and touched them 
to her lips. "Would you say the talks have gone well these past 
few days?"
    "Very well," replied Tawnos. And indeed, they had verged on 
phenomenal, considering the abortive talks in Korlinda. Gifts had 
been presented. Toasts had been exchanged. Platitudes had been 
spoken, and effusive compliments had been offered. Private 
meetings between Kayla and Mishra had led to discussions among 
the Fallaji and in the privy council. The good feelings between 
the two sides had culminated in Urza's offer to show his brother 
his orniary. In return Mishra had offered to let Urza and his 
assistant look at the dragon engine and great wain. Things were 
going very well indeed.
    "And Ambassador Mishra?" asked Kayla. "Your opinion of him?"
    Tawnos hesitated, unsure of what Kayla wanted to know. "He is 
..." The apprentice searched for words. "He is like his brother, 
only different. More effusive. More willing to talk."
    "But no less guarded, " said Kayla.
    Tawnos thought for a moment. Yes, despite all the talk and 
praise and compliments, Mishra remained even more closed than his 
brother. He seemed earnest, but was his earnestness the truth or 
only a mask?
    Tawnos realized he would never think of Urza in that fashion. 
"I rarely know what Urza is thinking, but that is because he is 
quiet. I don't know what Mishra is thinking, because he is 
talking."
    Kayla gave a small smile and said, "He is very charming, and 
I have heard that the desert traders have the ability to talk a 
snake out of its skin. Do you think he has the ability to enforce 
any deal made here?"
    Tawnos nodded. "He brought the dragon engine with him. The 
men who follow him apparently think well of him."
    Kayla was silent for a moment, then said, "Do you think we 
can trust him?"
    Tawnos held up his hands. "I don't think we have given him 
much chance to prove our trust so far."
    "Indeed," said Kayla, and pressed her fingers to her lips. 
"What if I were to tell you that Mishra was prepared to sign a 
treaty recognizing Yotia's claim to the Sword Marches?"
    Amazed, Tawnos said, "The qadir is willing to do this?"
    Kayla held up a finger. "I said 'what if.' Diplomacy is 
filled with what ifs, idle ideas that are launched. If they fail 
to fly, they are quickly denied and more quickly forgotten."
    "Like prototypes in the orniary," smiled Tawnos, and he 
thought about the nature of the offer. "What would be the price 
for such a boon?"
    Kayla nodded. "Their declared price involves protection of 
Fallaji natives among our populace, guards for their caravans 
within our land, and a token payment for the land seized, but no 
formal apology for seizing it. Along with a recognition of the 
qadir as ruler of the united Fallaji people. In national terms, 
these are very small things indeed. But there is one last piece, 
and that is the sticking point."
    Kayla was quiet for a moment, and Tawnos did not interrupt 
the pause. When she spoke again, it was in cool tones.
    "What are the abilities of Urza's stone? The one he wears 
around his neck?"
    "His Mightstone!" said Tawnos. Light broke over him. "Mishra 
wants his brother's talisman!"
    "What does it do?" persisted Kayla. "He is rarely without 
it."
    Tawnos thought about what he had seen Urza do with the stone. 
Slowly he replied, "It seems to make artifacts and creatures more 
powerful within a limited range. He uses it to heal flawed power 
crystals, but it seems to work that way only in his hands. And he 
holds it when he is thinking, though that may be just force of 
habit."
    "Goodsir Mishra has his own stone, mate to his brother's," 
said Kayla. "Has he told you that?"
    Tawnos was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
    "I was surprised at that as well, the more so that it was 
Mishra who told me," said Kayla, a ripple of irritation evident 
in her voice. "So the stone has some power, and Mishra wants it. 
Mishra said his stone sang to him. Does Urza's stone sing?"
    "Not that I have noticed," said Tawnos.
    "Nor I," agreed Kayla. "The ambassador may be using some 
desert idiom I am not familiar with, so it may just be a flowery 
allusion. Yet the fact remains that Mishra is willing to 
guarantee peace, backed by his dragon engine and other devices he 
has hinted at, all if Urza will give up his stone."
    Tawnos shook his head. "Urza would not do this, I think."
    "You think correctly," said Kayla gloomily. "Hence the 
'discussion' that shook the halls of this palace."
    The queen of Yotia placed her palms together, fingers 
extended, and twisted them a quarter-turn against each other, 
then back. It struck Tawnos that he had seen Urza use the same 
mannerism when faced with a problem in design. He wondered if the 
queen had picked up the habit from her Prince Consort, or the 
Chief Artificer from his royal wife.
    "I do not think it would do the nation harm if Mishra was to 
get the other half of his stone," she said.
    "But it might do Urza harm," replied Tawnos. "In doing so, it 
could harm the nation."
    "Agreed," said Kayla, again twisting her palms against each 
other, then setting them down in her lap. "But can I let this 
opportunity pass by? Am I condemning the Sword Marches to 
continual raids and the rest of the country to a constant 
military footing because of an item coveted by both brothers?"
    Tawnos was silent for a moment, then said, "Urza is right."
    Kayla's face fell, but Tawnos added, "You both need to talk 
more on the subject. You and Urza. You and Mishra. Mishra and 
Urza themselves. Perhaps there is some common ground that frees 
the Sword Marches. Perhaps Mishra is merely testing the waters, 
trying the prototype of an idea to see what your reaction is. 
Perhaps he asks for the stone and will settle for something else, 
something you don't know he wants yet."
    Kayla sighed. "These are the problems of rulership. There are 
some situations that resist all easy solutions."
    "Which is why I am trying to avoid providing you with any," 
said Tawnos.
    Kayla nodded. "Your talents are wasted as Urza's apprentice, 
Tawnos. You would make an excellent seneschal."
    Tawnos winced comically. "You already have an excellent 
seneschal. And were I not Urza's apprentice, who would you talk 
to about the Prince Consort?"
    That sally brought a true smile to Kayla Bin-Kroog's face. 
"Agreed. Now be off with you. But be sure to tell me later how 
the brothers are getting along."
    Tawnos rejoined the Chief Artificer at the orniary as Urza 
was explaining the better control of the wing surface with a 
double-bend structure. Mishra was attentive and seemed to ask all 
the right questions, leading Urza each time into his next point. 
Urza, for his part, was scholarly but not pedantic about his 
work. To Tawnos there seemed to be no friction between the 
brothers, and he deemed it likely that the subject of the stone 
had not arisen on either side.
    Tawnos looked around. Most of the rest of the Fallaji seemed 
bored beyond human conception, and the students present had heard 
most of Urza's explanations before. They were staring at odd bits 
of the orniary, trying to keep from falling asleep.
    Ashnod, however, was watching Tawnos. When he looked her way, 
she turned her head back to where the two brothers were 
discussing. Then, as soon as he turned away, he could feel the 
pressure of her eyes on him. It made him very uncomfortable.
    Tawnos had assumed from what Urza had said that Ashnod was 
Mishra's lover as well as his student. Yet the two did not behave 
as intimates. And that earlier wink (if it were truly a wink) and 
now these stares-that-were-not-stares told a different story 
entirely.
    The talk lasted through most of the early afternoon. Mishra 
made a number of small suggestions of his own concerning the 
design, while Urza pointed out what other changes they would 
necessitate. Finally it became clear they would not have time to 
tour the dragon engine as well that evening, and indeed there 
would be much rushing-about if that evening's state dinner was to 
go off as planned. Mishra was effusive in his apologies.
    "I can see that you've achieved much here. Once there is 
peace, I hope to be able to establish my own small foundry and 
laboratory," he said.
    "When you do," responded Urza, "let me send you the notes on 
my teaching experiences. I discovered that certain methods work 
better than others in holding the attention of young men."
    "As if we never had that problem when we were young," said 
Mishra with a laugh, and Urza managed a tight smile.
    Yes, thought Tawnos, Urza had not entirely forgotten the 
argument with Kayla, but he was not going to let it spill out 
before his brother. It would not be he who created an incident, 
not he who spoiled his wife's hopes for peace.
    The state dinner was held within the great courtyard, an 
open-air celebration in the Fallaji style to honor the guests. 
Every cushion and throw rug in the palace was pressed into 
service, and a fine repast of roast lamb and spiced chicken was 
laid out for the attendees, who sprawled alongside low tables. 
The Fallaji, after too many suppers in stiff-backed chairs, were 
notably at ease, whereas the Yotians continually shifted and 
moved to find suitable resting places. The seneschal had found a 
band of Muaharin musicians in the city who had no qualms about 
playing for members of the Suwwardi clan, and the air was filled 
with their high-pitched strings and hearty shouts.
    Kayla sat with Urza on one side of her, Mishra on the other. 
She spoke with both, though she was mostly attentive to her 
husband, at one point offering him a date stuffed with cheese. He 
did not let her feed him but rather took the fruit from her hand 
and smiled at her, popping the treat into his mouth. Those city 
folk who watched the royal couple were no doubt delighted by 
their display of affection. To Tawnos it was a sign that perhaps 
the storm in their private quarters had blown over. Mishra, for 
his part, when talking to Kayla, continually extolled some virtue 
or another of desert life.
    The meal ran eight courses, in the Yotian tradition, but all 
the courses were of Fallaji dishes. In addition to the lamb and 
chicken -there was a broiled fish done with hot peppers, salads 
of spinach and goat cheese, and all manner of salted meats. 
Everything was served with a pungent wine smelling of cinnamon. 
The wine, called nabiz, was as potent as it was pungent, and 
Tawnos noted that a number of the Yotians used it to offset the 
discomforts of sprawling across the pillows. Most of his table 
consisted of Fallaji lieutenants, who laughed among themselves, 
and once, when a recognizable tune appeared from the band, rose 
to engage in a long line dance. Mishra joined them, keeping pace 
with their kicks and flourishes.
    A shadow moved along Tawnos's side. "Interesting, no?" asked 
Ashnod, as she settled down next to Tawnos.
    "Traditional warrior's dance," replied Tawnos. Ashnod held 
out her cup, one of the gold ones from the warlord's tenth 
anniversary celebration. Tawnos reached for the ewer of nabiz and 
refilled the goblet.
    Ashnod made a rude noise at Tawnos's words. "It's one more 
boys-only tradition," she said with a slight slur in her voice, 
and Tawnos wondered how much wine she had had already. "The 
Fallaji are typically chauvinist, and the Suwwardi the worst of 
the pack. Mishra hadto practically club the qadir over the head 
to agree to negotiate with a woman in the first place. Women 
should be out raising the children and baking flat bread, not 
getting involved in politics, war, religion, science or any of 
the rest of that 'boy's stuff.' "
    Tawnos did not let his surprise at Ashnod's words show. 
"Times change for all of us," he said. "Perhaps the Fallaji will 
change as well." "Not in my lifetime or in yours," returned 
Ashnod. She pressed a slim hand against her bare breastbone and 
stifled a burp.
    "They are here, negotiating with a woman, and things are 
going well. And you, a woman, are among their number," Tawnos 
said.
    "I am merely tolerated," replied the red-haired woman. "I am 
Mishra's apprentice and assistant. The great Mishra is as much 
the leader of the Fallaji now as the qadir, and the chiefs trust 
him more than they do the fat young pup currently running things. 
So they put up with me. And the Fallaji legends say things about 
dangerous women with red hair." She set down her cup and ran both 
hands through her long tresses, arching her back as she did so. 
"So they fear me as well."
    "Should they?" asked Tawnos. He knew he was feeling the 
effects of the nabiz work through his system as well, but he 
could not suppress his interest in this woman.
    "Fear me?" said Ashnod, with a devilish smile. "I'd like to 
think so. But if Mishra left them tomorrow, I would be gone as 
well before nightfall; of that I have no doubt."
    Tawnos made no comment and instead looked at the dancers. 
Most of the Fallaji had joined the dance, which had transformed 
from a line into a spiral curling in on itself. Mishra led the 
procession and had enticed the spindly seneschal to accompany 
him. The birdlike man tried to mimic Mishra's steps and did an 
admirable job miming the steps, bows, and shouts. Other members 
of the palace staff had joined the procession, but both 
unfamiliarity and spiced wine worked against them, reducing them 
to mere shufflers in the procession. The Fallaji did not seem to 
mind and in fact seemed to spur them to increased gyrations and 
bellows.
    "Things are going very well," said Tawnos. "Better than you 
could imagine," said Ashnod softly. "What did you think of the 
orniary?" asked Tawnos. "More impressive than I expected," 
replied Ashnod, shaking her hair back, "Master Mishra is jealous, 
you know. Not that he'd admit it, but he's been talking about 
getting a place to set up his own work for years. I think that's 
why he wants this peace treaty. He's been recruiting artisans 
from Tomakul and Zegon, but he has no permanent place for them."
    Tawnos nodded. Ashnod was sharing more than she should, but 
he had no problems listening to her. "Still," he said, "it is a 
pity we ran long at the orniary. I would have liked to have 
examined ..." Tawnos stared into her stormy eyes and almost lost 
his thought. "... Mishra's dragon engine," he finished lamely.
    "Who's to say you can't?" asked Ashnod. "Well, there is 
always tomorrow," said Tawnos. Ashnod shook her head. "Not 
tomorrow. Tonight." Tawnos stared at her. "There's a banquet 
going on." "Later," said Ashnod. "Listen. Can you get past the 
Yotian guards on our wing of the palace?"
    Tawnos thought for a moment. "They know me. I don't think 
there would be a problem."
    "And I can get past the brass hats guarding the engine," said 
the woman, shaking her head again. "They know me and fear me, 
remember? I can give you a private tour. Interested?"
    Tawnos stammered for a moment, and Ashnod added, "Come on. 
We're supposed to be students. That means we can occasionally 
play hooky. You've never played hooky?"
    "Never," said Tawnos, and realized he was blushing. "Well, 
hardly ever. You?"
    Ashnod's face became suddenly stern, mocking her companion. 
"Never," she said in a low, masculine tone, then smiled and 
winked. A definite wink this time. "Well, hardly ever. So, are 
you interested?" Tawnos realized that it might be an opportunity 
to gain additional insights into Mishra for the queen and the 
Chief Artificer. "Yes," he said at last. "I think I'd like that."
    "Dandy," said Ashnod, rising smoothly from her seat without a 
sign of the effects of the alcohol she had been consuming. "After 
the midnight bell, then. Come to my quarters. And bring a 
civilized, decent dry wine, will you? All this desert wine is 
like liquefied candy."
    With that she was gone, disappearing along the edges of the 
cluster of drunken Fallaji and Yotians, all bellowing and 
shuffling to the music, forming an ever-growing maelstrom of 
celebrants.
    
                           Chapter 14
                          NIGHT MOVES

    Tawnos picked out a white wine from the larder's private 
stock, which the palace cook assured him was the finest vintage 
the Korlis vinyards had produced in a hundred years. Still Urza's 
apprentice felt more like a spy than a scholar with a jug of 
wine. As an afterthought he picked up his yarrow wood serpent, 
the one that had impressed Urza years ago. He wound the toy's 
spring, set the latch, and put the coiled wooden snake in his 
pocket.
    Off across the city, the midnight bell was tolling. Servants 
would be clearing the banquet by now, and those revellers not 
capable of making it back to their quarters would be rolled to a 
convenient corner and covered with a blanket until morning. Urza 
and Kayla had left arm-in-arm, their heads bent together in 
conversation. Mishra had completed one last dance with his men, 
then bade them return to the encampment. He and Ashnod would be 
staying at the quarters provided in the palace. At the time 
Tawnos thought that the availability of soft beds and running 
water had something to do with that decision.
    After talking to Ashnod, Tawnos had stopped drinking the 
nabiz. However, the other drink being offered was a thick, syrupy 
coffee served in small cups. The mixture turned his stomach 
slightly, and left him feeling nervous.
    At least Tawnos hoped that it was only the coffee and the 
nabiz that had unsettled his stomach.
    Tawnos paused at the hallway leading to the guest quarters, 
then changed direction, heading instead for the orniary at the 
far end of the palace. It was only past midnight. Urza would 
still be awake and could tell him what to look for in particular 
when inspecting the metallic beast.
    The apprentice arrived to discover Kayla quietly backing out 
and closing the door of the orniary, watching into the workshop 
as she did so. She gave a small jump when she saw Tawnos standing 
there, then raised a finger to her lips.
    "He's resting," she whispered. "It is early for him," said 
Tawnos quietly. "Its been a long day," she said, "and a good one, 
for him." "Yes," said Tawnos. "He and his brother seemed to be 
getting along."
    Kayla pushed a loose strand of hair back, and a small smile 
broke across her face. "Yes, that." she said, "among other 
things. In any event, I don't think you should disturb him for a 
little while."
    Tawnos nodded, suddenly aware that he was carrying a bottle 
of white wine with him. Fortunately, Kayla did not say anything 
about it. Regardless, he shifted the jug slightly behind him and 
asked, "About the, uh, discussion you two had, earlier."
    Kayla shrugged, and moved away from the door. "We've talked. 
We had a good talk."
    "And what did he say?" asked Tawnos. Kayla hesitated for a 
moment, then said, "He didn't say no." Tawnos gave a sage nod. 
"Well, that's a start." "A good start," agreed Kayla. "Now, I 
think we both have other places to be at the moment."
    Tawnos blushed slightly. Of course the queen had seen the 
bottle, and made the assumption he had some late-night 
rendezvous. Tomorrow he would tell her the truth of the matter 
and the nature of the dragon engine. For the moment, he merely 
bowed and retreated back toward the guest wing.
    The guest quarters consisted of a separate wing of the palace 
of Kroog, and Ashnod and her master had been placed on separate 
floors, each in a huge encampment of suites. A handpicked group 
of servants, known for their open ears and shut mouths, had been 
assigned to the wing, along with a number of loyal guards. The 
Fallaji were allowed to keep their own bodyguards, with the 
understanding that they too would be under guard. After the 
second night Mishra had dismissed his own guards as a sign of his 
trust in their hosts.
    The arrangements were very Kroogian in nature. Each offer of 
beneficence concealed some implicit method of control. Tawnos 
wondered how much of it was Urza's doing, and decided that there 
was little involving his brother's visit that the chief artificer 
was not aware of.
    The guards raised their short pikes to let him pass. Tawnos 
knocked and the unlatched door opened beneath his knock.
    Ashnod was working at the table, fitting wires around an 
animal skull, which had been affixed to her dark wooden staff. 
She held up a hand as Tawnos entered, "One moment," she said and 
looped a small strand through the skull's nostrils. "There. 
Done." She looked up.
    There was a curious fire in her eyes that Tawnos had seen 
before. He had seen it in Urza's eyes when he was working on a 
new refinement of an invention, and in the mirror when he himself 
was helping the Chief Artificer.
    Ashnod blinked and the fire banked for the moment, but now 
that Tawnos had seen it in its full glory, he could still detect 
it. "Just a little project I've been puttering with," she said, 
setting the staff aside.
    Tawnos looked at the staff and noted that the animal skull 
fit snugly over the end. "Anything you need help with?" he 
offered.
    Ashnod shook her head. "Just a craft to keep my hands busy." 
Then her eyes lit up. "Ah, you've brought the wine! I'll get the 
goblets! We'll do a toast, and then take the jug with us to the 
engine!"
    Tawnos set the wine down on the table and seated himself at a 
bench. "I hope that this is not too late."
    "Not late at all," said Ashnod, saluting the other apprentice 
with a pair of brass cups, their stems crossed and clenched in 
her small fist. "I'm used to working on Mishra's time. He's up 
early and to bed very, very late."
    "The Chief Artificer is much the same," said Tawnos, pouring 
the wine. "I've learned to catnap."
    Ashnod took her cup. "I never could do that. But that thick 
coffee they drink in the desert, sanduq, works for me. One cup 
and I can stay awake for a day and night. Then I fall into a coma 
from exhaustion."
    Tawnos rubbed the back of his neck. He had had no less than 
four of the small cups at dinner.
    Ashnod raised her goblet. "A toast! To the madmen who are our 
masters!"
    Tawnos blinked. "Madmen?"
    Ashnod lowered her cup slightly. "To Mishra and Urza?" she 
suggested.
    "To the brother artificers," responded Tawnos and returned 
the toast. Both took a sip of the wine. Tawnos had never cared 
for the smell or taste of white wine, but after the heavily 
spiced meal and pungent drinks it was a gods-send.
    Ashnod took the seat opposite the tawny-haired apprentice. 
"So you don't think our masters are mad?"
    "Well, divinely inspired sometimes," said Tawnos. "But mad?" 
"There is a fine line between the two," noted Ashnod. "Can we say 
that the gods or madness control them? How many times has your 
Urza suggested something completely irrational, only to be proven 
correct?"
    Tawnos shrugged. "I always assumed he had a reason for his 
actions, even if he did not share it with me."
    "Humph!" said Ashnod. "I thought it was a tradition that 
apprentices always complained about their masters. You were a toy 
maker, I hear. Didn't you complain about the master toy maker 
then?"
    "Well, the master toy maker of Jorilin was my uncle, so I 
never-" said Tawnos, then stopped as Ashnod broke out in peals of 
laughter. Ashnod must have read the disappointment in Tawnos' 
face, because she quickly cut her chuckling short. "You sound 
like a baby duck, always following along behind its mother duck. 
Such loyalty is so sweet. So you're first master was a relative, 
and your new master is ...?"
    Tawnos shrugged. "He is Urza. He knows more than anyone else 
I've ever met."
    Ashnod looked at Tawnos, and said in a low voice, "Gods 
below, you're serious, aren't you?"
    Tawnos shrugged again. "Sure. Why have a mas ... a superior 
who doesn't know more than you do?"
    "But, you know things he doesn't, right?" said Ashnod, 
motioning with her now empty cup.
    "Well, yes," said Tawnos, pouring the wine for her, and then, 
as an afterthought, topping off his own goblet. "But of the 
important matters, he knows more than I do."
    "And that's why we stay with them, then? They know more than 
we do?" said Ashnod.
    "In part," said Tawnos, leaning back. "A small part. I mean 
Urza is demanding, and precise and hard to follow sometimes when 
he's hot on an idea."
    "Mishra's the same way," said Ashnod. "And you get the idea 
that when he explains something to you, its as if he's reigning 
himself in, choosing simple words and small ideas that you can 
understand. And he expects you to keep up with him."
    Tawnos chuckled now. "That's Urza sometimes. You saw the wind 
chamber in the orniary? Urza had it built so students could prove 
their modifications of the ornithopters would not work, saving 
him the trouble of explaining it and them the trouble of building 
a full working model."
    "Or nonworking model," said Ashnod, and Tawnos smiled at 
that. "Like I said earlier, at the feast, Mishra really envies 
the sense of place that your brother has. Big palace. School of 
assistants. Regular supplies." She paused for a moment, then 
added, "Beautiful wife."
    Tawnos responded, "There are things in Mishra's life that 
Urza envies. There's the dragon engine, of course."
    "He does?" said Ashnod, looking over her cup. "Urza said 
that?"
    "Once you get away from machinery, Urza doesn't say much," 
replied Tawnos, "But you understand his moods, his looks. What he 
talks about, and more importantly, what he doesn't talk about."
    "Ditto for Master Mishra," said Ashnod. "Or rather, he talks, 
but he avoids certain subjects. And you can tell what's on his 
mind by what he doesn't talk about. It appears like a genie in 
the center of the whirlwind."
    "Right," said Tawnos, "and Urza feels that Mishra has a 
greater sense of freedom, sometimes. Urza feels that he has to be 
so responsible for everything, and the desert offers freedom. 
What's so funny?"
    "Nothing," said Ashnod, stifling a giggle. "But it's amusing 
that the Fallaji are currently in the iron grip of a petulant 
child-man. If you think the desert means freedom, you've never 
met the qadir."
    "I think Urza would much rather be working on artifacts than 
trying to support a nation," said Tawnos.
    "Agreed for Mishra as well," said Ashnod, raising her goblet 
in another toast. "It's the love of artifacts that binds them 
together and probably us to them as well. There's something about 
getting beneath the skin of a new device."
    "Understanding a new concept," agreed Tawnos.
    "Unlocking its inner secrets."
    "Understanding the design philosophy behind it."
    "Feeling its power."
    "Comprehending its purpose," said Tawnos, "and expanding its 
abilities."
    Ashnod laughed again, and it was a relaxed laugh. "There are 
so very few of us, you know. I'm one of the few that can talk to 
Mishra and understand him."
    "I feel much the same way with Urza," said Tawnos. As an 
afterthought, "And with you as well."
    "I won't try to use small words," said Ashnod.
    "I'll try to keep up," said Tawnos.
    "Its all so difficult," said Ashnod. "I mean, I feel doubly 
walled-away from everything. First, a powerful woman among the 
Fallaji is an exception, not a rule. And second, being an 
intelligent being among the desert people is so-"
    "Frustrating," suggested Tawnos.
    "Exactly," said Ashnod. "Pour me another."
    "We should see the engine," said Tawnos.
    "There's time," she said. "Time for everything in the world."
    Tawnos poured, and said, "I went back to Jorilin a few months 
ago, and was telling my aunts and uncles what I was doing. And 
they were very polite and appreciative, but I don't think they 
understood my work at all."
    "At least they were appreciative," said Ashnod. "I get 
hostile stares from the Suwwardi. But it was the same at Zegon. 
At first I thought it was because I was a woman, but then people 
were distant because I was smarter than everyone else. It's 
frustrating, to be smart. It separates you from the rest of the 
populace."
    "It is difficult being different," Tawnos admitted.
    "And I bet the continual work keeps you away from your 
family. Your friends," said Ashnod. "Your wife."
    "I'm, uh, not married," said Tawnos.
    "It wasn't you I was talking about," said Ashnod. "But you 
don't even have a regular young lady, I'll bet."
    "Well, I have been busy," said Tawnos defensively.
    "I rest my case," said Ashnod, slapping the tabletop with the 
fleshy part of her palm. "Just like Mother Duck Urza. You're 
working for the most powerful man in Yotia and you don't have the 
girls flocking to you?"
    Tawnos shrugged. "What about you?"
    "Among the Fallaji? Hah!" She slapped the table again. "I 
really think they have to have a breeding program to produce such 
oafs!" "What about Mishra?" asked Tawnos.
    Ashnod's chuckle died. "Mishra," she said, and her eyes grew 
a bit misted. "Early on, yes. But it wasn't as much a 
relationship as it was a power thing. Sort of who-can-control-
who. And it got old fast, and soon he was back to worrying about 
his precious engines. I don't like playing second to machinery."
    Tawnos nodded. So there had been a relationship between 
Mishra and his pupil, but that was apparently in the past. But 
there was something else in her words that he almost missed.
    "Engines?" asked Tawnos.
    "Pardon?" Ashnod blinked.
    "You said he worries about his engines," said Tawnos. 
"Plural."
    Ashnod pulled up short. "There's the dragon engine. And the 
great wain its pulling. The Fallaji call that engine a war 
machine, but Mishra told everyone to not refer to it as such 
during the talks. It might make the Yotians nervous."
    "Uh-huh," said Tawnos, filing away that bit of information 
for later. Perhaps a tour of the war machine was in order as 
well.
    Tawnos decided to push a little further. They obviously 
weren't going to get to the dragon engine until the wine was 
gone, and perhaps not even then. "So does Mishra have the power 
to enforce a peace?"
    "If he wants it, yes." said Ashnod. "The qadir will whine and 
moan, but most of the lesser sheiks already back Mishra. The 
tribal chieftains want it all one way or another. Either the 
glories of war or the bliss of peace, without a middle ground. 
They're like machines that way. Easy to command and control."
    "So what does Mishra truly want?" said Tawnos. "I mean, Urza 
can help with him establishing his own school, if that's his 
goal."
    Ashnod shook her head. "The Fallaji way is not to accept aid, 
or gifts, or charity. It is to take what they want, though trade, 
or force of arms or guile or whatever else is required. The old 
warlord figured that out, but I don't think good Queen Kayla has 
a clue."
    Tawnos frowned. "Mishra is not Fallaji. He is Argivian, like 
Urza."
    Ashnod countered, "Mishra has lived among the Fallaji, and 
come to lead them. He understands their ways better than Urza 
understands the Yotians. No, Mishra at his heart is jealous of 
his brother, and wants what belongs to him."
    Tawnos thought of his discussion with Kayla earlier in the 
day. "The stone."
    Ashnod nodded. "The stone. Mishra told me the one he carried 
was once a larger stone, split in two through his brother's 
actions. Did Urza tell you the same?"
    Tawnos worked his mouth, but no sound came out. "We never 
talked about it, and I never thought to ask."
    "Baby duck!" spat Ashnod, "Mishra envies his brother his soft 
life and laboratory and beautiful wife. That's true. But what he 
really wants is the stone."
    "Is it worth trading away the Sword Marches for it?" asked 
Tawnos.
    "Its worth talking about trading the Suwwardi Marches for 
it," laughed Ashnod. "The Fallaji get what they want, by war or 
guile. And if everything's gone well enough, he's already 
succeeded."
    Ashnod realized at once that she had said too much, and put a 
hand over her mouth. At last she said, "I shouldn't say anything 
else about that. Diplomatic secrets and all that. We should go 
see the dragon engine."
    Tawnos rose, his mind running through the events of the past 
day. Meeting Kayla outside the orniary. The fact she was doting 
on Urza at the banquet, where earlier they were going at it 
hammer and tongs. The fact that she was insistent Tawnos get 
along and not bother Urza. They both had places to be, she had 
said.
    He didn't say no, she had said.
    "I have to go," Tawnos said.
    Ashnod rose across from him. "We have all night."
    "I think I need to talk to Urza." he said.
    "It's late, even for Urza," said Ashnod. "Perhaps if I 
accompanied you."
    "Hopefully not too late," muttered Tawnos, and paused by the 
door. He turned and said, "You'll have to stay here, I'm afraid. 
This has been a very interesting evening, and I hope that I'm 
wrong about what I'm thinking, because I would like to talk to 
you again, later."
    And with that he was gone, and the short pikes of the guards 
were visible as the door swung shut. Ashnod shook her head behind 
him, cradling her brass goblet in one hand. Outside, Tawnos was 
shouting for the guards to find Ambassador Mishra.
    Said too much, she thought. And too soon. She shook her head 
and drained the goblet of the last of the wine.
    Then she went to her jewelry box and removed a pair of 
earrings. She pried the iridescent stones from them and put the 
skull-headed staff back on the table. Slowly but with practiced 
skill, she started to fit the small power stones into the skull's 
eyes.

                          * * * * *

    Tawnos had to shake Urza awake. The Chief Artificer did not 
rouse when his apprentice burst into the orniary, nor when he 
called his name. There was an overturned ewer of the pungent wine 
on the floor, but only a thin stream issued from its wide mouth. 
Similarly, a pair of half-empty goblets left sweating circles on 
the plans on the work desk. Urza was curled up tightly in a 
blanket, snoring softly, on the day cot he would use when working 
late or when fighting with Kayla.
    Tawnos shook Urza's shoulder, hard, and the artificer was 
awake in a moment, sitting bolt upright, his eyelids beating 
rapidly to blink back the sleep. "Tawnos? What? Is there a fire? 
What's wrong?" Beneath the blanket, Urza was half-dressed, and 
those clothes he was wearing were bunched together in odd shapes.
    Tawnos looked at Urza, and said, "Sir, your stone."
    Instinctively Urza's fingers went to his chest, where the 
stone normally hung. They closed on empty air. Immediately he 
raised the hand to touch his neck, but the chain that hung there 
was missing.
    "The stone!" he said, the last dregs of sleep banished from 
his eyes, replaced by a hot fire. "Where is it?" He immediately 
began tearing up the bedclothes and blankets.
    "Sir," said Tawnos, "I ran into your wife as she was leaving 
here...."
    "Kayla?" said Urza, looking up. Then his face turned stern. 
"Kayla," he said again, a dagger's edge in his voice.
    Urza became a flurry of action, gathering his banquet regalia 
into some semblance of order. He grabbed the cape, looking for 
the loops, then abandoned it entirely, cursing and flinging it 
across the room. Then he was at the door, bellowing for Tawnos to 
follow.
    Tawnos was taller than Urza, and should have been able to 
catch up to the smaller man easily. But Urza moved as if he was 
an ornithopter incarnate, gliding through the halls at inhuman 
speed, passing the guards like they were no more than ghosts. 
Tawnos was himself stopped by guards from the guest wing, who 
informed him that Mishra was not in his quarters. A full search 
of the wing revealed nothing, they added. Would Tawnos want them 
to seal the palace and send a runner to the Fallaji encampment to 
determine if Mishra had returned there? Tawnos hastily agreed, 
but by the time he concluded this brief conversation, Urza had 
vanished ahead of him.
    There were shouts again from the royal quarters as Tawnos 
approached, but this time both of the voices were male, and 
booming. In addition, this time the door was open, nearly ripped 
from its hinges, and Tawnos thought it opened with a sharp kick 
as opposed to a twist of the latch. From the doorway issued an 
ever-changing spectrum of light.
    Tawnos paused in the doorway and raised a hand to peer past 
the light. It issued from Urza's Mightstone, and from Mishra's 
gem as well, forming the poles of a magnet, with the light itself 
acting like metal filings stretched between them. Urza had 
regained his stone, and now was snarling at his brother across 
the room. Mishra was shouting something else incomprehensible 
back at him, the warm smile of the Fallaji ambassador replaced 
with a feral snarl. Their words were lost in an angry humming of 
energy between the two stones. Between them, against the far 
wall, was Kayla bin-Kroog.
    Tawnos noticed that Urza was not the only one who had dressed 
in a rush. Mishra's clothes were in an equal disarray, and the 
queen had a sheet wrapped around her torso, clutched at her 
chest. She saw Tawnos and her face shone with relief. She said 
something that Tawnos could not hear over the throbbing pulses of 
the battling stones. She took a step forward, toward him.
    Tawnos threw up his hands and shouted for her to stay back. 
Whatever was happening between the stones, and between the 
brothers, involved energies he neither recognized nor trusted.
    It could have been Tawnos's shout, or his wave of his arms. 
Or it could have been seeing Kayla, stepping almost into the 
energies between the two stones. Or it could have been a moment 
of weakness on Urza's part.
    But Urza dropped his stone. Only for an instant, and he still 
gripped it in his hand. But he dropped his stone, and it was 
enough.
    A violent rainbow of energy spewed forth from Mishra's stone, 
and slammed into Urza. The lanky Chief Artificer was bodily 
lifted up by the force of the blow and flung backward, against 
the armoire, breaking the doors of that cabinet inward from the 
impact.
    Then suddenly the energy from Mishra's stone went out, and it 
was as if those within the room were suddenly plunged into the 
dark, so great was the magnitude of difference in the light. 
Tawnos blinked and started toward where he knew Urza lay. Someone 
heavy and burly, Mishra, he realized later, slammed into him, 
brushing past him and out the door.
    Kayla was at Urza's side already, crying as she knelt next to 
his prostrate form. Urza's eyes were open, but showed only the 
whites, and his breath was shallow and frothy. Still clenched in 
his hand was his Mightstone, a rainbow of colors leaking between 
his fingers.
    "The temple amulets," said Tawnos to Kayla. "The ones Urza 
made. Do you have one here? Perhaps we can ..."
    Kayla was nodding but neither had time to finish their 
thoughts. The stone clenched in Urza's hand began to pulse more, 
to flash through the spectrum, and into ranges that Tawnos felt 
more than saw. Slowly, Urza's other hand raised, and grasped the 
stone, and his breathing became more regular. His eyes closed, 
and when they opened again, they were normal.
    No, they were not normal, Tawnos realized. They were filled 
with emotion. Filled with rage.
    Urza got up. Kayla tried to restrain him, to tell him that he 
should rest until the temple priests arrived, but he brought up 
an arm to ward her off. He brought it up too hard and too fast, 
for he knocked Kayla with it. She sprawled backward, and Tawnos 
rose with his superior, putting a hand out to Urza's shoulder.
    Urza batted the offered hand away. "Where is he?" he snarled. 
His hair was a tangle, and Urza looked more like a madman than an 
artificer.
    Tawnos said nothing, but looked at the door. Urza was 
striding toward it at once. Kayla shouted after him, but he did 
not look back.
    Kayla was sobbing now, her tears staining the sheet gathered 
in front of her. "I tried," she said, then took a deep breath, "I 
tried to do the best thing for my country, Tawnos."
    Tawnos could not think of anything to say, but there were 
more shouts in the hallway. Tawnos helped Kayla to her feet. "Get 
something on, and bring guards," he said, and was out of the 
doorway as well.
    There was a great clamor toward the guest wing, and Tawnos 
thought that Urza had found his brother all too quickly. There 
were shouts and screams and an unearthly flickering of light. He 
ran for the wing, hoping to prevent any fatalities.
    Instead of Urza and Mishra he found Ashnod. She was wielding 
the staff that she had been working on earlier. Now its eyes 
glowed with the eldritch nature of power stones, and lightning 
coursed along the wires that had been spun along the skull. There 
were several of the guards down along the hallway, most of them 
clutching their heads and moaning.
    Ashnod was swinging the staff back and forth, the gold-lit 
skull trailing a shadow of color. She was unharmed as yet, but 
sweat cascaded down her neck and shoulders.
    The leader of the guards was preparing a massed attack, but 
Tawnos put a hand on his shoulder, and indicated that he wanted 
to try to disarm the woman first.
    Tawnos stepped into full view, hands raised and empty. Ashnod 
paused for a moment, then barked, "I want to leave now. Is there 
a problem?"
    Tawnos tried to smile, conscious that he looked as insincere 
as he felt. "There has been a bit of an incident," he said. "I'm 
afraid you're going to have to stay for a while."
    "I'm afraid not," said Ashnod, and brought her staff up, the 
skull-head oozing golden fire.
    The blow hit Tawnos square in the stomach, and he could feel 
the pain rush from that center to the extremities. His stomach 
heaved and he felt the bilious rise of vomit in his throat. Still 
he remained on his feet, and grasped at his cloak, trying to find 
something that would break the effect of the staff's energies.
    His hand closed around the coiled wooden snake that he had in 
his pocket. He pulled it out, thumbing the winding latch open as 
he did so. Stars danced in front of his eyes, but he had a good 
enough idea of Ashnod's position to throw the snake at her.
    The wooden serpent flew through the air, uncoiling, rattling, 
and hissing as it did so. Ashnod shouted something and raised the 
staff higher against this new attack.
    Tawnos was moving the moment that Ashnod spared her attention 
from him. Charging forward, he tackled her, hard, in the mid-
section. The staff pinwheeled away in one direction while the 
wooden snake scuttered in the other. Ashnod went down in a heap, 
and the guards were there immediately, their short pikes pointed 
at her.
    Tawnos kept his footing, and towered over her, gasping for 
breath. Ashnod raised her now empty hands in surrender.
    "Well, it turns out the baby duck has teeth," she said, 
slowly getting to her feet, the guards surrounding her. "There 
are new surprises every day."
    
                           Chapter 15
                        PARRY AND THRUST

    Tawnos felt that entire weight of the Kingdom of Yotia now 
rested on his shoulders, and he did not like it one bit.
    Four months had passed since the fateful argument, and in 
that time there was no sign of Mishra. He had vanished from the 
palace, and the Fallaji, the dragon engine, and his war machine 
had vanished from the gates soon after midnight.
    The Fallaji had been prepared for their departure; of that 
Tawnos had no doubt. Mounted scouts were dispatched that evening 
up and down the river, but there was no sign of them. Urza had to 
wait for morning to dispatch the ornithopters, and that was when 
the scouts had discovered that a ferry barge upriver had been 
seized and sunk on the far bank.
    The assumption was that Mishra and his engines had fled west 
into the trans-Mardun territories that bordered on Fallaji 
territory. Then from the east came a report that a collection of 
brass helmets and Fallaji gear had been found by a farmer, 
indicating that Mishra's forcers were making instead for the Kher 
Ridges. Soon after a horseman arrived from the Sword Marches, 
declaring that a great metallic beast had been spotted, there, 
moving only at night and heading north.
    Military units were shunted first one way, then another in 
response to each new rumor. To make matters worse, Urza took to 
the field with one of the ornithopter flights and moved 
continually from one sighting to the next.
    It had been four months, and Urza had still not returned to 
Kroog nor sent any message to his wife the queen. Tawnos received 
numerous orders for new developments and changes to the 
ornithopter design and instructions for coordinating the 
production of a line of avenger-style automatons. But these 
messages were always technical in nature, without a hint of 
curiosity about Tawnos's own well-being, nor that of Urza's wife, 
nor the situation in the capital.
    The last was deteriorating quickly. A rumor had spread that 
the Chief Artificer's evil brother was hiding among the Fallaji 
traders still in the city, plotting an insurrection. The 
resulting riots killed seventeen Fallaji, including, Tawnos had 
heard, one of the musicians who had played at the banquet. Those 
with ties to the desert fled the city and other Yotian cities as 
quickly as possible. This created another rumor that the first 
rumor had been planted by Mishra so he and his men could escape 
in the confusion.
    The resulting violence overmatched the capabilities of the 
temples to cope, as resources earmarked for study and supplies 
were suddenly diverted to the homeless and the wounded. The 
priests clamored for more of the magical talismans Urza had 
created early in his career there, but the artificer was not 
present to create them.
    Tawnos heard that people were now beginning to doubt their 
leaders. If Urza was so wise, ran the common tale, why could he 
not find his own brother in his wife's own land? Either Urza was 
not as smart as the people had thought, which was unsettling, or 
Mishra was much smarter, which was even more troubling. Now 
rumors of invasion of the Sword Marches or of the trans-Mardun 
territories were regular fare in the inns and taverns, and many 
of the merchants spoke of relocating to the coastal provinces for 
the duration of the hostilities.
    Indeed, there was some confusion among the common folk about 
what exactly had happened at the end of the conference. The 
general story was that Urza and his brother came to blows, but 
the nature of the argument was not clear. Some said it was about 
the Sword Marches. Another story was that Urza had accused Mishra 
of stealing his ideas and making his dragon engines. No, it was 
the other way around, others said; Urza had stolen the idea of 
the ornithopters from his brother. There were a few comments 
about Kayla herself, but those were only voiced by low 
individuals in shadowy bars and were given no credence. Or at 
least Tawnos hoped that was the case.
    The confused mood of the city was matched by that in the 
palace. The Captain of the Guard was frantic, as his orders were 
regularly countermanded by those of Urza from the field. The 
seneschal, who had warmly welcomed the Fallaji, was now 
frantically trying to prove he was as tough as the old warlord 
himself had been.
    The queen kept to her quarters, and would see a select number 
of people, using the matron as a last line of defense against 
intruders. She would speak to the seneschal, the Captain of the 
Guard and Tawnos, and not to anyone else. Unfortunately for the 
remnants of the privy council, most of her commands were along 
the lines of, "Do as you see fit," superseded only by, "What 
would Urza want?"
    And to make matters worse, the matron had informed Tawnos 
(through numerous allusions and euphemisms) that Her Majesty was 
"in the family way." Indeed, when Tawnos spoke with the queen, 
she seemed more haggard and tired than usual. Tawnos sent Urza a 
gently worded dispatch detailing Kayla's condition but received 
in return only a list of corrections to the armature of the 
avengers.
    Tawnos could not understand the coldness of Urza's response 
until he did the math. Given the phases of the Mist Moon and the 
advancement of Kayla's pregnancy, she would have had to have 
conceived sometime during the week of the meetings with the 
Fallaji, probably toward the end of that week, before Urza left 
the city.
    Urza had departed hot on the heels of Mishra. Tawnos did not 
like to consider what that might mean, but he had no doubt Urza 
realized it at once.
    And last there was the problem of Ashnod, still held as a 
hostage in the guest wing of the palace. All attempts to contact 
the Fallaji to negotiate her release had failed. A number of 
people wanted her executed for crimes that remained as fuzzy as 
the explanation of what happened between Urza and Mishra. The 
staff with its sickening energies had been a surprise to Tawnos, 
and the guards had stripped her room of anything with which she 
might be able to make a weapon. The staff remained in Tawnos's 
care. The device itself was a beautiful creation, and he sought 
permission from the queen to speak with Ashnod about it. At 
least, that was the excuse that he gave Kayla.
    "Where did you get the knowledge that helped you build the 
staff?" he asked at one point. "Was it an old text? A scholar? A 
wanderer from another land?"
    Ashnod remained perched on the window sill, the morning sun 
shining resplendently on her hair. She said nothing.
    "It will be easier if you talk," said Tawnos. "Keeping 
silence isn't going to get you anywhere."
    Ashnod's head snapped around to regard Tawnos. Then she 
smiled and said, "I've got a joke. Care to hear it?"
    Tawnos looked puzzled.
    "Matron and the queen are talking. Matron says, 'Whatever 
else you say about that Mishra, at least he dresses well.' And 
the queen says, 'Yes, and quickly, too.' Whatayathink?"
    "That's not funny!" sputtered Tawnos. "You know, there are 
temple inquisitors who have put themselves at our disposal just 
to wring your secrets out of you."
    "But you're keeping them at bay," said Ashnod, sliding off 
her perch. "And why is that, Baby Duck?"
    Tawnos bristled but kept his voice calm. "Because they 
might... damage ... you. Any knowledge you have might be lost."
    "I might choose to die with my secrets rather than betray 
Master Mishra," sighed Ashnod. "You are so naive, and so kind. No 
wonder you're the queen's favorite."
    "What do you know-" said Tawnos, defensive again. Ashnod 
waved her hand. "There's not a lot to do here, so I listen: to 
the guards, the chambermaids, the people outside the window. I 
think you're keeping me around because you need someone to talk 
to. Mama Duck Urza is gone, and poor Kayla is wrapped up in 
blaming herself. That's why you're here."
    Tawnos did not reply but kept his head on his chest, 
regarding the table. A long silence spread out between the two.
    Finally Ashnod sat down at the table across from Urza's 
apprentice. "The way I see it, it's a question of approach," she 
said at last. Her tone was calm, almost conversational. "What 
is?" Tawnos responded.
    Ashnod sighed and shook her head. "The staff! Wasn't that 
what we were talking about?"
    "Among other things," said Tawnos, the hurt still in his 
voice. "Don't be like that," snapped Ashnod. "Look. Have you 
worked in a slaughterhouse?"
    Tawnos blinked, "I worked as a fisherman once." "Completely 
different," said Ashnod. "Fish are low creatures, barely worth 
the spine they have. If you work at sawing up carcasses, you 
notice how the joints fit, how the nerves are arrayed, and how 
the skin peels back."
    "I've dissected creatures," said Tawnos. "Birds, for example, 
to study their wings for the ornithopters."
    "But never one that was still alive when you cut into it, 
correct?" asked Ashnod. Tawnos did not respond, but his face gave 
away his answer. Ashnod continued, "As I said, there's a 
difference of approach. You and Mama Duck Urza don't want to get 
your hands dirty, to deal with the blood and skin and muscle and 
nerves and fluids.
    You'd never have stumbled on the idea of frying an opponent's 
nerves with something like my staff."
    "I don't know if that's a responsible goal," said Tawnos.
    "Beside the point," said Ashnod sharply, slapping the 
tabletop with her palm. Tawnos saw the fire in her eyes again, 
the inventing fire. "You're looking at the bird wing and thinking 
about how to duplicate it. I'm looking at the bird wing and 
thinking about how to incorporate it, how to make it function 
again. If I were building ornithopters, I would have used roc 
wings. I'd have kept them alive with their own blood and 
nutrients and tethered them to the housing."
    "That's impossible!" said Tawnos.
    "A girl can dream," said Ashnod and smiled again. "But I 
think that's what they did with the dragon engine. The original 
builders, I mean. They didn't try to duplicate a dragon with 
metal and cable, like the old Thran would. Rather they started 
with a dragon and built outward until the machinery replaced the 
dragon entirely."
    The fire blazed in the scarlet woman's eyes again. "You can't 
be afraid of living things, or dead things for that matter," she 
said. "Living tissue is one more set of tools we can use. If we 
only get past our backward concept that it's somehow inviolate, 
we can truly make progress."
    She looked at Tawnos and shrugged. "That's what I think, at 
least. Mishra might disagree. I think the answer is within the 
body, not outside it."
    The discussion had taken a disturbing turn for Tawnos. In an 
effort to divert it into other channels, he said, "Where do you 
think Mishra is now? Is there a special hiding place he has?"
    Ashnod shook her head. "He doesn't need to hide right now. He 
has his brother right where he wants him, running all over the 
place looking for him."
    "Was that his plan?" asked Tawnos.
    Ashnod paused a moment, then shook her head. "I don't 
particularly know that Mishra had a plan. He is very good at 
setting things up, but then he throws caution to the winds and 
spins the wheel of fate."
    "Madness," muttered Tawnos.
    "Or divine inspiration," countered Ashnod.
    "So he didn't let you in on his plans," continued Tawnos.
    "If he did, would I be here, living in all this luxury?" 
Ashnod waved her hands at the bare walls of her quarters. "No. 
And it's not that he's secretive, though he is. I really don't 
think he had an exact plan when he came to Kroog, but I do know 
he'd be happy with the result."
    Tawnos sighed. "I wish I could believe you."
    Ashnod frowned, then spread her hands. "Look, I'll give you 
this one free of charge. Mishra is not one to let an opportunity 
pass, and with Urza 'thoptering all over creation, this is an 
opportunity for Mish to hurt his brother and hurt him bad. And 
the qadir is such a hothead that he'll declare a full jihad at 
the drop of a brass hat. So something is coming."
    "But you don't know what or where," said Tawnos. Ashnod 
shrugged.
    "One more thing, then," she said. "You wondered how I got the 
staff in here?"
    Tawnos said, "I assumed our guards were lax during the 
festivities."
    Ashnod smiled; it was a dazzling smile. "The black 
thunderwood staff I walked in with. You saw it on the first day; 
who could deny a woman her walking staff? The skull was smuggled 
in. But the gold wire was sewn into the hem of my bodice, and the 
power stones were brought in among my jewelry."
    Tawnos looked at the tabletop. He had watched her assemble 
the weapon without realizing it. "There's a point to this?"
    "Only this," said Ashnod. "All the components came together 
at the right moment to produce the staff. That's what's going to 
happen, regardless of what it is. Everything will come together 
at once, and ..." She motioned with her hands. "Boom!"
    Tawnos stood up. "You've given me something to think about. 
Several things, in fact."
    Ashnod rose with him. "Yes, and one of the things will 
probably be, 'Can I trust her?' The answer is, 'No you can't, but 
you should at least listen.' Okay?"
    Tawnos nodded and turned toward the door. Ashnod called out 
his name, and he turned back toward her.
    Ashnod leaned forward and kissed the apprentice. Tawnos 
started as if prodded by a dagger thrust.
    Ashnod ignored the reaction. "That's thanks. Thanks for not 
turning me over to the temples. And thanks for coming and talking 
to me. You're a good duck." And she smiled.
    Outside, in the hall, Tawnos rubbed his cheek where Ashnod 
had kissed him. The skin was still warm.
    "Urza," muttered his apprentice, "wherever you are, you'd 
better get back here soon."

                          * * * * *

    Lieutenant Sharaman had the privilege of delivering the 
report to Chief Artificer Urza. He and another pilot had 
discovered Mishra's war machine at the center of a large 
encampment three hours' flight to the west. It was the first 
sighting of one of Mishra's engines since the troops had begun 
this wild goose chase, and Sharaman was delighted to finally see 
some results from their work.
    The Yotian fliers were at their third base camp, each one 
pressing deeper into the enemy territory of the Great Desert. The 
Sword Marches were weeks away by foot, and everything at the camp 
had to be flown in. Sharaman longed for the relative luxuries of 
the home base: hot meals, attentive women, and most of all, hot 
water to bathe in. However, mentioning such desires was a quick 
way to lose one's wings, and Sharaman would rather fly than have 
the attentions of the most attractive women in Yotia.
    Urza was seated beneath his tarp, hunched over a makeshift 
table. At the table was a hand-drawn map of the desert. In 
addition to pursuing his brother, the Chief Artificer was 
conducting the first true survey of this area. Evenings were 
filled with reports of hills, ridges, dry washes, and a number of 
curious rock piles that the Prince Consort referred to as Thran 
sites.
    Sharaman stepped beneath the tarp, clicked his heels, and 
saluted. "Sire, we have a sighting of the great war machine."
    Urza did not look up from the map. "Report," he said.
    "A large encampment of tents with the war machine at the 
center."
    "Where?" snapped Urza.
    "A quarter-day's flight from here, fifteen degrees south of 
due west."
    Urza traced the line Sharaman had defined. "Yes. That would 
make perfect sense. If we had continued on our present line of 
attack we might have missed it. My brother did not take into 
account wide lateral patrols, it seems."
    To the lieutenant he said, "Were you spotted?" "No signs," 
said Sharaman. "They tend to hide from us, now." "Indeed," said 
Urza, raising one eyebrow. "Best to assume they know we've 
spotted them, and they are likely to be already packing camp. 
Ready all the ornithopters. Take all the goblin bombs." "Sire?" 
asked Sharaman. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" The Chief 
Artificer looked up
    for the first time. His face was lined and drawn, more so 
than would be accounted for by the continual desert wind.
    "It is late in the day, Sire," said Sharaman, choosing his 
words carefully.
    "I am aware of the time, Lieutenant," said Urza. His voice 
was icy. "But if we wait for the morrow, Mishra will be gone."
    "It will be dusk before we arrive," protested the ornithopter 
pilot. "And it will be midnight if we keep talking about it," 
snarled Urza, "Now get to it. I want the entire patrol in the air 
in fifteen minutes!" Sharaman stiffened, saluted smartly, and 
retreated. As the pilot left the tent he was already bellowing 
orders to the other fliers and support staff. There was an 
immediate eruption of activity as the various artifice students 
beetled over the machines, making final preparations. Those 
pilots who had flown with Urza before had begun checking their 
machines as soon as they saw Sharaman head for the Prince 
Consort's tent.
    Sharaman did not like it. An evening attack was dangerous and 
meant either setting down in enemy territory for the night or 
risking treacherous night winds and cool spots on the flight 
back. Still the Chief Artificer was not to be denied, 
particularly in the matter of his brother.
    They were ready in ten minutes: five ornithopters plus Urza's 
own craft. All were the double-bend wing design now, of the type 
in which Urza had flown to Korlinda. Urza's craft remained the 
best of the lot and was the best maintained. It had a wingspan 
half-again as long as the others and carried twice as many of the 
dangerous goblin bombs. The latter had been flown all the way 
from the Sword Marches and were kept cool and wrapped in damp 
cloths.
    The flight toward the enemy was uneventful, though Sharaman 
was aware of the lengthening shadows of the hills and the 
silhouettes of their craft fleeing ahead of them over the rough 
ground.
    When they crested the last rise, the camp was still there, 
the tents of white cloth shining red in the light of the dying 
sun. In the center, glowing like an ingot, brooded the hulk of 
Mishra's war machine.
    Something struck Sharaman as wrong, but he could not put his 
finger on it immediately. He had little time to think of it, for 
Urza waved his wings in the attack signal.
    The six ornithopters broke into two groups of three. Sharaman 
led one, while Urza commanded the other. Urza's half of the 
flight activated their wings and beat to gain altitude, while 
Sharaman's banked and began a low bombing run over the camp.
    Sharaman locked his wings in gliding position and reached 
around for the goblin bombs. Without looking down, he heaved one 
after another over the edge of the ornithopter's canopy. These 
attacks were intended to frighten and disorient the camp natives. 
Real accuracy would be needed at the end of the bombing run, when 
the target would be the great war hulk.
    There was no immediate response from the ground, and Sharaman 
looked ahead. The great metallic wain, some fifty feet in height, 
was looming ahead. They were dropping faster than Sharaman had 
anticipated, and Sharaman considered re-engaging the engine and 
gaining a bit more altitude before reaching the hulk.
    Then the war machine opened fire, and his exact elevation was 
the least of Sharaman's problems.
    The war machine came alive as they neared. Windows slid open 
and cupolas rotated to reveal ballistae, catapults, and other 
devices that Sharaman did not recognize. Something rose from the 
center of the war machine that looked like a great water pump, 
but instead of water this last device spat fire.
    The air was filled with all manner of shot: stones, arrows, 
and huge ballista bolts. Sharaman slammed open the wing locks and 
engaged the engine, hoping to rise above the torrent of incoming 
missiles. He avoided the bulk of them, but one great ballista 
bolt, an arrow the size of a small tree, drove into his right 
wing. Worse yet, the bolt had a barbed head and did not pass 
through the wing entirely. Suddenly the craft was pierced, like a 
butterfly on a pin, and weighted down. Sharaman was unable to 
stay aloft.
    The lieutenant cursed and hit the emergency disconnect lever 
to disengage the wing entirely. The lever was jammed by the force 
of the bolt's blow and would not budge. Sharaman looked around 
for something with which to pry it loose, aware that he was 
already losing altitude quickly.
    Then he saw the box of goblin bombs and cursed louder. The 
bombs would explode on contact, and if they were on board when he 
hit the ground ...
    Sharaman ignored the release mechanism, having determined he 
was going to crash but equally determined to not leave a huge 
crater in the process. He picked up the entire crate of bombs 
from its cradle and shoved it over the side of the craft's 
housing.
    He was horribly low now, for the bombs detonated almost 
immediately, striking the ground and sending up a wave of 
billowing black and red force. The force of the blow flipped the 
ornithopter upside down, and it crashed that way, sliding into 
one of the sunlit-red tents.
    Sharaman guessed he could not have been out for more than a 
moment; the smell of flames brought him to. Breathing hurt his 
chest, and there was a numbness along his left leg. Still he knew 
he had to get out before the flames reached him.
    Sharaman pulled himself from the wreckage slowly. His left 
leg could not take any weight. He pulled a small knife from his 
vest, ready for any of the Fallaji who might suddenly attack now 
that his wings were clipped.
    But there were no Fallaji. The tent he had slammed into was 
empty. The only flames were those created by his own goblin 
bombs.
    That was what had bothered Sharaman when he was flying, he 
now realized. It was evening, but there had been no cooking 
fires. The camp was abandoned already.
    They left the war engine, he thought. He half-stumbled, half 
hopped, to a broken pole from the tent and used it as a support.
    His initial attack had been a disaster. The only sign of his 
two fellow pilots were twin plumes of billowing smoke where their 
racks of goblin bombs had exploded upon crashing. He hoped the 
pilots had had the presence of mind to jettison before they 
struck.
    Already the second wave, led by Urza's white ornithopter, was 
pulling into position.
    Sharaman looked at the war machine. Why were there no people 
coming out to fight him? Were they all at their posts?
    Then he realized there was no one in the camp at all, 
including at the war machine. The weapons were firing 
automatically, responding to some device the Chief Artificer's 
brother had crafted to detect and assault trespassers.
    They were fighting ghosts. And they were dying for it.
    Sharaman tried to wave off the attacking wing of three craft, 
but Urza and the other pilots either ignored him or assumed he 
was one of the Fallaji. As soon as they neared the war machine, 
the great wain released another volley of bolts. Both Urza and 
one other pilot pulled their machines up in time to avoid the 
onslaught, but the third was not so lucky. It flew into a flurry 
of small arrowshot. The arrows were not enough to damage the 
craft, but they pierced the housing and killed its operator. The 
ornithopter pulled into a spiral to the right, a slow, deadly 
glide that was punctuated at the end with an explosion.
    The other two craft were still making for their target, the 
smaller craft in the lead. Sharaman tried to understand why the 
Fallaji would leave behind the mighty war machine unguarded, the 
engine that Mishra had brought to Kroog as a demonstration of his 
abilities.
    Unless it was a trap, he realized. All this was a stylized 
and ornate trap.
    Sharaman shouted, but the lead craft was already dropping its 
load of goblin powder over the side. The first bomb struck the 
war machine...
    ...And the entire device detonated. The lead ornithopter was 
enveloped in flame, disintegrating in mid-flight. Sharaman flung 
himself to the ground as bits of flaming metal rained down around 
him.
    When he looked up, Urza's was the only craft left in the sky. 
Its white wings were on fire now, and it trailed a banner of 
smoke. It made a beeline for the oversized rear wheel of the now-
ruined war hulk.
    The ornithopter struck the wain's wheel and evaporated in a 
great explosion as its double cargo of goblin bombs exploded. The 
great wain rocked, then slowly tumbled over on its side, its 
burning wreckage slamming into the desert sands.
    Among the smoking wreckage, framed by the fires of the great 
wain, a figure moved. Sharaman hobbled toward it, unsure if he 
should greet or battle the figure.
    It was Urza. His flying cloak was singed and burning in 
several spots, and there were numerous cuts along the right side 
of his face. He clutched something to his chest, something that 
glowed as brightly as an ember. Urza coughed into the burning 
sleeve of his other arm and then started to beat the sleeve 
against his leg, extinguishing the smoldering blaze.
    "Trap," he said as Sharaman reached him.
    "Yes, Sire," said Sharaman.
    "Should have"- another long, smoke-filled cough-"should have 
seen it coming." He shook his head. "Any others?"
    Sharaman looked at the smoking plumes around the camp. "I 
don't think so."
    "We should go, then," said Urza. "Long walk back to camp. 
Longer walk back to Yotia."
    "Sire?"
    "What?"
    "I'm afraid my leg's broken," said Sharaman. Despite 
everything he felt embarrassed to mention it.
    Urza's face twitched, as if Sharaman had mentioned some 
small, niggling problem. Then his eyes cleared, and the Chief 
Artificer said,
    "Of course. So it is. You rest here. I'll get some splints 
made. We'll check the other craft to see if there are any 
supplies or perhaps a temple amulet among the wreckage. Then 
we'll walk back."
    "As you wish, Sire."
    Urza turned and regarded the smoking hulk of the war machine. 
He shook his head, and Sharaman heard him say, "Brother why did 
you do this? Why the elaborate and costly ruse?"
    Sharaman wondered that as well. When they finally reached the 
Yotian border weeks later, they would both know the answer.

                          * * * * *

    The attack came at dawn and was totally unexpected. Word had 
come that Urza's flight had failed to report in, and, 
reluctantly, Tawnos had dispatched the home flight to the north 
to aid in the search. That left only a single large training 
machine in the capital itself. Later Tawnos would wonder if 
dispatching the last organized flight had been the signal for the 
attack, if Urza's disappearance in the desert had enheartened the 
qadir's troops for the assault, or if it had been Mishra's plan 
to attack regardless of what happened to Urza.
    Kroog was bounded on three sides by stout walls and on the 
fourth by the Mardun itself, and it was across that great river 
that the desert-dwelling Fallaji came. Urza (and Tawnos, and most 
of the rest of Kroog) had felt that any assault of the trans-
Mardun territories would be sufficient warning for the capital. 
To ensure their own safety, the Yotians had established a set of 
beacon towers along the far bank to give warning.
    It had not been enough. By strength or by trickery, the 
Fallaji had overpowered the beacon tower guards in the dead of 
night, and by morning they were ready with their assault.
    The morning was a foggy and wet one, the mists pooling over 
the Mardun itself. The river fishers, among the first ones up in 
the city, had the first and only warning. Beneath the lightening 
sky, as they were loading their nets into their boats and making 
ready to get under way, one of the crew shouted and pointed 
toward the center of the river.
    There were other craft already on the river drifting toward 
the city docks. There were barges, rowboats, and hastily built 
rafts and ferries stolen from upriver.
    They were loaded with men: armed men with flowing robes 
beneath their armor, curved blades, and wide brass hats.
    The river fishers were alone in their discovery only for a 
moment, for the next instant the warning beacons across the river 
came to life, billowing great jets of flame into the sky, 
heralding the dawn. But the beacons were not set as warnings but 
rather as declarations of war.
    Some of the fishers fled their boats, but other remained long 
enough to see the great serpentine heads of the dragon engines 
burst from the gray waters of the Mardun and tower oyer Kroog's 
docks. Grasping the shore with their front claws and churning the 
soft mud of the river bank beneath the treads, the dragon engines 
waded into the city. There was the sound of a great machine 
inhaling, and the leading beast exhaled a torrent of liquefied 
flame. Behind it, the first wave of Fallaji landed, bellowing war 
cries as they clambered onto the docks.
    The city of Kroog was under assault.
    Tawnos had been sleeping at the orniary, as he did often in 
these later days, when the runner came. The messenger was no more 
than a young girl and was frightened beyond belief. Tawnos sent 
her to round up what students she could find from the barracks 
and to tell them to ready every available avenger and the 
remaining ornithopter. And if he did not return before the palace 
was assaulted, the students were to use these devices in their 
own defense.
    Tawnos dressed as he ran toward the royal quarters. The 
seneschal and the Captain of the Guard were already there, 
arguing with the queen.
    "I am staying," she said. Already she was beginning to show 
her pregnancy.
    "Your Majesty, for your own safety ..." begged the captain.
    "As a temporary relocation ..." added the seneschal at the 
same moment.
    "I am staying," said Kayla firmly. "This is my home." She 
looked at Tawnos. "I want to stay."
    "That may not be wise," said Tawnos. "Best prepare for flight 
now and feel foolish about it later." To the captain he asked, 
"What is the situation?"
    "There was no warning," said the captain. "Rafts of Fallaji 
devils are coming downstream. More are pouring into the river 
wards all the time. The naval station and the fishermen's docks 
were hit first. And there are dragon engines; three at least, 
maybe four. They seem to be leading the assault, spreading 
destruction ahead of them. We've regrouped all the troops in the 
capital, but the people are blocking the streets."
    "Open the gates," ordered Kayla. "Let the people escape the 
city."
    "But the enemy," objected the captain.
    "Is already within our walls," snapped Kayla. "Do we need to 
sacrifice the people as well?"
    The captain nodded. Tawnos asked, "How long before they reach 
here?"
    The seneschal stuttered and spat, "Th-there is no indication 
that they are-"
    "These are Mishra's engines," snapped Tawnos, a new steel in 
his voice, "Where else would they be heading?"
    The captain thought for a moment, then said, "An hour. Two if 
we're fortunate. Is there anything you have on hand to help?"
    "I'm working on it now," said Tawnos. To Kayla he said, "Pack 
what you can carry. If it comes to this, we will need to flee." 
Kayla started to complain, and Tawnos added, "Take my advice this 
time, please. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. Have the 
matron help you." He looked around, suddenly noticing that the 
matron's impressive bulk was missing. "Where is she?"
    There was a silence for a moment, then the seneschal 
stammered, "Sh-she has a sister in the River Wards. S-said she 
was worried about her."
    Tawnos's lips made a thin, grim line. "Pack," he said. "I'll 
be back."
    The students were already at the orniary when the chief 
apprentice returned. Five avengers were in working order, though 
each required an operator to stand close and give commands. 
Tawnos assigned five of the oldest boys to take them and report 
to the captain. He scribbled a hasty note to the captain that the 
boys should be kept together and used to fight the dragon 
engines. He added that if the avengers fell, the boys were to 
flee the city as quickly as they could.
    There was only a single ornithopter ready, but it was a huge 
craft capable of carrying a fully armored avenger easily. Tawnos 
ordered the remaining boys to pack this craft full of Urza's 
notes and prototypes. One lad hesitated; he was one of the young 
ones, in his first year of studies. "Sir, aren't we going to 
fight?" he asked.
    Tawnos nodded. "Yes, but we need to protect our knowledge. 
Get it to safety first."
    "But," said the youth, sputtering, "we can use the 
ornithopter to fight, can't we?"
    Tawnos looked down on the young man. "Fight? How? We could 
drop bombs on them. But they are in our city, and we would be 
bomb' ing our people. The avengers will buy us time, but probably 
they can't defeat the dragon engines by themselves. Do you 
understand?"
    The boy looked at his feet. "I suppose. I would rather 
fight."
    Tawnos looked at him grimly. "And I would rather win the 
fight," he said. "Do you understand the difference?"
    Another pause, then, "I suppose so."
    "Good," said Tawnos. "Because you're going to fly the 
ornithopter. If you have to fight, you will. But remember that 
the important thing is to get the ornithopter, and particularly 
the books, away to one of the more remote bases farther east. If 
they have fallen, then head to Korlis, or even Argive. Do you 
understand?"
    The boy nodded, and Tawnos helped the youths load the 
ornithopter. In the distance there came the sound of explosions 
and, once or twice, of shouting. Finally the huge ornithopter was 
loaded, and Tawnos gave the lad the Jalum Tome. As he took it, 
the boy said, "My brother, he's another student here. Sanwell."
    Tawnos hesitated. "Do you want me to send him with you?"
    "He's one of the older students," said the boy.
    Tawnos nodded slowly. He had sent the older students with the 
avengers into battle.
    The boy said, "If you see him, tell him I left. And tell him 
not to worry."
    "Your name is Rendall, right?"
    "Rendall," agreed the boy, setting the great book on his lap.
    "I'll tell him when I see him, Rendall, and the gods speed 
you," said Tawnos. And gods help us all, he added to himself as 
the boy engaged the power stone and the great craft came to life.
    The great ornithopter strained at its pulleys and leaped into 
the sky in a single bounce. It did not make the low, climbing 
circle common in training flights. Instead it flew arrow-straight 
to the east. Behind it, there was the screeching of the dragon 
engine that witnessed its departure. That made Tawnos feel 
slightly better. If Mishra was going to take Urza's city, he was 
not going to take Urza's knowledge.
    He dismissed the rest of the students, telling them to take 
what they could carry and head east as quickly as possible, 
regrouping at the caravan town of Hench. And if that had fallen, 
he said, make for the coast or Korlis. He looked at their faces 
and knew that a few would go for weapons and join the melee, but 
enough would have the common sense to let the school survive.
    Tawnos took Ashnod's staff from its holder and left the 
orniary for the last time, making for the guest wing. The guards 
were still at their positions outside Ashnod's door. Tawnos 
dismissed them, ordering them to help protect the palace.
    "Helluva of a party," said Ashnod as he entered. "Pity we're 
missing it." Her words were light, but her face was drawn and 
concerned. "I need your help," said Tawnos. "We need to get out 
of the city." "We?" asked Ashnod. "Does that include me? I mean, 
these are my people coming to call."
    "These are the Fallaji!" shouted Tawnos. "Do you think they 
can tell the difference between you and any other non-Fallaji 
woman in the middle of the battle?"
    "If I have my staff, they will," replied Ashnod calmly. "Give 
it to me." "Promise to help," said Tawnos. "Promise to help me 
get the queen to safety. Or, if we're captured, guarantee her 
safety."
    "Why should I help your precious queen?" snapped Ashnod 
harshly.
    "She's pregnant, " said Tawnos.
    "I hope you don't think you're appealing to my motherly 
instincts-" began Ashnod.
    "Mishra may be the father," interrupted Tawnos. "Do you want 
to tell him his child died in the taking of the city?"
    Ashnod sat down. "Whoo," she said. Outside the window there 
was an explosion. Too close for Tawnos's mind. "Never even heard 
that rumor. Are you sure?"
    Tawnos looked at his hands. "No."
    Ashnod shook her head and chuckled. "Well, that's good enough 
for me. I promise to help get your precious queen away from here, 
or if you're captured to guarantee fair treatment. Can I have my 
staff now?"
    Tawnos hesitated for a moment and then gave her the staff. 
She ran her fingers over it and said, "I expected you to 
dismantle it."
    "I did," said Tawnos, heading for the door. "And I rebuilt 
it. Let's go."
    The hallways were empty now, and through the windows of the 
promenade Tawnos and Ashnod could see the rising plumes of smoke. 
Through it, far off in the city, Tawnos saw a dragon engine. 
"There was more than one," he said bitterly. "Yep," said Ashnod. 
"I told you, but you weren't paying enough attention."
    "Maybe I should have given you to the priests," snarled 
Tawnos. "Then who would help you now?"
    They ran into the queen and the seneschal at the entrance to 
the royal quarters. The seneshal was carrying a large carpetbag 
filled with the queen's personal effects.
    Ashnod looked at the queen's swelling belly. "You have let 
yourself go!" she said.
    Tawnos asked, "Status?"
    The seneschal stammered and said, "B-bad. The avengers slowed 
the lead dragon engine, b-but it just pulled back and let 
tribesmen overwhelm the avengers and their operators. Some people 
think the queen has already left the city in an ornithopter."
    Tawnos mentally kicked himself. It had not occurred him to 
use the ornithopter to rescue the queen and not Urza's notes. Or 
himself, for that matter.
    "We need to make haste," said the seneschal. "The engines 
will be here any moment."
    The earth shook, and a deep, fiery roar proved the seneschal 
wrong. The dragon engines had already arrived at the palace of 
Kroog and were slamming their great shovellike muzzles as 
battering rams against the walls.
    The hallway rocked, and half of it slid away, breaking apart 
under the assault of the engine. Stonework and furnishings 
suddenly collapsed as if a great blade had cut through the palace 
itself. In the wake of the cave-in, more of the hallway slid into 
a churning dust cloud.
    Tawnos grabbed Kayla and pulled her close to him onto more 
solid ground. The seneschal was not so fortunate. The ground 
beneath him broke like brittle ice in the spring, and with a 
scream he toppled forward into the abyss. Kayla shouted as the 
seneschal vanished in the churning debris, still clutching 
Kayla's carpet bag.
    Ashnod lashed out an arm and grabbed Tawnos's shoulder. 
"Let's go. Her Majesty can get new luggage later."
    Tawnos's brows furrowed in anger, but there was no time for 
argument. The entire royal wing was slowly coming apart beneath 
the treads of the dragon engine. The beast screeched again, and 
the three, Ashnod, Tawnos, and Kayla, fled down the hallway, away 
from the assault.
    They made it to the main entranceway before they ran into 
Fallaji troops. An honor guard, noted Tawnos briefly, from the 
look of their hats and carved gold epaulets. The three refugees 
were descending the main staircase when the desert tribesmen 
spilled into the hall beneath them.
    For a moment both parties froze. Then Ashnod took a step 
forward down the stairs and shouted, "These people are under my 
protection!"
    A large figure separated from the rest of the Fallaji. This 
one was dressed in resplendent armor of tooled leather and was 
fat to the point of obesity.
    "You are a woman. You cannot offer such protection."
    Ashnod stiffened, and Tawnos realized that the two knew each 
other. "I am the apprentice of your raki, oh powerful one," she 
said, venom in her voice. "I can do as I please."
    "A pity," said the fat Fallaji, "since in all the confusion 
of the battle, my men killed you before we knew who you were. I 
am afraid Mishra will have to understand, later."
    Ashnod looked shocked. "Why are you doing this?"
    The fat one smiled. "Mishra depends you, as a man leans on a 
crutch. My father once said that it is a bad thing for a man to 
have a crutch. I do this to make Mishra stronger." To his men he 
said, "Kill them all."
    Tawnos shouted and pulled his blade, pushing Kayla behind 
him. Ashnod screamed an obscenity and brought up her staff. The 
golden-wired skull hummed and spat sparks.
    The Fallaji soldiers did not make it farther than the bottom 
two steps. They went down, clutching their necks and bellies from 
the painful force of Ashnod's attack. Even behind her, Tawnos 
could feel the intensity of the assault. Kayla huddled against 
him. The queen was muttering to herself, and Tawnos realized that 
the words were prayers to one god after another.
    The soldiers collapsed in gasping piles, but Ashnod did not 
let up her attack. Instead she turned her staff on the fat one 
who had threatened her. The staff's tip glowed a brighter shade, 
and the wires incandesced, glowing from their own heat. The fat 
one clutched at his throat and spun around in place like a 
puppet, but Ashnod did not relent. Tawnos could see blood 
spurting from the man's ears, nose, and eyes. When Ashnod finally 
lowered her staff, the fat one collapsed in a heap, dead among 
his unconscious soldiers, a puppet with his strings cut.
    Ashnod slumped as well, and Tawnos reached out to steady her. 
She was bathed in cold sweat, and a thin trickle of blood 
streamed from her nose.
    "I really," she said, rubbing the blood off on her sleeve, "I 
really have to fix the glitch in this staff's design."
    Tawnos helped both women down the stairs, past the dead and 
unconscious men. He paused only slightly at the fat one, laying 
with his ruined face oozing blood. "You knew this one?"
    Ashnod looked at the face of the dead qadir of the Fallaji. 
"Some desert nobody," she said bitterly. "Mishra is better off 
with him gone." Kayla wanted to head east, joining the refugees 
fleeing the city, but Ashnod took them westward instead, toward 
the docks. They were stopped by two Fallaji patrols, but each 
time these soldiers recognized Ashnod's claim that the two 
Yotians were under her protection. That was fortunate, thought 
Tawnos, for Ashnod was nearly dead on her feet from the first 
battle and could not sustain another.
    They had passed through the front of the fighting now, and 
all that was left behind the advancing army was blackened 
devastation. What houses were not crushed by the engines had been 
set alight, and flames guttered at every window. There was no one 
in the streets but the dead. Tawnos found one of the avengers, 
its legs removed by the Fallaji, still flailing around in circles 
in the middle of one of the plazas. Taking a moment, Tawnos 
deactivated it and removed the power stone. There was no sign of 
the device's operator.
    At last they reached the docks. The quays were abandoned, 
like the rest of the city. Ashnod chose one of the smaller of the 
attacking boats, still moored at a wharf. "Here," she said, "Get 
in." "We should go east," said Kayla weakly.
    Ashnod shook her head. "Mishra's troops are going to be 
chasing refugees east for the next two weeks looking for you," 
she said to Kayla, and turned to Tawnos. "And you. And anyone 
else connected with Urza. Head south to the coast, then go east 
from there."
    Tawnos helped Kayla over the gunwales of the rowboat. The 
queen of Kroog fled to the far end of the vessel and pulled her 
cape tightly around her. Tawnos turned to Ashnod.
    "You knew this attack was coming?" he asked. "I mean, now?" 
Ashnod shook her head. "If I did know, and if I had told you, 
would you have believed me? I've given you what you want. I'm 
going now." She clutched her staff as if Tawnos might try to take 
it from her. "They might still kill you," the apprentice said. 
"Less of a danger now. Trust me on that one," she said. "If I 
find Mishra, everything will be fine. You take care of Her 
Majesty. You really think she's carrying Mishra's whelp?"
    "I don't know," said Tawnos softly. "I'm not sure she knows 
either."
    Ashnod shook her head. "Still playing the baby duck, even 
when the mommy ducks are heading for the abattoir. Your loyalty 
will put you in a spot someday where even I can't help you. Best 
of luck,
    Duck!"
    She kissed him quickly, but long enough for Kayla to observe. 
Then with a wink and a wave the scarlet-haired woman disappeared 
back into the burning city.
    Tawnos watched until Ashnod vanished among the smoke and 
burning ash. Then he took the long pole and pushed the boat away 
from the docks, into the main current of the river.
    The apprentice and the queen watched the city burn as they 
floated away from it and watched the smoke that marked its pyre 
long after the flanking hills hid the devastation from direct 
view. The rest of the journey for that day, and for the next few 
days, was in silence, as they moved sluggishly down the river. 
The sense of loss, and their responsibility for it, weighed 
heavily on the tiny craft.
    
                           Chapter 16
                           AFTERMATHS

    It had taken Urza nearly a month to return to the wreckage of 
Kroog, first walking out of the desert with the wounded 
Lieutenant Sharaman, then regrouping the embattled Yotian forces 
in the Sword Marches and organizing an orderly retreat south. The 
Sword Marches fell behind them, and most of northern Yotia as 
well. But there was nothing left there to fight for and nothing 
to sustain an army.
    The Fallaji harried their flanks but left them alone. Urza's 
forces got within two days' flight of Kroog, which was still in 
enemy territory. The Prince Consort (and de facto ruler, in the 
continued absence of the queen), took a trio of ornithopters to 
the wreckage.
    Mishra, now known to Yotians as the Butcher of Kroog, had 
abandoned the city, and his dragon engines left little standing. 
The massive walls themselves had been left untouched, though 
their mighty gates had been worked from their hinges and 
splintered. Everything within the walls had been burned, and that 
which resisted burning had been crushed beneath the dragon 
engines' treads. A gray rain of ashes and dust fell on the city 
for three days after the razing. There was little looting 
afterward because there was little to loot. All that was left 
were the walls and a slope of gray rubble leading down to the 
Mardun River, and beyond the walls a scattering of lean-tos 
belonging to refugees too stubborn or stupid to move elsewhere.
    Three ornithopters alit on the low hillock where the palace 
would have been. Urza and Sharaman climbed from their machines, 
but the third pilot remained with his craft, ready to take off at 
the first sign of trouble.
    There was nothing to do except watch and nothing to see 
except the ash-covered rubble. Urza stood in one spot, then moved 
a few feet over, then moved to a third location. Occasionally he 
picked up a bit of rock or let a handful of soot sift between his 
fingers. It seemed to Sharaman that the ruler was trying to 
imagine what building stood there and where he would be within 
that building.
    There was a great pile of rubble that had been burned, 
blasted, and then cleared. At first Sharaman thought it had been 
a great court, but he soon realized that it was the site of 
Urza's orniary and that it had been scraped down to bedrock. Urza 
stood in the dead center of the cleared circle and knelt down, 
putting his hands over his eyes. There was not even any rubble 
left for him to touch.
    People began to drift in from the gates. Sharaman tensed for 
a moment, but he realized these were little more than Yotian 
refugees from the camps outside. Leaving Urza to his revelry, 
Sharaman went to meet them.
    Sharaman had been in Kroog a handful of times, the first when 
he received his flight training. It had been an amazing city to a 
boy from the eastern provinces, a boy who had been given a ride 
in an ornithopter when Urza flew to Korlinda. Now that was a 
lifetime ago, and mighty Kroog was a dead ruin.
    Sharaman went and talked to the refugees then returned to 
where Urza stood, a young boy in tow.
    "Sire," he said gently.
    "And I always accused my brother of not finishing anything," 
said Urza softly. Then his eyes focused and he turned to 
Sharaman, once more the Chief Artificer. "What?"
    "There are people here," said Sharaman. 'They want to know 
what to do."
    "Do?" said Urza, his voice sounding strangled. "What can they 
do? Tell them to head south, or east, or west, or wherever they 
think they can find safety. Tell them that there is nothing for 
them here."
    "Perhaps it would be better if they heard it from you," said 
Sharaman.
    Urza looked at Sharaman. "And say what? That I'm sorry I 
failed them? That I'm sorry that I wasn't here for them? That I'm 
sorry that my brother fooled me? That I'm sorry that my wife and 
my apprentice and my work are all gone?"
    Urza's voice rose as he spoke, and Sharaman wondered if the 
Chief Artificer would weep. Instead the older man shook his head 
and said, "No, I have failed them. They should go find someone 
who has not failed and follow him." For the first time he noticed 
the youth. "And this is?"
    "He says he's one of your students," said Sharaman.
    Urza peered at the youth. "Perhaps. Your name is Rendall?"
    "Sanwell, Sire," said the youth. "Rendall is my younger 
brother. He's the one Master Tawnos chose to fly the ornithopter 
away."
    Urza looked at Sharaman, and there was a new light in his 
eyes. "Ornithopter? Then someone escaped this with an 
ornithopter?"
    Slowly, Sanwell told the story, which he had heard from 
another student after the battle. His younger brother had taken 
most of the important papers and designs and flew them east. No, 
no one else went with him. Yes, with orders to go to Argive if 
need be to escape the Fallaji. No, he didn't know what had 
happened to Master Tawnos and the queen. Sanwell's avenger had 
been overwhelmed by a number of desert fighters. It had taken out 
a number of them, but there were too many of them.
    When he was done, Urza rose, and there was a new fire in his 
eyes. "So, my brother," he said, "you didn't finish this, either. 
Sharaman!"
    "Yes, Sire!"
    "I want you to take our remaining forces south. Regroup what 
you can and fortify the ports."
    "Yes, Sire. And what of you?"
    "I am going to find the knowledge that Tawnos saved for me. 
Rendall!"
    "Sanwell, Sire,"
    "Are there any other from the school here?"
    Sanwell looked around at the desolation. "No, Sire."
    "Then you'll come with me," said Urza sharply. "We have to 
find out where your brother went with my work and begin again."
    "And this time," said the Chief Artificer among the wreckage 
of Kroog, "this time, I will not stay my hand or feel mercy for 
you, brother. This time there will be a reckoning. I swear it!"
    And as if in response to his words, a cold wind blew up from 
the river, scattering ashes around his feet.
    The Caverns of Koilos had visitors. Non-Argivian visitors.
    They were from a monastery along the northern shores of the 
continent, a theocracy that celebrated the power and the majesty 
of the Thran, and more importantly, their devices. They claimed a 
large territory, but they had been relatively reclusive. They 
found that other cultures did not share their respect for the 
machine's workings, that others sought to barter them, like the 
Fallaji, or to make pale shadows of the Thran creations, like the 
Argivians. So they remained a quiet people, venturing out only 
rarely beyond their borders.
    Until the dreams came. They began over a year ago, first one 
brother, then another, then a third, all consumed by the same 
vision: a world of machines far beyond the abilities of the 
Thran; living engines of steel and cable, of indestructible 
hearts pumping vital oils through the body; steel leaves and saw-
toothed grasses; a world that rained oil and bloomed with 
mechanism. In short, paradise.
    And the dreams enraptured the dreamers with its siren call, 
urging them to leave their lands, to come to the center of the 
dream, and to work miracles there at the center.
    Under the urgings of the dream, the Brotherhood of Gix 
responded. Two dozen of the most trusted brothers, those who had 
served the cause of the machine most devotedly, left their homes 
and headed south.
    They avoided the Malpiri tribesmen who regularly raided their 
lands, but a few fell to the dangers of the desert itself-
exposure, heat, and bandits. Only a dozen arrived at Koilos a 
year later, and they were an emaciated lot, dressed in windblown 
rags and possessing a wide-eyed, fanatical expression.
    As they traveled, the dreams grew stronger in them. The 
dreams showed them the canyon that would lead them to their goal, 
and the cavern that they would find there. They pulled out 
ancient stones that glowed of their own light and journeyed 
within the cave, stepping around the wreckage of ancient machines 
that had been tested and found insufficient in the eyes of their 
great machine god.
    At last they stood before the great machine. They took their 
gathered light stones and placed them within the machine as they 
had been instructed by their dreams and passed their hands over 
the mysterious book of glyphs. The fact that they could not read 
the glyphs bothered them not. The only thing that mattered was 
the dream, and the dream told them what to do.
    The monks of the Brotherhood of Gix were not surprised when 
the lights of the cavern flickered to life around them, nor when 
the machines themselves began to sing, communing with each other 
and singing praises to their god. Delight flickered on the faces 
of the Gixians, knowing that their dreams were about to become 
reality.
    A great disk formed in the middle of the air, like an oil 
puddle that had been turned on its side. It shimmered with a 
rainbow of colors not found on this earth, for these were rather 
the colors of dreams. The pool widened to the height and width of 
a tall man, and something stepped through it.
    It was tall and humanoid. It seemed to be wearing an armor of 
black metallic snakes, but to the monks' delight, they recognized 
that it was the skin of the being, a skin of metal and coils. Its 
face was skeleton-white and it sprouted more tendrils from its 
head, great blood-colored serpents.
    As one, the monks fell to their knees in worship.
    The godly being, servant of the machine god, stood before its 
glowing portal. It sniffed the air, as if experiencing it for the 
first time. It stretched its sinewy cable-muscles and turned its 
head from side to side, testing the extent of its body.
    One of the monks, the leader among the survivors, slowly rose 
and spoke. "Welcome, most holy creation. What may we call you, 
that we may better serve you?"
    The machine being looked at each of them, and there was a 
soft mental caress as its mind touched theirs. It had been the 
one to send the dreams, they realized. It had been the one to 
call them to this place.
    The machine being's lips whirred as they formed themselves 
into a smile. "Gix," it said at last, in a voice only Mishra and 
Ashnod had heard before. "You may call me ... Gix."
    
                            PART 3
                   CONVERGING TRAJECTORIES
                         (29 - 57 AR)
    
                           Chapter 17
                        MISHRA'S WORKSHOP

    The imperial court had changed while Ashnod had been away, 
which was no surprise to the apprentice. In the year since the 
fall of Kroog, she had left and returned a half-dozen times, and 
upon each return she discovered some new wing or pit or chamber 
had been added to the court of the new qadir of the Fallaji.
    Mishra had selected a site on the northwest tip of the Kher 
Ridges, with a dominating view of the arid lands to the west. 
Through a trick of the weather patterns, this area was well-
watered and was swathed in trees so large that they might have 
been planted by the Thran themselves. They were some type of oak, 
with thick, heavy trunks and long, horizontal branches. Already 
some of the quarters and laboratories were being nestled among 
those branches. When Mishra became qadir, Ashnod reflected, he 
wished to set down roots. Perhaps, among the great trees, this 
was what he meant, literally. The first time she had seen the 
site, she had trouble believing that such huge growths had 
blossomed in a land that was elsewhere bone-dry and arid.
    Surrounding the grove of great trees, most of the smaller 
timbers (still great, towering oaks and younger maples) downslope 
had been cleared. Part of the clearing was for cultivation, but 
more of it was for smaller foundries and forges. Already the 
residue of those forges spilled slag, the unusable remains of 
their industry, down the slopes and into the streams at the foot 
of the hills.
    The latest addition was a great barn that dominated an area 
at one end of the encampment. It was constructed of half-hoops of 
metal with fabric stretched between them. Already slave laborers 
were laying stonework for permanent walls along the base.
    Ashnod let a slave-stablehand take her horse and entered the 
workshop proper. One of the great trees had died eons ago, 
leaving a massive stump over sixty feet high and twice that in 
diameter. Mishra had the stump hollowed out and converted into 
his own private workshop to rival the crushed orniary in now-dead 
Kroog. Now that workshop towered above her, the windows carved 
through its outer bark lit by fires within. The windows were 
oddly shaped, formed more by the twists of the once-living bark 
than by Mishra's own needs. To Ashnod, the windows looked like 
malignant, winking eyes.
    The rooms within were similar-odd, strange shapes that 
resembled teardrops or spirals or multi-planed solids. Rooms rose 
slightly from one end to the other or were constructed of 
numerous terraces, each with different machinery. Ashnod had no 
doubt that there were additional rooms within the structure that 
had not been there when she had last been present. Such was the 
sprawling nature of the new qadir's domains.
    One thing that had not changed was the treasure piled in the 
hallways, the remains of the initial looting of Kroog. There was 
gold platterware and cracked crystal, gems spilling out of wooden 
boxes split by rough handling, and rare vases of blue and white 
glazing with longitudinal cracks running from rim to base. All of 
it was gathered to celebrate the power of the Raqi of the 
Suwwardi, their new Qadir-by-Acclamation of the Fallaji Empire, 
the mighty Mishra.
    One wall had been cleared to allow diplomats, supplicants, 
courtiers, and other parasites to wait at Mishra's whim. Ashnod 
did not have to wait, of course, and breezed past these poor 
wretches. She felt the pressure of their eyes as she passed and 
smiled. That was one of the good things about returning to 
Mishra's workshop.
    The workshop proper was two parts library, two parts 
workshop, and two parts throne room. A great dark oak throne had 
been pushed against one wall, piled high with pillows and resting 
on a carpet of pure, regal purple, pulled from the wreckage of 
the palace of Kroog.
    The throne was flanked on both sides by piles of books. There 
were books looted from Yotia and shipped from Zegon and Tomakul, 
huge folios and small personal diaries, scrolls and tablets and 
all manner of journals, bound in leather of beasts both common 
and forgotten. Ashnod noted, not for the first time, that many of 
the volumes had gathered a thin patina of dust and had not been 
disturbed since their initial placement.
    Ashnod thought of the Urza's orniary. Even cleaned and 
organized for their visit, it had a cluttered look. But it was a 
busy clutter, an organized chaos, one that was continually in 
motion, continually evolving. The books in Mishra's workshop 
might as well be blank for the amount of use they saw.
    Mishra was not on his throne. While the others cooled their 
heels outside, he was at a great slate board, another prize of 
the war, that had been hung along one curved wall. Mishra had 
been working in multicolored chalk, and out of the rainbow smears 
of his writings and frequent erasures, there arose the portrait 
of a dragon engine's head, bedecked with arcane letters and 
illegible scribbles.
    Hajar, ever-faithful Hajar, stood by the throne and announced 
Ashnod's presence, which was fortunate, for Ashnod felt that 
Mishra would not bother to look up otherwise.
    Mishra regarded Ashnod, and the apprentice could sense a 
tenseness, a coiled-spring nervousness, in the master. He tapped 
the chalk against the slate a few more times, then tossed the 
chalk into its box, and padded toward his throne.
    "Report," he grunted as he retook his place among the 
pillows. With each her visits Mishra had become more brusque, 
more abrupt with her. Elevated to the supreme position and with 
the added responsibilities of running the far-flung empire, he 
had no longer any time to be polite, even if he had the 
inclination.
    "Plunder from the Yotian provinces," said Ashnod, proffering 
an inventory list that Hajar took. She folded her hands before 
her for a dry recitation. "Four thousand pounds of gold, six 
thousand of silver, including two thousand bouillon, seventeen 
vases in good condition filled with gemstones worth..."
    Mishra waved away Ashnod's words, and said, "Books?" Ashnod 
sighed. Master Mishra had become more impatient of late. "Five 
new volumes on alchemy not in your collection. Three volumes on 
optics. Two on hydraulics that may be of vital interest, and one 
volume on metallurgy in the Yotian style, which may prove 
invaluable. One on clocks which sings the praises of its author. 
Records of gem-cutting, tinsmithing, and architecture. The 
standard collection of journals and diaries that will have to be 
read to determine if they contain anything useful. A large number 
of maps, most of Korlisian trading routes."
    Mishra nodded, folded hands before him, and patted his 
fingers together. "Usable resources."
    "Three new mines have been seized, bringing the total to 
seventeen," said Ashnod. "There were eighteen, but Yotian rebels 
pulled the main support frames out from one, choosing to seal 
themselves inside rather than surrender. Four foundries have been 
dismantled and are being relocated here, and they should be 
operational within two months. Smaller forges are being set up in 
the Suwwardi Marches. Lumbering continues in northern Yotia, but 
under armed protection."
    Mishra nodded again, and said, "News."
    "More of the same," said Ashnod. "The surviving Yotian towns 
along the coast are willing to pay tribute and swear fealty, at 
least on the surface. However, raids and rebellions are common 
from the Suwwardi Marches south. As a result, any timetable 
involving Yotian resources is questionable at best. There is no 
shortage of slaves from among the captured revolutionaries and 
fallen towns."
    Ashnod was gilding the truth at best. For the first time the 
Fallaji were controlling a population not of Fallaji blood and 
with it the traditional ties to the qadir. A more heavily armed 
presence was needed in Yotia to control the people and guard the 
plunder. That tied down manpower, and the Fallaji hated to be 
tied down.
    Mishra did not pursue the nature of the unrest in his new 
conquests. Instead he simply said, "And my brother?"
    "Still beyond the Kher Ridges," said Ashnod. The report 
always devolved down to this simple question and Ashnod's simple 
response. The plunder, the resources, the knowledge were all 
secondary to the activities of Mishra's brother.
    "As far as you know," said Mishra.
    Ashnod sighed, trying to hide her impatience. Since taking 
the mantle of command, Mishra had changed, and not for the 
better. "As far as we currently know. Ornithopters have been 
sighted along all the major passes eastward. But there has been 
no organized Yotian resistance. Urza is said to have established 
an encampment in Argive, near the Korlis border, but Korlis 
swears neutrality in the matter in exchange for access to Fallaji 
markets."
    Hajar made a huffing noise. Most of the Fallaji considered 
the Korlisians as bad as the Yotians, spreading honeyed lies of 
friendship while driving the hardest of bargains. Were the Korlis 
merchants truly interested in pleasing the Fallaji, they would 
have captured Urza and turned him over when Mishra's brother had 
crossed into their territory.
    "What is he waiting for?" said Mishra, patting his fingers 
together. "It's been a year."
    "The loss of Kroog and most of the northern Yotia has struck 
him hard," said Ashnod. "He may simply be in hiding."
    "He never hides," said Mishra hotly. "He plots. He plans. He 
is still in communication with the Yotian towns, I am sure of it, 
and the rebels act on his command. He is waiting for the right 
moment. For the moment of weakness. Of inattentiveness. And then 
... ," Mishra raised both hands to indicate the magnitude of his 
brother's imagined revenge.
    Ashnod bit her lip, then said, "If that is the case, perhaps 
we should lay siege to the remaining Yotian towns and plunder 
them as well, denying him any further resources. Our dragon 
engines have been quiet for surprisingly long."
    Mishra made a grunting noise and slid off his throne. He 
motioned for Ashnod to follow as he headed for a side door to his 
throne room. Ashnod followed, and the rear of the procession was 
brought up by Hajar.
    The side door led to a spiral stairway that corkscrewed 
through the once-living wood of the workshop. That in turn led to 
a postern gate alongside the massive stump. Mishra walked through 
the new barn, a curious Ashnod and an impassive Hajar in tow. A 
few of the slaves building the walls paused to watch them pass 
and earned a beating from the slavemasters for their effrontery.
    The interior of the new building was a single room dominated 
by two great machines. Small figures, scholars sent by Zegon and 
Tomakul, and students from among the brightest of the Fallaji, 
climbed over the machines like ants over a carcass.
    The first of the machines looked very much like a carcass. It 
was one of the dragon engines, laying on its side. Its lower 
treads had been removed, and the plates along its belly had been 
pried loose to reveal the network of cables beneath. These had 
been uncoiled, like entrails, to reveal pumps and servos within 
the heart of the beast. Several small gems glittered weakly 
within the great wounds of the creation, but for the most part it 
was an inert thing, a dead creature.
    Alongside it was a second dragon engine, which resembled the 
first as a child's drawing of a horse resembles the real 
creature. It was all hammered angles and sharp edges, and lacked 
the graceful fluid styling of the partially dismantled creature 
beside it. Its face was similar, but frozen in a parody of the 
original dragon engine. Its muscles were not fluid cables, but 
roughly hewn slabs of metal held together by rivets and welds.
    The second dragon engine was under construction, and as 
Ashnod watched, the scholars and students managed to get it to 
raise a foreleg. It was functional, but it looked less a living 
thing than the damaged beast next to it.
    "It was injured in Kroog," said Mishra, regarding the fallen 
dragon engine, his face almost pained by the sight, "Against one 
of my brother's accursed avengers. It survived the battle, but 
one by one its systems began to fail. It faltered, it was 
paralyzed along one side, and then it went blind. There was 
nothing for it but to slowly monitor its decay. None beyond this 
encampment know this."
    Ashnod shrugged, "You have the other dragon engines."
    "And the same may happen to them," said Mishra hotly. "I 
don't know what tricks my brother has planned, and with each day, 
he may have more of them. Can you imagine what would happen if 
one of these engines collapsed on the battlefield? What if the 
enemy saw that my creations were defeatable?"
    Ashnod thought about it, then nodded slowly.
    "And my brother is capable of defeating them. This I know," 
said Mishra. "If only I had remained alongside it, but no, 
instead I chose to take an engine in a fruitless pursuit of one 
of Urza's ornithopters, thinking it held possible hostages. A 
small error on my part, but a fatal one for this engine. If I had 
remained in Kroog, this one would still be functional."
    If you had remained in Kroog, thought Ashnod, you would 
likely not be qadir now. But Mishra knew nothing of that, nor of 
her involvement with Tawnos and the queen. She only nodded.
    Mishra waved at the other construct. "And this is but a 
shadow. A puppet crafted to resemble the original. It has most of 
the power, and none of the grace of the original. None of the 
sentience. None of the life. There are secrets locked within the 
dying body, terrible secrets that are beyond our power to 
duplicate. Perhaps Urza ... ," Mishra's voice trailed off, then 
returned with iron behind the tone. "Urza could, which is why we 
must ready these new engines, new devices, to keep him at bay."
    Ashnod said, "Master Mishra, I think I can help."
    Mishra turned to her. "You can rebuild the dying engine?"
    Ashnod looked at the carcass of the original dragon engine. 
It looked like carrion, picked apart by beetles. She shook her 
head. "Your own plans proceed apace. Allow me to return to my own 
studies, and I can give you weapons to defeat your brother."
    "I need you to oversee the plundering of Yotia," said Mishra. 
"Only you know what is valuable and what is dross."
    Ashnod shook her head. "Much of what is valuable from Yotia 
has already been taken, or can be demanded as tribute, or has 
been pirated away to Korlis. You don't need me to scavenge, 
milord. You need me to think. To help you build."
    Mishra thought a moment, and Ashnod continued, "I have had 
time to think of matters, both in my forced rest as a guest of 
Kroog and later, seeking books and information for you. I believe 
that I can wrap a machine around a spark of life. I believe I can 
merge the living and unliving together. I can give you the army 
to defeat Urza."
    Mishra rocked slightly back and forth, then shook his head. 
"I need you to be my eyes, my ears beyond these walls. There is 
much I need to have done, and so few, like you and Hajar here, 
who I trust to do it."
    Ashnod tilted her head to one side and said, "A pity. Urza 
would trust Tawnos with such a matter. Indeed, it was Tawnos the 
Student who distracted you with that fleeing ornithopter, for 
Urza the Master had trained him well. Are you saying that Urza is 
a better master than you are?"
    A red storm of rage formed on Mishra's face, and for a moment 
Ashnod wondered if she had pressed too far. But Mishra took a 
deep breath, and the anger subsided slightly. Sharply, he said, 
"What do you need to produce such an army?"
    Ashnod kept her gaze level, as if she had anticipated this 
request. "My own lab, away from prying eyes." She nodded in mock-
reverence to Hajar. "Most of the books on biology and anatomy 
from the plundered libraries. A portion of the resources sent as 
tribute. Surgical tools from Zegon. And slaves. Both skilled 
ones-smiths and glass-blowers-and ones that no one will care if 
they are lost."
    Mishra was silent for a moment. "Will criminals do?" he said.
    Ashnod nodded sternly. "Criminals, traitors, revolutionaries, 
deserters, those whose disappearance will not be mourned. What I 
am thinking would be distasteful to some," she nodded at Hajar 
again, "but necessary for us to build an army to defeat your 
brother. That is one reason I would want to keep the encampment a 
secret."
    Mishra paused for a moment, then said, "Do it."
    "I cannot promise results today," said Ashnod quickly, "or 
tomorrow or the next. But with my research and your rebuilt 
dragon engines, we can hunt down your brother and destroy him, 
wherever he hides."
    "My brother does not-" Mishra stopped himself, then nodded. 
"Take what you need. Send me reports. I want to know what you're 
doing. And make it quick. My brother will not lay waiting for his 
chance forever."
    Ashnod added, "You should know what I propose to do. It is 
not a gentle process."
    Mishra said, "These are not gentle times. And we are not a 
gentle people. Do what you must, but give me the weapons that I 
need. Do what you must."
    Ashnod bowed low, and Mishra spun on his heels, retreating 
back up the hillside to his warped workshop. Hajar, his silent 
ghost, followed in his wake. After they returned to closed doors, 
Ashnod thought, the Fallaji assistant would council his qadir 
against trusting the scarlet-haired woman. Or he would commend 
the qadir on his wisdom and be relieved that the woman would no 
longer be a regular participant in Mishra's court.
    It mattered not to Ashnod. She waited until both figures were 
out of sight, then she allowed a slow smile to spread across her 
face. She had gotten what she wanted-her own shop and the freedom 
to pursue her own studies.
    And she had learned something else. Whatever else Mishra was, 
he was afraid. Afraid of his brother. Afraid of being punished 
for stealing his brother's woman, for destroying his brother's 
house, for breaking his brother's toys. It was a useful tool to 
use in dealing with the new qadir, but one she had to be careful 
not to blunt with overuse.
    "Speak the magic word and the gates to the treasure swing 
open," she said to herself, thinking of an old Fallaji legend, 
"And the secret word is Urza"
    She watched the ants scuttle over the two dragon engine 
carcasses, stripping one to provide life for the other. Then she 
returned to her own quarters to finalize her plans for the 
future.
    
                           Chapter 18
                          URZA'S TOWER

    It was three years after the fall of Kroog that Tawnos 
finally rejoined Urza in the most southwesterly of the Argivian 
provinces. They were hard years, and their toll showed on the 
apprentice's face: years of running and hiding, of flight and 
patience, of work and abandoned work.
    Kayla was with him, and Harbin, her son, born in the midst of 
a monsoon outside Jorilin and now two and a half. They were also 
accompanied by two animated statues Tawnos had created during 
that horrible, second winter, when Fallaji slave-taking patrols 
had forced them to flee into the Kher Ridges.
    They had finally made their way into Korlis itself, but even 
then they did not believe they were safe. The Korlisians were 
still trading with the Fallaji, and though they were negotiating 
with the Argivians on a pact of mutual protection from the desert 
raiders, Kayla was unsure the fugitives would not be turned over 
to Mishra's representatives as a sign of the merchants' good 
will.
    They traveled in secret, and mostly at night. They did not 
give their real names, though there were enough who recognized 
Kayla's profile, particularly in the Yotian coastal towns, to 
provide needed aid. It was that very recognition, and the threat 
of exposure it brought, that convinced the former queen to head 
north and east, toward Argive and sanctuary. When word finally 
reached them that, yes, Urza was in Argive near the Korlisian 
border, the three-accompanied by their two artificial protectors-
made their way to Urza's Tower.
    This was more easily proposed than accomplished. Urza had 
selected a site far from towns or villages, hard on the flanks of 
the Kher
    Ridges themselves. The vale of his tower was cloaked in a 
continual fog, fed by mountain streams cascading to the valley 
floor around it. To a casual observer, it was a shadowed mountain 
glen, similar to hundreds of others along the western borders of 
Korlis and Argive. But this vale curved and extended slightly to 
the north, and in that northern pocket, hidden by the mists, Urza 
built his sanctuary.
    Out of those mists came five murky figures, a man on 
horseback, a woman and a boy on a sturdy pony, and two silent 
statues tirelessly keeping pace.
    The tower itself was made of white stone and topped by a 
golden cupola. It looked slender and lonely, flanked by the 
valley walls themselves. Kayla noted that there was no sign of 
activity about the place. She commented that it looked as if it 
had been abandoned.
    Tawnos agreed. In the old days, in Yotia, there would have 
been ornithopter patrols continually in the air over such an 
important site. Indeed, were it not for a loyal Yotian expatriate 
found in a nearby town two days previous, they would have missed 
the tower entirely.
    The child, Harbin, squealed and twisted in his place in front 
of his mother. The misty air was a delight for the child, and he 
kept trying to reach out and grab a handful of it. Tawnos tried 
explaining that air could not be caught, at least not with one's 
hands. The boy listened, stern-faced, nodded in agreement, and 
attempted to grapple with the air the moment Tawnos's back was 
turned.
    Tawnos pulled up his mount a hundred paces from the tower. 
The place was silent as a tombstone. Where were the protections? 
Had Urza truly abandoned this tower, or had they already been 
spotted? But if the latter, why was there no welcome?
    There was a movement to Tawnos's right, and he suddenly 
wheeled the horse in place. Out of the mountain shadows came the 
reflection of light on metal and a curious, low, chirping sound.
    A figure stepped into view, followed by a second, and a 
third. They were a cross between men and metallic insects, their 
long, antlike heads perched on spindly necks. They looked as if 
they were wearing metallic armor pitted by flecks of rust. Then 
Tawnos realized this armor was their body. Beneath the plates the 
apprentice could see the mechanisms and levers clatter, forcing 
the creatures to move forward. Their knees bent backward, like 
the avengers, though these constructs were barely as tall as a 
man's shoulder.
    They were armed with heavy cleavers mounted on poles, which 
they brandished at the travelers. The machines were silent; the 
chirping was nothing more than the wear of metal on metal, of 
pulleys hissing from cables running through their loops, and of 
brass trip switches setting and re-setting.
    Tawnos heard a strangled cry and looked toward Kayla. There 
were another three on her side of the road, similarly armed and 
armored. The two groups were converging on the travelers.
    Tawnos barked a command at the statues, one of the five they 
understood, and spurred his mount forward, shouting for Kayla to 
follow. The horse, a weathered old beast, whickered a complaint 
and moved forward slowly.
    Equally slowly the two clay statues turned toward their 
assailants. Each had been taught to recognize weapons and to 
attack those bearing them. The number of targets confused the 
statues for a moment. Then each statue chose a wing of the 
assailants.
    What followed was a silent battle, one without shouts or 
cries. The clay statues were armed only with their fists, but 
they were huge, ham-handed fists, with a great deal of power 
behind them. The metal automatons were quick, and with their 
weapons had a reach the statues lacked. A deadly ballet ensued, 
punctuated by the ring of hard blows landed on armor and the soft 
chopping noise of blades digging into earthen flesh.
    The two lead automatons of each wing got too close to the 
statues and were rewarded with hammer blows to the face. One 
dodged, but the other caught the blow head-on. Its spindly neck 
snapped, and the head fell across the creature's back, still held 
by a tangle of loose wires. The rest of the body did not 
recognize the loss but still flailed at the clay opponent with 
its chopping blade.
    The blades dug deep, but the clay closed up as soon as the 
blades cut through it, like soft dough incised by a bread knife. 
One of the chopping blades got hopelessly mired in the clay 
creature, and the statue reached out and grasped the automaton's 
head. It squeezed, and bits of automaton became permanently 
lodged in the statue's huge hand as it shattered the creature's 
skull.
    Two of the automatons fell back, then counterattacked as one. 
The clay statue raised an arm to ward off the blow, and both 
attempted to chop at the same arm. The first blade cut deep, and 
the second deeper still. There was the dull ring of metal on 
metal and a snapping noise as the second automaton cut through a 
metal bone at the heart of the clay statue's arm. The statue 
raised that arm, but most of the clay was sloughing off of it 
now, revealing a thin metal framework beneath.
    While the automatons and statues battled, Tawnos and Kayla 
rode for the tower. If Urza was there, then these would be his 
creations, and he could call them off. If he was absent, the 
tower might provide some sanctuary until the clay statues had 
defeated their foes.
    Tawnos shouted at the tower and saw movement along the upper 
battlement. A tall, familiar figure raised a whistle to his lips.
    There was the short piping of three notes, and Tawnos turned 
in his saddle to see the automatons had ceased their attacks. 
Unfortunately, the clay statues still saw them as threats, and 
one snapped off another neck before Tawnos shouted the word for 
them to stand down. The clay statues halted as well, one in mid-
punch.
    Tawnos looked up, but the figure was gone from the 
battlements. The front door opened and a second figure emerged.
    This was not Urza, but he had the leanness of the Chief 
Artificer, and Tawnos wondered if he had been mistaken about the 
figure seen above. This man was dressed in the uniform of a 
Yotian officer-a flier, by the looks of the shadows where patches 
and insignia once hung. He was a lieutenant, or had been, back 
when the Yotians had an armed force.
    The figure dropped to one knee before the mounted figures. 
"Your majesty," he said to the queen. "Goodsir Tawnos. The 
Artificer bids you welcome to his tower. If he had known you were 
coming, he would have deactivated the guards. I am Sharaman. 
Please enter and make yourself welcome."
    He went to Kayla's horse to help her dismount and instead 
received a handful of young Harbin. The former lieutenant looked 
as if he had been handed a bag of live snakes and quickly (but 
gently) put the sandy-haired child down while Kayla dismounted.
    The lad ignored his brusque treatment but instead craned his 
head up toward the battlements. Tawnos looked up and saw the 
flicker of the familiar figure of the Chief Artificer as Urza 
moved back into the shadows of the balcony doorway. Then the 
slender figure was gone entirely.
    Tawnos dismounted as Sharaman said, "If you will follow me. I 
am to make you welcome and to escort you to the artificer."
    Kayla said, "That will be fine."
    Sharaman paused and then said, "Your Majesty, I apologize. I 
was instructed to make both of you welcome but to bring Goodsir 
Tawnos to Master Urza. I hope this is not a problem."
    Kayla and Tawnos looked at each other. Tawnos had been sure 
Urza would wish to see his wife first, after all these years. Now 
there was a tightness to the queen's lips, and she nodded her 
agreement.
    Sharaman put the queen and Harbin in an austere waiting room 
on the lower floor, informing them he would return with drinks, 
and, if the mother permitted, sugar wafers. This endeared him 
immediately to Harbin, who squealed as Kayla gave her assent. The 
former lieutenant took Tawnos up several sets of stairs. "How is 
he?" asked Tawnos at one landing. "He is," said Sharaman briefly. 
"He's been through a lot." As have we all, thought Tawnos, but he 
said nothing as Sharaman pushed open the final door and stood 
aside for Tawnos to enter.
    The apprentice stepped into Urza's study, and Sharaman closed 
the door softly behind him. The room was tasteful and tidy, 
verging on severe. A thin rug partially covered the wooden floor, 
and several tilted drawing boards stood near the windows, all 
covered with plans in various stages of development. A ball-and-
socket joint, carved of yarrow wood, lay on a small worktable, 
next to an open book.
    Urza himself was at the balcony, his back to Tawnos, looking 
out over the foggy vale and the remains of the earlier battle. 
His hands were clasped behind him. Tawnos waited. At last Urza 
let out a great sigh and turned toward Tawnos.
    "I had expected a message, first," the older man said. Tawnos 
saw the lines on Urza's face, a small collection at the corner of 
each eye. His eyes seemed deeper as well, more sunken in their 
sockets, and his hair was turning fully to the shade of spun 
white gold. He wore his work smock, but it was clean and well-
pressed.
    Tawnos said, "Messages can be intercepted, sir. And we were 
not sure of your location until we passed the Argivian border."
    Urza nodded offhandedly and took another deep breath. Then he 
forced a smile. "It is good to see that you are alive. I worried 
when there was no news."
    "We spent longer than we should have in Yotia," said Tawnos. 
"Yes," said Urza, pressing his palms together and twisting them 
slowly. "I suppose you had to. Look on my desk, would you? On the 
book holder there."
    Tawnos walked over to the desk. "The Jalum Tome," he said at 
last. "The Jalum Tome," repeated Urza. "You succeeded, Tawnos. 
All the knowledge you loaded into that ornithopter. Young Rendall 
made it to Argive, and everything was waiting for me when I 
finally got to Penregon. Most of my work, and our papers. There 
was some loss, but nothing that could not be recouped. One 
student packed a list of laundry to be picked up, thinking it was 
an important paper, but under the circumstances it was a 
brilliant move." Urza looked at Tawnos. "Thank you."
    "It was my responsibility," said Tawnos bowing slightly.
    "And more than adequately discharged," said Urza. "Those 
statues you brought with you. Very impressive."
    "Clay over a framework of wicker and metal," replied Tawnos.
    "That is more than just clay," said Urza. "It seemed to shrug 
off the blows of my own soldiers."
    "Yes, sir," said Tawnos, wondering why they were speaking of 
such matters while Kayla was still waiting. "It was from a 
deposit we found when we-when Her Majesty and I-were hiding in 
the mountains. It had the property of flowing and rejoining when 
cut. At first I thought it might contain something similar to the 
Thran Stones, but now I am not sure. If I could locate the primal 
nature of this earth, we could make wonderful creations."
    "Yes," said Urza, and suddenly pointed toward a corner of his 
workshop. "That chest. Look inside."
    Tawnos looked quizzically at the older artificer, but did as 
he asked. When Tawnos opened the coffer, he was nearly blinded by 
the light of the stones within.
    "Power stones," he said.
    "Aye," said Urza, pride in his voice.
    "I've never seen this many in one place," remarked the 
apprentice.
    "Aye," repeated Urza. "While we were doing the best we could 
with what we had in Kroog, the Argivian nobles have been 
collecting them for over forty years. There's much more than 
that, more than enough to power any number of devices. That's 
what the Yotian soldiers operate off of."
    "Yotian?" said Tawnos, a small stab of pain in his voice.
    Urza held up his hands. "A small conceit. My guards. They're 
smaller than the avengers and easier to produce. I call them 
Yotian soldiers because they will, I hope, prevent Yotia's fate 
from visiting Argive and Korlis. An old friend once told me there 
was power in names. And perhaps ..." Urza let his voice trail 
off.
    "Perhaps that will take back Yotia for the queen," said 
Tawnos.
    "For the Yotian people," said Urza quickly. "For the people 
who trusted me and whom I delivered into my brother's hands."
    "Your brother has his hands full of them at the moment," said 
Tawnos. Urza did not reply. "I understand he leads the Fallaji, 
now."
    Urza nodded. "The universe changes. Yotia falls. My brother 
leads the Fallaji. In Argive the crown has lost almost all of its 
power, for it let Yotia worry about the desert tribes, and now 
Yotia is gone. The nobles hold most of the power in Penregon, and 
they are very, very concerned about the Fallaji crossing the 
ridges and attacking."
    "Are you?" asked Tawnos. "Worried, that is."
    Urza opened his arms to include the room. "This is the result 
of that worry, Tawnos!" he said. "I can duplicate this tower in 
five days, given sufficient materials. I am working on a way to 
have the Yotian soldiers themselves build it. Imagine a line of 
these forts, manned by unsleeping soldiers, protecting Argive and 
Korlis from the Fallaji. Protecting them from my brother."
    Tawnos nodded. "I was surprised not to see any ornithopters."
    Urza shook his head. "They're needed to the north, patrolling 
the passes. Besides, sending an ornithopter aloft is sending a 
flare for the enemy, showing him where you are. That's another 
lesson learned at great price." Urza stood there for a moment, 
grinding his palms. "Did I tell you we have another school, in 
Penregon this time? Rendall is there, and his brother Sanwell. He 
survived, along with a handful of others. The school is being 
overseen by an old friend, Richlau. Did I ever mention Richlau 
before?"
    "Urza," said Tawnos softly.
    "I don't think I did," continued Urza. "Anyway, there is a 
whole raft of young nobles-well, not young anymore, but 
individuals who once worked with Tocasia and who know about 
artifacts, who value them and are willing to help me in my 
research."
    "Urza," said Tawnos again.
    "More than just power stones. I mean manpower, training, and 
resources. Argive is a rich country."
    "Urza!" said Tawnos a third time, sharply.
    "What is it?" asked Urza testily.
    "Kayla is here," said Tawnos.
    "I know," the artificer said, and there was a long pause. 
Then he said, "I know" again, and there was a longer pause.
    "You should go down to meet her," said Tawnos. "And your 
son."
    "Is he really ... ?" started Urza, hotly, but letting the 
question die.
    "He has your hair," said Tawnos.
    "He has my father's hair," said Urza, and turned to look out 
the window again. "I wish you hadn't brought them," he said after 
a time.
    "By all the Gods of Yotia!" shouted Tawnos, and Urza jumped 
at the sound of the younger man's voice. "We have been running 
and hiding for three years now. I delivered your son, yes your 
son in the middle of a thunderstorm. I bring them all the way 
here, and you don't want to see them? Do you still hate her so 
much?"
    Urza turned pale, and Tawnos was afraid the older man was 
going to flinch, to flee, to pull back further within himself. 
"No," he said at last, "It's not that. Not entirely. It's just 
that I failed. I failed to see what was coming. I failed to 
anticipate my brother's plans. I failed her, and I failed her 
nation."
    "And I failed," said Tawnos grimly. "And she failed. We've 
had to live with that failure every step of the way from Kroog. 
Is that what it is, Urza? Are you ashamed that you're just as 
fallible as the rest of us?"
    A long silence between them for a moment. Then Urza sighed 
and said, "I'm a storm crow, Tawnos. A bird of ill omen. Disaster 
follows in my wake, and I don't want to hurt her anymore. I don't 
want to hurt anyone anymore. Only a fool would be at my side."
    "Then call me a fool, for one," said Tawnos. "I would like to 
go back to being your apprentice. Kayla would like to go back to 
being your wife."
    Urza turned away again, and Tawnos saw him raise his hand to 
his face, perhaps to wipe away a tear. Yet when Urza turned back 
his face was patient and calm, and his eyes were clear. The 
artificer smiled. "I have no need of an apprentice. And your 
skills with those statues prove that you are a master artificer 
in your own right."
    "Well, if you don't need an apprentice, you need someone who 
will get behind you and give a good thwack from time to time," 
said Tawnos. "That's a job I can do as well."
    "And do well," said Urza. "I need a friend, and you've been 
one to me. And to the queen. You have not failed either of us."
    "You're wrong," said Tawnos, "but we can talk about that some 
other time."
    "Indeed, we can," said Urza, then nodded his head. "Let's go 
down and see my wife. And my son."
    Slowly they descended the stairs from the tower. Tawnos 
wondered if sound carried as well in the tower as it did in the 
old palace of Kroog. Urza stopped once to point out some feature 
of the tower to Tawnos, then shook his head and pressed on. He 
realized, Tawnos thought, that he was delaying the inevitable.
    They reached the waiting room. Tawnos waited at the door. 
Sharaman set down the tray of sugar wafers and retreated to the 
hallway as well. Neither man left, but neither remained in the 
room.
    Kayla rose, and Urza walked over to her. They embraced, but 
it was a polite embrace, each resting their hands on the other's 
elbows. Still, they did not part, and Tawnos could see tears 
welling in Kayla's eyes.
    "It is good-" rasped Urza, his throat tight. He cleared his 
throat and said, "It is good to see you again."
    Kayla's mouth moved, but Tawnos did not hear the words.
    "Hey!" said Harbin, at their feet. He pulled on Urza's smock 
and the artificer looked down at the lad.
    Harbin looked at Urza, and with all the power that a two and 
a half year old can muster, said, "Unca Tawnos says you're my 
daddy. Are you?"
    Urza looked at Kayla, then down at the small child. He knelt 
and took the lad's small hand in his own.
    "I suppose I am," he said. "And I'm very pleased to meet you 
after all these years."
    
                           Chapter 19
                     EXCHANGE OF INFORMATION

    Gix the demon received the report from one of his monks, but 
no words were spoken. Instead the monk knelt beside the demon's 
makeshift throne, and the demon's elongated finger clasped the 
top of the monk's skull. The monk let out a low moan as the 
talons dug slightly into the skin and demon's claws connected 
with the nerves beneath the flesh.
    It was a heady moment for Gix, slightly intoxicating. These 
fleshy creatures were filled with sensation. Even the monks, whom 
Gix had learned possessed an existence that was removed from the 
experiences of others of their race, were a cornucopia of 
emotions, a pit of conflicting desires, a rich, breeding tidal 
pool of feelings. The electric thrill of touching those feelings, 
even vicariously, rushed through him like a shot.
    The demon would be loathe to admit it, but he found the 
experience unlike any at home in Phyrexia. Delicious. That was 
the word for it. The touch of the monk's nerves was delicious.
    The emotions subsided-fear, anger, passion, concern, bliss-
and Gix began to scan the monk's mind. The monks prided 
themselves on their machinelike organization, but Gix found their 
minds a tangle of clutter, a jungle of conflicting thoughts more 
impenetrable than his homeland's jungles. Slowly Gix extended his 
own consciousness, taming the wilderness and pulling the answers 
he needed from the living skull of his worshiper.
    There had been those who had protested against his tender 
probings; they were buried in the sands outside, buried next to 
the weak, who collapsed in on themselves at the first gentle 
mental touch. Only the strong and the willing remained in the 
demon's service, which was as he thought it should be.
    He had learned much of the world through the monks, much 
about a world so different from his own, as organized as a goblin 
parade and as structured as an overturned anthill. Even those 
words were looted from the monks' minds, for the pure chaos of 
the world did not connect in any way with his old life beneath 
the oily skies of Phyrexia.
    This was a world filled with rogue units without coherent 
masters of any type. Perhaps this world had had masters once, but 
they died or went away, leaving brawling children in their place. 
There was an old, dead race called the Thran. Perhaps they had 
been the masters. But they were gone and left their toys behind-
simple, uneducated machines without a glint of true sentience, 
and now some of these squalling children had unearthed those toys 
and were playing dangerous games.
    One of the children had found the way into Phyrexia and 
stolen toys from his betters. He'd stolen from those who would 
come looking for his devices. He'd stolen from Gix.
    The child was called Mishra, the monk's mind said. He was the 
master of the Fallaji, a crude and brutal people who lived in the 
dry regions. But to say he was their master was giving him too 
much credit, for all he was doing was riding a wave of their 
bestial organic nature. The tribesmen he led would slam against 
other bands of creatures like a random marble in a maze. This 
Mishra provided no more true guidance than an ornamental spur on 
a diabolic machine.
    There was another, Mishra's subordinate, but the red-haired 
one did not shine in Gix's mind as did Mishra. He was the thief. 
Mishra was the one whose mind had brushed his all those years 
ago. Mishra came to him in dreams. (Had he dreamed before he 
encountered Mishra? Gix wondered. He had no memory of doing so.) 
Mishra invaded Phyrexia and took the dragon engines, the mak 
fawa, the creatures of the first sphere.
    Mishra must be punished.
    But Mishra was not alone, for there had been another in that 
initial mind touch, years ago, a shadowy figure alongside Mishra. 
At first he thought it was another subordinate, similar to the 
Ashnod-subordinate. But Gix soon realized that this other was 
instead a similar unit, issuing from the same basic components 
and manufacture. A brother, the monk's mind said, though the word 
carried different flavors and sensations than when referring to 
other priests.
    The brother, Urza: another master of another crude, brutal 
people. There seemed no end to such barbarians, the children of 
unknown, abandoned masters. Once Gix sensed Urza's existence he 
could see him clearly-cut from the same cloth as his brother, no 
more and no less than Mishra was. Their minds seemed ordered, or 
at least more ordered than most he had encountered.
    Each brother carried a legacy of the old ones, of the Thran. 
It was a stone split in two, each half containing the summation 
of the earlier stone yet altered to fit the organic unit they had 
bonded with. Gix could feel the crystalline longing of these 
halves, of the attraction they held for each other, and of their 
repulsion.
    The stones stood like beacons to Gix, and even without the 
monk's surrogate senses the demon could feel their power. The 
beacons had moved little in the past few years. One lay to the 
west, across a patch of uneven mountains. The other was in the 
south, among another barrier of titantically broken ground. They 
called to him. They pleaded with him to take them back to 
Phyrexia, back to where they would be truly used.
    When he had first come into this fleshy world, Gix thought he 
would merely slay the thief and return with the recovered dragon 
engines. He could feel their calls as well, though one became 
weak and flickered out of existence a few years previously. He 
mourned for that one and almost sought vengeance.
    But now there was more to his mission. He could touch the 
dreams of the thief when he was in Phyrexia, but in this world he 
could touch neither Mishra's dreams nor Urza's. Now they seemed 
proof against his blandishments. Was this part of the power of 
their stones or of the world itself? The stones seemed important. 
Should he recover them as well? And were these two organic 
children a danger to Phyrexia? If they had broken through the 
barriers, would not others?
    Faced with questions, Gix was logical and precise. He sent 
his monks out to gather information. Once the information was 
garnered, he sucked it deliciously from their minds and 
formulated a plan.
    Gix willed his orders into the mind of the monk. There was 
another low moan as old information was pushed out of the monk's 
mind and organic circuitry rewired to comprehend the new orders. 
Gix had learned, through fatal trial and error, which parts of 
his worshipers' minds they needed for basic functions, and he 
left those untouched.
    Gix lifted his hand, and his talons slid loose from the flesh 
and nerves of his servant. The monk pitched forward, into the 
waiting arms of his brothers (brothers to a lesser extent than 
Mishra and Urza). The monk would be tended and cared for, and 
when his mind healed he would pass on the message of the god.
    They were to gather their brethren and go to this Urza and to 
this Mishra. They would become part of their brutal and crude 
organizational units, part of their tribal courts. They were to 
watch, and they were to report. And when the time was right, they 
were to call Gix from his throne in the caverns of Koilos, and he 
would punish the brothers for their crimes against the machines. 
For their crimes against Phyrexia.
    And he would take the stones from them, thought Gix, flexing 
his fingers before him. Droplets of the monk's blood spattered 
against the demon's chest, hissing and bubbling as they struck.
    Yes, thought the demon. The stones were his by right of 
conquest. He would take them back to Phyrexia.
    
                           Chapter 20
                          TRANSMOGRANTS

    Ashnod's reports to Mishra over the following months were 
regular, if not fully detailed. A few words on progress to date. 
A revised schedule of deadlines. A list of new supplies needed: 
sand for a particular type for glass; metal from a particular 
forge; fabric of a particular weave. And slaves-always more 
slaves.
    The last were plentiful, but the remaining resources were 
beginning to wear thin. Most of Yotia had been plundered, and 
entire villages were now being impressed to work the mines that 
had not yet been stripped clean. The caravans from Tomakul and 
Zegon were less frequent than they should have been, and the 
quality of their tribute had fallen off. A number of 
representatives of those cities were dispatched to Ashnod as an 
example to the others. The Korlisians, still hiding behind a 
gauzy mask of neutrality, were increasingly troublesome. Mishra 
was convinced their caravans were havens for Argivian spies who 
reported everything back to his hated brother.
    Mishra found that Ashnod's experiments served to increase 
loyalty and discipline among his own troops. It was soon reported 
that thieves and deserters were sent to Ashnod's camp and never 
returned.
    Finally, after many months, Ashnod appeared before Mishra 
with a working prototype. It listed heavily to the left. It 
drooled. It shuffled on two feet. It had oversized pins through 
its wrists, ankles, elbows, and knees, and metal plates 
strengthening its neck. It was hairless. It lacked teeth and had 
dark smudges where there once had been eyes. Its skin resembled 
bluish, cracked plaster, and it looked as if it had been cooked 
in wax. It could not speak, but made soft, mewling noises. It 
stank.
    When Ashnod gave it the command, it disarmed and almost 
killed three of Mishra's elite guard and ignored the pain as a 
fourth guard finally pinned it to the floor with his spear. It 
tried to fight its way up the impaling pole to claw at its 
attacker before its organs failed and it died at last.
    Mishra was pleased and gave Ashnod permission and resources 
to build an army of her "transmogrants" of these things that were 
once living beings but now were little more than organic 
automatons, controlled by Ashnod's word.
    If Ashnod noticed the fearful and disgusted faces of the 
Fallaji as her prototype was hauled from the room feet first, she 
said nothing. Nor did she notice the dark-robed northern priests 
among the assemblage, who whispered to each other in excited 
tones.

                          * * * * *

    Despite the relative success of the first prototype, it took 
nearly a year for Ashnod to refine the process and guarantee a 
success rate of more than fifty percent. She spent another year 
organizing the transmogrified beings into something more than a 
shambling horde.
    The red-haired woman's methods were simple and ruthless. She 
bleached out the minds and wills of her captives as she pickled 
their skins, making them tough, resilient, and mostly mindless. 
The rudiments of intelligence remained-enough to follow simple 
orders. But any trace of personality was gone. It was good that 
the process warped the body as well as the soul, Ashnod 
reflected. It would do little good for a Fallaji warrior to 
recognize a criminal cousin among her ranks.
    Finally the unit was ready for Mishra's use. The timing was 
excellent. The Korlisians were traitors, the new qadir had 
decided, and needed to be made into an example before they grew 
more powerful. Argive was protecting the northern passes, but if 
the qadir's armies broke through in the south, near Korlinda 
itself, the Fallaji would have a foothold on the far side of the 
mountain chain.
    Mishra sent Ashnod a message to ready her warriors for 
battle. The artificer replied that she wished to lead the attack 
herself. In his workshop, the other captains complained to the 
qadir. How could a woman lead? they asked. What real man would 
follow a woman? Particularly a woman with ill-omened hair?
    Mishra thought about their complaints and sent another query 
to Ashnod, detailing his desire for her to contribute to the 
attack, though he made no mention of leading it. Ashnod took note 
of the exclusion and returned a second letter, the heart of which 
was that unless she controlled the entire army, she could not 
guarantee the performance of her forces.
    There was a lull in communications, until Mishra issued a 
formal declaration making Ashnod a brevet general for the 
duration of the campaign into Korlis and commanding the other war 
captains to defer to her.
    Mishra himself decamped from his workshop for the Suwwardi 
Marches, where the army was gathering, to review the troops and 
confer with the war captains one last time. Several, including 
old Jarin of the Ghestos clan, expressed one last time their 
concern about Ashnod's leadership.
    "She is a woman," Jarin repeated at his final meeting with 
the qadir. Ashnod was not present, for she was readying her 
transmogrants for the long march. "An uncaring woman at that," 
the old man added.
    "She is my assistant," said Mishra. "I trust her in all 
things." "Do you trust your war captains less, Most Wise of the 
Wise?" asked Jarin.
    "I trust all to do their duty toward the Fallaji people," 
replied Mishra.
    "She is not Fallaji!" shouted Jarin, and several of the other 
war captains whispered to each other heatedly. "She traffics in 
the unspeakable! Her abominations frighten the horses and disturb 
the men. She uses outlander wizardry!"
    Mishra's face clouded and he snapped, "I am not Fallaji, 
either, humble servant! Do you want to do without my outlander 
wizardry as well?"
    Jarin's voice stuttered, then finally fell silent. A long, 
tense moment passed, but no other voice came to Jarin's defense. 
Even Hajar was a stone-faced enigma at his master's side.
    At last the war captain of the Ghestos clan knelt before his 
qadir and said, "I appreciate the opportunity to voice my 
concerns, Most Mighty One, and understand the wisdom of your 
puissant decisions." The talk moved to other matters, but Jarin 
did not raise his voice again. The other war captains, though 
they agreed with the old man, did not broach the subject.
    In the morning there was a grand review. Mishra and his 
aides, including Hajar, gathered beneath their pavilion as the 
troops passed in review. There were Fallaji in the crowds, and 
Yotians as well, nervous and uncertain among the desert dwellers.
    The troops were dressed in their best finery, armor and robes 
that would be packed away in the baggage train and only removed 
again when and if they reached Korlis's capital. Three units of 
cavalry trotted past, bedecked in flowing red robes that 
flickered like flames. Despite his earlier outburst, Jarin was 
allowed to retain control of the Ghestos cavalry, and he rode, 
expressionless, at the head of his unit.
    The sun shone off the wide brass helmets of the foot 
soldiers, moving in precision review past their qadir. Then came 
the skirmishers, younger and a bit less organized, most of them 
younger sons just entering the military. Then the scouts rode 
past on their nimble horses, cantering in ornate patterns back 
and forth before the pavilion. And with each the Fallaji cheered, 
and even the Yotians present remarked on the grandeur of the 
warriors and their relief that the troops were heading somewhere 
other than Yotia.
    Ashnod arrived with her horde of transmogrants. There were 
nearly three hundred of the creatures lined up in orderly rows. 
They moved not with the precision of trained troops but rather 
with an eerie lockstep, for they were controlled by the same 
mind. Not a trace of individuality showed itself among them, as 
if they had been cast from the same mold. They looked as if they 
would topple over as they shambled forward, but they marched as a 
single unit. The beasts were clad only in rough tabards of 
brownish Yotian cloth, and those garments looked like an 
afterthought.
    Ashnod rode at their head, astride a great black charger. Her 
cape matched her scarlet hair, and she wore an ornate set of 
black and red armor-custom-made, it was said, in Zegon. The armor 
bristled with spikes and was polished to snare the sun and blind 
the onlookers.
    The cheers died as she passed before the stand, and the 
applause was sporadic at best. Mishra's aides sat immobile as 
rocks next to the qadir and did not respond. The qadir raised his 
hand in benediction to Ashnod, and she returned the salute. 
Neither paid attention to the lack of enthusiasm among the 
others.
    Last came the dragon engines, four new ones, operated by 
crews working within their bellies pumping the bellows and 
keeping the steam pressure high to drive them forward. There were 
renewed shouts of encouragement as they towered over the 
populace. Only two of the engines would be sent east with Ashnod. 
The other two would be sent south along the Kher Ridges, to be 
"spotted" by the Korlisians, drawing troops away from the Fallaji 
main attack.
    The crowd's spirits rose with the passing of the dragon 
engines, and the after the review the qadir treated the populace 
to a feast. At the banquet Ashnod sat at Mishra's right hand, and 
there was no doubt about the trust he placed in his general. 
Jarin was seated at the far end of the platform, but many of the 
other Fallaji, including Hajar, stopped to offer words of 
encouragement to the old Ghestos.
    With the coming of the morning the army was gone, east into 
the mountains, into Korlis beyond.
    The path they trod was similar to that Ashnod and Mishra had 
used to reach Korlinda many years ago. The journey was less 
smooth than hoped. In the first place, the new dragon engines 
were not as nimble as the originals; they moved slowly and 
required a great deal of space in which to turn. In addition, 
they were noisy, venting steam and clattering like sacks of old 
nails. This bothered the cavalry troops and made Ashnod realize 
that any element of surprise would be lost.
    Then there were the transmogrants themselves: slower than the 
other troops, slower than the dragon engines themselves. Yet they 
were tireless. Each day the regular foot soldiers and cavalry 
outdistanced the shambling, demiliving creatures. And each day, 
around the midnight bell, the living automatons lurched into 
camp. Ashnod remained with them and spoke little to the other war 
chiefs during the journey.
    At the end of the tenth slow day in the mountains, the 
advance scouts spotted an ornithopter. It sighted them as well 
and retreated back down the pass, flapping its oversized wings in 
panic.
    That evening, after midnight, the generals held council. It 
would take two days to free themselves from the mountains 
entirely and to reach the relatively open land of the upper Kor 
valley. The Korlisians, probably with Argivian support, would be 
waiting for Mishra's forces before they could extricate 
themselves fully from the highlands. A tight battle would be 
disastrous for the normally mobile Fallaji cavalry.
    "Alas and alack!" said Jarin, turning his palms upward, "we 
seem to be undone. For the merchant nation's mercenaries will be 
rushing for the pass, seeking to hold it against us! And we 
cannot turn back in good faith without so much as a single drop 
of blood being spilt. To press on is folly, and to turn back 
smacks of dishonor!"
    "There must be another way," muttered Ashnod, almost to 
herself.
    "If there is," said Jarin, "I have no doubt you will find it. 
It was for exactly this reason that our qadir, mighty may he be 
in his wisdom, chose you to lead us."
    Ashnod looked into Jarin's face for the slightest hint of 
insincerity, but there seemed to be none. She thought for a 
moment, then said,
    "We must get out of the passes before the Korlisian troops 
arrive."
    "Aye, but we are too slow," complained Jarin. "Would that out 
engines had wings, so that we might arrive there sooner, but they 
do not."
    Ashnod pressed her fingertips together, and said, "Then we 
leave the dragon engines behind."
    Faces fell around the table, and the arguments began. The 
engines themselves were useful tools said one war captain, 
invaluable in battle. They were mobile forts, said another, a 
solid center about which men could cluster for defense. A third 
officer noted they provided protection for the army from the 
ornithopters, whose pilots had learned the dangers of straying 
too close.
    A smile flitted across Jarin's face, but he said nothing.
    "The engines are too slow," said Ashnod finally. "We have the 
transmogrants to provide a solid center to the line."
    "Your abominations are slow as well," noted Jarin.
    "Then they will leave now," stated Ashnod. "They will be 
waiting for you at the entrance of the pass." She turned to 
Jarin. "Unless you have a better plan?" she asked silkily.
    No one did. The meeting was over, and Ashnod was gone again, 
leading her shambling creations ahead of the army and leaving the 
mak fawa to catch up as best they could.
    The army reached the vale of the upper Kor before the 
Korlisians could respond fully. Still, word reached Ashnod of a 
large force of Korlisian troops coming up the valley. Scouts had 
spotted ornithopters in the skies above the Korlisian troop 
column, proof-if there still were any doubt-of that nation's 
complicity with Urza's Argivians. The Korlisians would be within 
striking range the next morning.
    That was more than enough time for Ashnod to lay a trap.
    The plan was simple. The foot troops were drawn up in the 
center of the plain, flanked on one side by all three units of 
cavalry. The transmogrants stood in the center of the line, 
serving as an anchor, hidden behind a thin line of foot soldiers. 
The skirmishers would engage the enemy van, drawing it to attack 
the line. The transmogrants would be revealed, and on Ashnod's 
signal the cavalry would sweep in along the flank, destroying the 
Korlisians utterly between the swift moving horses and the 
unyielding transmogrants.
    Jarin was politely unimpressed. Fallaji cavalry was made for 
quick strikes, he observed, not for running down entire units of 
the enemy.
    "New uses for old tools," said Ashnod, who was thoroughly 
tired of the older Ghestos war chief.
    "And if the Korlisians do not take your offered bait?" asked 
Jarin. "If they encamp and wait for reinforcements?"
    "Then the dragon engines catch up, and we fight a more 
traditional battle," snapped Ashnod. "Tell me, Captain, would you 
question Mishra's orders so often and so heartily?"
    The older war captain stiffened, then replied through 
clenched teeth, "I have my orders, which are to follow you. We 
will deploy along the flank and await your signal."
    In the morning the Korlisians arrived, a force equal in 
number to the Fallaji forces. Two ornithopters were present, 
though one darted east at the first sight of the Fallaji troops. 
Reporting back to Urza and Tawnos, thought Ashnod. Surely neither 
artificer would be present here. There was no sign of war 
machines among the troops, nor did she see additional 
ornithopters.
    The skirmishers engaged the leading edge of the Korlisian 
troops, firing slings and light bows. Several units of the 
Korlisians charged forward but were mastered by their captains 
and brought back, and the enemy formed into regular units. The 
Korlisians made extensive use of mercenaries, Ashnod recalled, so 
they would be better disciplined than most of the Yotian rabble. 
Then again, there were likely Yotian sellswords among the 
Korlisians, and that might cause them to charge prematurely.
    The enemy force as a body heaved forward slowly. Its center 
held through tight discipline, but the units along its flanks 
were already ahead of the main van. They were in a perfect 
position to be cut off and defeated.
    Ashnod smiled as the enemy neared. The transmogrants were in 
place behind a thin line of swordsmen. To her right, the cavalry 
rode into view, waiting only for her signal to charge.
    The two armies collided like prehistoric beasts, and men 
began to die. Brass hats with spears kept a number of mercenaries 
at bay, while swordsmen engaged in a deadly close combat.
    Ashnod shouted an order, and the swordsmen at the center of 
the line parted. She gave another cry, and her transmogrants 
raised their weapons and began to lumber forward.
    Something happened on the opposing side. The center of the 
main van, where the commander normally would have his own elite 
guard, parted to reveal a new set of creatures. There were two 
types among the Korlisians: humans in beetlelike armor, and 
hulking brutes looking like soft, misshapen ogres.
    Ashnod suddenly realized that the beetlelike armor was the 
outer coverings of humanoid devices, and the soft flesh of the 
ogres was some type of mud. Automatons, she thought, like Urza's 
avengers. The Korlisians had prepared their own surprise at the 
center of their line.
    Ashnod cursed as the two centers collided. The transmogrants 
would have broken a line of normal humans, but these were no 
ordinary warriors. The beetle men worked with clockwork 
precision, raising and lowering their razor-tipped blades like 
farmers threshing their wheat. Alongside them, the huge earthen 
statues waded into the transmogrants, crushing soft skulls with 
their great hands.
    The transmogrants would neither retreat nor regroup. Ashnod 
had not given them the capacity to understand such orders. 
However, it was clear to the red-haired general that they were 
overmatched, a fact equally clear to the other Fallaji footmen 
and skirmishers. Already they were losing ground, only a few 
steps away from a full retreat. Ashnod's position was a bubble 
extending into the Korlisian lines, surrounded on three sides by 
mercenaries and automatons.
    Ashnod gave the order, and heralds gave the signal for the 
cavalry. A sudden assault on the flank would still break the 
Korlisian army and allow her own human troops to recover, she 
told herself. The signalman unfurled a great crimson banner and 
waved it to the cavalry.
    The cavalry did not move. Ashnod stared in disbelief, but her 
eyes had not deceived her: the cavalry had not abandoned its 
position. A unit of mercenary archers from Korlis had taken up 
position opposite it, but the three units of cavalry did not 
charge.
    Ashnod cursed again, and shouted at the signalman. He waved 
his banner again frantically.
    Still the cavalry did not move.
    Ashnod looked around. The left flank, farthest from the 
cavalry, was already crumbling, the Fallaji footmen abandoning 
their spears, and in some cases their helmets, and falling back. 
Ahead of her the blades of the beetle men were ripping the 
transmogrants to shreds. As she watched, an earthen statue picked 
up a transmogrant, lifted the creature over its head, and pulled 
it apart by the legs and arms. The rotted remains cascaded down 
on the statue, but the clay automaton suffered no damage. Indeed, 
the cuts inflicted on the statues seemed to heal as Ashnod 
watched. The transmogrants had better success against the beetle 
warriors, and along the ground lay scattered remains of both dead 
human flesh and dismantled mechanisms.
    Ashnod looked to her right to the cavalry. Now it was finally 
moving.
    Then she cursed. It was moving backward. An orderly retreat 
in the face of mere archers. It was pulling away.
    The sight of the cavalry's retreat destroyed the remaining 
right flank. The troops wavered and then broke into a run. Both 
flanks were in full rout, and the only thing holding the center 
was the remains of Ashnod's unit of transmogrants.
    Ashnod wheeled her own horse, a pained look on her face. To 
abandon her creations felt to her as if the very heart was ripped 
from her flesh. Nonetheless, they would be destroyed. There was 
no one else to save them.
    She spurred her black charger and left the devastation behind 
her, hoping that the transmogrants would do enough damage to at 
least slow their pursuers until the Fallaji were once more under 
the safe protection of the dragon engines.

                          * * * * *

    The transmogrants had done that part of the job well, for 
after repelling the Fallaji invasion force the Korlisian advance 
halted entirely. The enemy might have been more hurt than Ashnod 
had thought, or they were waiting for resupply. Possibly the 
mercenaries had clauses in their contracts excusing them from 
pursuing enemies into the mountains. Perhaps their own commanders 
were afraid of ambush, thought Ashnod.
    Regardless, there was no pursuit, save for the lone 
ornithopter that trailed them west for a day until they reached 
the dragon engines. Their surprise shattered, their forces 
demolished, their transmogrants slain or lost to the last being, 
the troops gathered around the engines, reversed their course, 
and began the slow crawl back to Fallaji territory.
    Half a month later, Ashnod stood in Mishra's workshop before 
his dark oak throne. She was sputtering in rage.
    "Treason!" she shouted. "I gave a direct order, and Jarin 
here ignored it! Because of that we were routed!"
    "Most Revered One," said Jarin calmly, "we did not see the 
signal flag for the assault. We had been told by our most revered 
war general not to attack until we saw the flag. When we saw the 
battle was going against our forces, we pulled back to provide a 
screen to protect our retreating troops. More would have perished 
if we had not done so."
    "We were defeated because he ignored the signal flag!" 
shouted Ashnod.
    "I did not see the signal flag," said Jarin, his face 
impassive. "Nor did the other war captains."
    Mishra patted the tips of his fingers together. "Do you say 
that my trusted assistant is lying?"
    "No, Most Wise Among Us," said Jarin, quickly, "only that we 
did not see it. Such are the fortunes of war. A daring plan often 
comes to naught because of a simple thing." He looked at Ashnod 
and added, "Or because of a simple mistake in judgment."
    Ashnod looked daggers at the Ghestos chief but said nothing. 
Jarin added, "We did retreat in good order. Most of the cavalry 
was unharmed, and the dragon engines were undamaged. There were, 
however, heavy losses among the footmen, and the brevet general's 
own ... special forces ... were lost."
    "What a surprise," muttered Ashnod. Mishra ignored the 
comment and dismissed the war captain.
    "Can you believe his lies?" the red-haired woman shouted as 
the door was still closing behind Jarin.
    Mishra's face was tense and concerned. "I had hoped your 
endeavor would prove successful. Success ennobles many an 
experiment. If you had pressed into Korlis, if your creations had 
secured us a beachhead, then the war chiefs would be lining up to 
tell me how they knew you could do it all along. Needless to say, 
they are not doing so."
    "It's all lies," replied Ashnod. "They're afraid of me. Of 
us. Of what we can do. Of our creations. The battlefield does not 
belong to human warriors. The dragon engines proved that. The 
transmogrants proved that."
    "The battlefield is still theirs," said Mishra. His voice 
held no expression. "Their swords succeeded where your mindless 
creations did not. But you leave me with another problem. Some of 
the chieftains think that I listened to you too much in this 
matter, that I showed weakness by depending on you."
    "Weakness!" shouted Ashnod. "Let them try to run an army in 
the field."
    "I will," said Mishra. "Because I am sending you to Sarinth."
    There was a long pause.
    "Sarinth is on the other side of the empire," said Ashnod at 
last.
    "Hard on the shores of Lake Ronom," agreed Mishra. "A nation 
rich in metals and wood, material that we need here. I want you 
to secure the fealty of their leaders."
    "You want me out of the way," accused Ashnod.
    Mishra held his hands open. "You are the most trusted of my 
lieutenants. I fear for your safety among the other chiefs."
    "You should fear for their safety instead," spat Ashnod.
    "I do," said Mishra. "Which is another reason to send you to 
Sarinth. Take a small force of men you trust with you. Gain their 
fealty."
    "And if Sarinth doesn't want to swear fealty to us?" inquired 
Ashnod bitterly.
    "Then I will send a larger force," said Mishra, "under a real 
commander."
    Ashnod bristled but said nothing.
    Mishra's eyebrows arched, and a kindly look passed over his 
face. It was an expression Ashnod had not seen in a long time.
    "My student," he said, "you do many things better than any 
man, better than any individual, in my empire. But you are part 
of that empire, and you must go as your qadir commands."
    Ashnod bowed formally. "I respect your wishes, Most Wise 
Among Us," she said woodenly. "Let me make my preparations for 
departure."
    Mishra smiled and said, "One more thing."
    Ashnod turned at the door.
    "Leave Jarin alive," said the qadir. "It would be ... 
difficult... to explain it if he something horrible happened to 
him so soon after this conversation."
    Ashnod's brow furrowed, but she nodded.
    The door closed behind her, and Mishra let out a deep sigh. 
Then he rose from the throne, padded over to his great slate 
board, and began to reconfigure the legs of his new dragon 
engines.
    
                           Chapter 21
                          IVORY TOWERS

    Loran, Scholar of Argive, arrived at Terisia City in the 
early summer of the fifth year after Yotia's fall. It had been a 
long journey, from Penregon down to Korlis, then west by a coast-
hugging boat across the storm-tossed Shielded Sea, north to 
Tomakul, and finally west over the wastes of the desert by camel 
to the borders of the city-state itself.
    Loran wondered if, had she known the true distance of Terisia 
City from Argive, she would have left her home at all. Indeed, 
many of her fellow nobles had tried to dissuade her from the 
journey. But she could not remain in Penregon. War fever had 
seized the nobility, a disease that apparently clouded the mind 
and convinced those infected by it that Urza, who had failed to 
save Yotia, was nonetheless their salvation from his brother's 
hordes.
    Loran was less than convinced. Yet in the drawing rooms and 
councils of Penregon her doubts were met by indifference at best 
and scorn at worst. She had opened correspondence with the 
archimandrite years before, and when the Terisian scholar 
extended an invitation to her she knew she would take it. Now, 
after long months, she stood at the gates of the great ivory 
metropolis.
    Terisia City rose above the neatly cultivated fields that 
surrounded it and was visible from miles away. The city was a gem 
set in a great ring of white stone. Its roofs were glass and 
crystal, and they scattered the sunlight like prisms, surrounding 
the streets below with rainbows. When the hard winter rains 
struck, Loran was assured by her guide, the entire metropolis 
would rattle and resound like a shaken tambourine.
    The city walls were of white stone, hauled from the distant 
Colekgan Mountains to the north by dwarves and their giantish 
slaves. Great towers of similar white stone ringed the city. They 
reminded Loran of chess pieces left behind by some idle god. Even 
these towers were works of art, for they were lovingly decorated 
with bas-reliefs of mythological beasts, winged lions, and 
elephants.
    It was within one of these ivory towers that Loran was to 
meet the supposed "Mistress of the Order of the Ivory Towers," 
the archimandrite of Terisia City, first among equals of the 
tower scholars. Loran had no idea which tower belonged to the 
archimandrite, but she inquired at the city's main gate. She 
hoped to send word of her arrival, then to settle in some inn 
within the city.
    Standing by the main gate was a broad-shouldered, bearded man 
with a wide-brimmed hat and a walking stick. As she spoke to the 
guards, the man removed the hat and mopped his brow with a rough 
handkerchief. He turned at the sound of her voice.
    "You seek the Mistress of the Towers?" he asked. "Come. I'm 
heading there myself."
    He turned away and walked a few paces, and Loran noticed he 
was lame in one leg. He hobbled along, resting heavily on a short 
metal stave. The man stopped and turned and looked back at the 
woman. "Argivian, by your accent," he noted.
    Loran nodded, puzzled.
    "You would not be Loran, the scholar from Penregon?"
    "I would be," replied Loran. "But you have the advantage of 
me."
    The man turned and limped back toward her. Loran met him 
halfway. "Feldon," he said, bowing over her offered hand. 
"Another scholar like yourself. You understand how I realized it 
was you?"
    Loran paused for a moment. "I don't suppose there are many 
Argivians this far west."
    Feldon nodded, and Loran noticed he wore his long hair swept 
back over his ears, without a braid. In the warmth of the region, 
it was no surprise that the man was sweating profusely.
    Feldon said, "Your arrival has been expected. Come, let's see 
the archimandrite together."
    Loran motioned toward her guide, still standing by his camel. 
"I have still to find lodging."
    "Ah. Allow me," said Feldon. He hobbled forward two paces and 
ejaculated a rapid string of Fallaji words, accented in a dialect 
that Loran did not know. The guide responded in kind, and Feldon 
fished a coin from his heavy coat. He tossed the coin to the 
guide, who caught it with a deft motion, smiled, and bowed.
    "You're staying at the same inn I am," said Feldon, turning 
back to the Argivian scholar. "Don't worry. If your guide had 
been less than an honorable man, you would not have gotten this 
far. Come along." And with that he limped forward again.
    He reminded Loran of a bear. Of a great bear, she thought, 
that had accidentally wandered out of the mountains and been 
mistaken for a human. She smiled at the thought and quickly 
caught up with him. The last was easy, since he paused every few 
steps to mop his brow and to complain of the heat.
    "You are not from Terisia City either," said Loran. "Northern 
uplands, near the glacier," answered Feldon. "Came down here to 
check the libraries. Useless things, the libraries. Couldn't find 
any runes that matched." "Matched?" asked Loran.
    "This," said Feldon, holding up his metal walking stick. The 
head had been twisted into an ornate curve. "It's a staff," Loran 
said.
    "More of a cane," returned Feldon. "But look along the 
shaft." Loran reached out and steadied the proffered object. 
Along the length of it were markings-little more than scratches, 
but definitely organized in a recognizable pattern. "They aren't 
Thran," she said at last.
    "Nor are they dwarven or goblin. Or anything else that anyone 
around here recognizes," said Feldon, "Found it in the glacier. 
I've been studying it."
    "The cane?" asked Loran.
    "The glacier!" said Feldon with a broad smile. "The big one 
that pours into Ronom Lake. Glaciers are frozen rivers, you know, 
and they move, glaciers do. Not that you'd notice, but they 
slowly come down the mountain, scraping clean the land in the 
their path. Found this one at the base of the glacier, and I've 
seen others buried within its heart." Feldon continued his 
lecture as they continued around the perimeter of the walled 
city. They passed the first tower and came to a stop at the 
second. Feldon bellowed another string of words at the female 
guard before the door, this time in a language Loran did not even 
recognize. The guard bowed and stood aside for Loran and Feldon 
to enter.
    "Sumifan," he said by way of explanation. "They have a tonal 
quality to their language that makes discussion quite maddening 
sometimes. The same word has several different meanings if you 
vary the pitch."
    "You study languages?" asked Loran.
    "When I am not studying glaciers," replied Feldon, with a 
private smile. "Actually I ended up knowing so much about 
language because I needed to know more information about glaciers 
and could not read the old scrolls or hear the old tales in their 
original tongues. So I learned language as a matter of course. 
Your specialty is artifacts, correct?"
    "Old Thran devices," Loran specified.
    "Like the two brothers," grunted Feldon. "Mishra and Whatsis-
name."
    "Urza," said Loran.
    "Dangerous things, artifacts," said Feldon, and there was 
something in his voice that made Loran wary. By this time they 
were past the reception hall and in the main room.
    The chamber was larger than Loran had expected and was 
dominated by a heavy table of lacquered oak. The walls were lined 
with glass-fronted bookshelves, within which were locked all 
manner of folios, scrolls, librams, and curios. Already the 
keeper of the tower, the archimandrite herself, was moving toward 
them.
    Gliding would have been a better term, for the archimandrite, 
a sliver of a woman with a pale and narrow face, did not seem to 
walk as much as she hovered above the stonework floor. Her long 
black hair spilled down her back in a single fall. Loran thought 
of the way she had worn her hair as a girl, back in Tocasia's 
camp. That seemed a lifetime ago.
    "Good Feldon," said the archimandrite. Her voice was soft but 
firm. Loran could sense at once that she was used to others 
quieting in order to hear her.
    The sweating scholar managed another low bow, then turned his 
entire upper body toward Loran. "Gracious Archimandrite, may I 
present Loran the Argivian, scholar of Thran Artifacts. Also a 
woman kind enough not to interrupt while I go on about my 
glaciers."
    The archimandrite curtsied gracefully, and Loran returned the 
courtesy. "It is good you have arrived," the woman said. "Let me 
introduce you to the others."
    "The others" consisted of a bald couple, man and woman, 
seated at the far end of the table. The man, a rotund little 
fellow, rose as they approached. Loran extended a hand, but the 
man instead slapped both hands across his chest, his fingers 
touching his breastbone. Loran took this as a greeting and 
lowered her hand accordingly. Feldon smiled at the exchange, and 
the archimandrite made no mention of it.
    "Drafna, founder of the college of Lat-Nam," said the bald 
man.
    The seated woman made a small coughing noise. It was little 
more than a clearing of the throat, but Loran and Drafna noticed 
it.
    Drafna cleared his throat and said, "Co-founder of the 
College of Lat-Nam." That brought another small cough, and Drafna 
began a third time, "Co-founder of the present incarnation of the 
College of Lat-Nam." He turned and looked at the woman, who said 
nothing but merely smiled. "My wife and co-founder, Hurkyl"
    Loran curtseyed, and Hurkyl made the same breastbone-touching 
greeting as her husband. Hers was both more graceful and more 
tentative. Loran stared at the bald woman. She had almond-shaped 
eyes, and ornate designs had been tattooed into the bare flesh of 
her shoulders.
    The archimandrite motioned for Loran to take a seat, while 
Feldon pulled out a great, dark, oak chair for himself, hung his 
hat on one of the posts jutting from the headpiece, and lowered 
himself down, gripping his cane as he did so.
    "I thank you for the invitation, Mistress of the Towers," 
said Loran, "and I should tell you at the outset that I come with 
the knowledge of the Chief Artificer of Argive, though not as his 
representative."
    "That would be Whatsisname," said Feldon.
    "Urza," said the archimandrite levelly and raised her hand to 
signal the servants. The archimandrite seemed young to Loran at 
first blush, but now she realized the woman was older than she. 
The grace of her movements had been honed by years of practice.
    A servant, another Sumifan, arrived with coffee. It smelled 
of honey and was not as thick and syrupy as the Fallaji mixtures 
with which Loran was familiar.
    "Despite this lack of official authorization," continued 
Loran, "I have brought along the notes on Thran artifacts that 
the Argivians have collected over the years, culminating in 
Tocasia's notes from her digs." She turned to Feldon. "Tocasia 
taught me what I know about artifacts, and she also taught Urza 
and Mishra." To the archimandrite she said, "Unfortunately, Urza 
would not allow me to bring any information about his own work. I 
had to travel through innumerable miles of land held by his 
brother, and he feared any data sent might fall into the wrong 
hands."
    "Understood," said the archimandrite, and in that word made 
sure that Loran knew there would be no questions concerning 
Urza's work-at least not at this meeting. "But you do carry other 
knowledge that is valuable to us," the archimandrite continued. 
"You knew the
    Brother Artificers as children."
    "Yes," said Loran, "though I was very young at the time 
myself."
    "Did they hate each other even then?" asked the Mistress of 
the Ivory Towers.
    Loran paused and thought for a moment. "No. They were rivals, 
I suppose. All brothers are. Urza was smarter, or rather was more 
studious. Mishra was nicer. He got along better with others."
    "This would be the same Mishra that leveled Kroog?" inquired 
Feldon, his voice dripping with irony.
    The archimandrite ignored him, instead saying, "But they did 
not hate each other when you knew them."
    "No." Loran turned to Feldon. "But they have changed. I have 
not seen Mishra since Tocasia, our mentor, died, but he is said 
to be a cruel desert warlord, a demon to Argivians and Korlisians 
alike."
    "Is he?" said Drafna.
    Loran shook her head. "I cannot say what he is now, or why. 
But it is difficult for me to equate the young man I remember 
telling stories by the fire with the Butcher of Kroog."
    "Time changes us all," said the archimandrite. "But what of 
his brother? What of Urza?"
    Loran shook her head again. "Urza has been hurt very, very 
badly. He seems to have pulled back into himself. I talked to him 
just once, to tell him I was making this journey. He was ... not 
cold, but detached, as if everything was a cryptic message that 
could be solved only if one had the right cipher."
    The archimandrite leaned forward in her chair. "So you do not 
think there will be a resolution between the two without further 
conflict?"
    "No," said Loran flatly. "I don't think there will be. In 
Argive, when I left, they were building a string of towers along 
the borders, filled with clockwork soldiers of Urza's design. 
There are new mines across the hinterlands, and most of the 
streams have been dammed to provide additional power. When I 
passed through Tomakul and Zegon, portraits of Mishra hung 
everywhere, and people felt he would lead them to a great and 
powerful future. No, there will be no resolution without war."
    "Told you," said Feldon. The archimandrite frowned.
    "What does it matter what two screaming brats do on the far 
side of the continent?" said Drafna sharply. "It does not involve 
us at all. Let them brawl and leave us to our own work. If they 
would rather fight than study, is it our responsibility?"
    "It's more than that," said Feldon. "Things like this have a 
tendency to spread. First it's the Fallaji against the Yotians. 
Now it's against the Argivians and the Korlisians. How long 
before we get dragged into things on one side or another?"
    "This qadir of the Fallaji is facing eastward with his 
forces. We are to the west. We are not his worry," said Drafna.
    "Really?" snapped Feldon at the bald man. "I was talking to a 
Sarinthian merchant this morning. Apparently Mishra's devil-girl 
apprentice, Ashnod the Uncaring, was in Sarinth, 'negotiating' 
for the timberland and mineral resources of the state. Apparently 
the negotiations consist of Mishra giving Sarinth the choice of 
either handing over the goods or having the Fallaji come and take 
them."
    "I'd like to see them try," offered Drafna.
    "That's what the Zegoni said," muttered Feldon. "And they're 
being bled dry as a vassal state of the Fallaji domains. The 
Yotians, too, for that matter."
    "The qadir's representatives have approached Terisia City's 
council as well," said the archimandrite softly. "They have been 
politely refused. What will happen when they arrive with their 
dragon engines at our gates?"
    "Or at yours, Drafna?" asked Feldon.
    The co-founder of the college at Lat-Nam made a harrumphing 
noise but said nothing.
    "Terisia City is an ancient place," said the archimandrite, 
speaking to Loran but for Drafna's benefit. "It has many 
defenses. The great white towers that ring the central city are 
but one of them. But these defenses are old and might not be 
sufficient to withstand an assault from without. Our people have 
been at peace for longer than any remember, and they have no love 
for war."
    "It doesn't matter if you love war or not," said Drafna, "if 
one is coming your way."
    "Exactly!" thundered Feldon. "That's what we need to prepare 
for! Otherwise the various western nations and their knowledge 
and scholars will be picked off one at a time."
    "You could ally with Urza," said Loran. "Since Mishra is your 
closest fear."
    The archimandrite and Feldon looked at each other, then at 
Loran.
    "Whatsisname may be as bad as Mishra," said Feldon. "The 
example of his defense of Yotia is not encouraging."
    "We do not want to avoid one master merely to accept 
another," said the archimandrite, softly but clearly.
    Loran thought about the Mistress's words. "That's true," she 
said. "I'm afraid Korlis has become little more than a province 
of Argive. More and more of its decisions come from Penregon in 
the name of coordinating the war effort."
    "Exactly," said Feldon again. "We have to find a third path."
    The archimandrite leaned forward, and Loran felt herself 
drawn forward as well. "We have many scholars within our walls 
and know of more scattered through the western part of the 
continent. I propose we gather them here to form a union, a 
conclave, a gathering of knowledge that is able to stand up to 
either of the brothers' machines."
    "I know several Sarinthian scholars who started packing the 
moment Ashnod arrived in their capital," said Feldon. "And there 
are some shamans and witch women from up near the glacier who 
could aid as well."
    "The reputed song mages of Sumifa might cooperate, as well as 
astrologers and diviners who have fled Zegon," added the 
archimandrite.
    "No," said Drafna. The others looked at the bald man. "No," 
he repeated firmly. "This is not for us. Lat-Nam is far enough 
away that we do not have to worry about desert tribes. We are not 
interested."
    There was the shadow of a cough, so quiet none would normally 
hear it. Drafna looked at his wife, who cleared her throat again. 
Feldon raised an eyebrow, and the archimandrite kept her face a 
passionless mask. Drafna scowled.
    "I meant to say, we shall see," said Drafna, shooting a glare 
at the other scholar of Lat-Nam. "I have reservations, but we 
will make all our resources and knowledge available." He took a 
deep breath and laced his pudgy fingers together. "After all, we 
might learn something as well."
    The archimandrite turned to Loran. "And you, Loran of 
Penregon. Will you join our union?"
    Loran sat silent for a moment. She had come seeking 
knowledge, but was it knowledge that might be used against either 
of the brothers? Didn't she owe Urza and Mishra more than that? 
Could she turn over copies of Tocasia's notes to people who, even 
with the intention of defending themselves, would search them for 
a way to defeat the brothers?
    She thought of the ever-growing mines and factories that 
filled her homeland, and of the other noble families that seemed 
determined to declare Urza their patron saint. Of the Fallaji who 
seemed to have deified Mishra. Would Tocasia want either man to 
use the knowledge she had taught them in that fashion?
    Loran took a deep breath, like a diver about to plunge off 
the pier. "Yes," she said at last. "I will join you."
    
                           Chapter 22
                          URZA'S MITER

    "How can you stand these collars?" asked Tawnos, tugging at 
the starched fabric around his neck.
    "I can't," replied Urza. "When I was a child, I hated any 
ceremony that forced me to dress up. I think it's one reason 
religion fell out of favor among the nobility: it was too 
uncomfortable to dress for."
    Both men wore stiff cotton shirts with even stiffer woolen 
jackets accompanied by heavy woolen pants. Each garment was 
ironed with knife-edge folds. Leather boots, new and shined to an 
incandescent glow, were equally unwieldy. To Tawnos they felt 
more like lead weights than footwear. The ceremonial gear was 
mandated by the most august of ceremonies in which they were 
about to take part. Tawnos wondered if they could just send the 
outfits and stay home themselves.
    Reflecting, Tawnos thought the pair had gotten off lucky. 
There were costumes and ceremonial uniforms among the gentry that 
reminded him of a ship under full sail, so festooned were they 
with ribbons, banners, and medals. But Argive had never had a 
Lord High Artificer and Protector of the Realms before, nor a 
Master Scholar. As a result both men were shielded from the worst 
of past pageantry.
    Tawnos had always heard the Argivians were a dour, serious 
people. Even the way they treated such a celebration was further 
proof, he thought. Never had he seen so many people dead set on 
enjoying themselves. They were single-minded-even grim-in their 
pursuit of pleasure. The past month had shown that beyond a 
doubt. There had been celebrations beyond measure in Penregon. 
First a royal wedding between the young crown prince of Argive 
and the granddaughter of the redoubtable lord of Korlis. Then the 
official notice of abdication of the venerable (if weak) Argivian 
king in favor of the crown prince and his new bride. Then there 
was the official recognition of the combined kingdoms of Argive 
and Korlis (though Korlis was effectively subsumed politically 
into Argive). And now came the final act: recognition of Urza as 
Lord High Artificer and Protector of the Realm of the combined 
kingdoms.
    The nobles of Argive were behind it all. They had been 
feuding with their crown for years. The king (now referred to as 
the Old King) advocated a policy of containment and appeasement 
of the desert tribes. That policy had been destroyed with Kroog, 
along with whatever power the king still held. The nobles were 
behind the royal marriage, along with the merchants of Korlis. 
They were no doubt instrumental as well in convincing the 
Argivian king to relinquish his crown. Tawnos knew for a fact 
that the nobles had pressed Urza to accept the scepter and miter 
of the Lord Protector of the Realms.
    What Tawnos did not understand is why Urza had accepted the 
position. When Tawnos put the question to him, the artificer 
offered a weak excuse; at least it seemed weak to Tawnos.
    "In Yotia," said Urza, "the warlord let me build my devices, 
but I had little control over their use and never sufficient 
resources to develop them properly, even as Chief Artificer. Now, 
as Lord Protector, I can control the use of my devices and will 
have full access to sufficient resources."
    "I'm not sure about the nature of that control," returned 
Tawnos. "From what I've seen, even leaders are driven by events 
and situations beyond their control. That includes the will of 
the masses. Already there are those who call to retake Yotia."
    "That may well yet happen," said Urza, "but it will occur 
with a mechanized force, one filled with avengers, mechanical 
soldiers, and the new sentinels we're designing."
    "It may happen before we have a chance to finish the work," 
said Tawnos. "In fact this new position may bring you under new 
pressure to launch an attack."
    Urza ground his palms together slowly. At last he shrugged. 
"You may be right, my former student."
    "Then why accept the miter and scepter?" demanded Tawnos.
    "I have another reason," said Urza, and closed his mouth 
firmly.
    Tawnos wanted to press Urza about what such a reason could 
be, when the door to the room flew open. A small metal bird 
fluttered into the room, chased by young Harbin. The seven year 
old laughed and lunged at the small bird, which dodged his blows 
effortlessly and circled the room.
    Tawnos whistled a short tune, and the bird came to rest on 
the mantelpiece. The boy also quieted immediately, suddenly aware 
of the others in the room. "Uncle Tawnos," he said with a smile. 
Then his face turned stern. "Father, I'm sorry for interrupting."
    Urza smiled gently and said, "No interruption." He looked at 
the bird. "One of yours?" he asked Tawnos.
    Tawnos shrugged. "A small distraction, using some of the 
ideas we've been working with. It avoids the boy's blows because 
it detects the air moving in front of his hands, much as an 
insect would. He can catch it if he moves slowly, but I have 
never seen a young boy who had that much patience."
    Urza nodded. "Yotians may have many souls, but at your core 
you are still a toy maker."
    Lady Kayla, Queen-in-Exile of Yotia, had entered behind the 
boy, while a servant carrying her cloak remained outside. 
"Harbin! You know better than to disturb your father and Tawnos!"
    Urza allowed himself another gentle smile and said again, "No 
interruption. On a day like this, it would be hard to get any 
real work done anyway. Come in, and let us toast our good 
fortune."
    Tawnos turned to pick up an oversized "elephant" bottle of 
red wine, a gift of the nobles. The Argivians liked their wines 
bloodred and furniture-polish bitter. Urza fetched two goblets, 
one for each of the other adults, and his own chalice. The last 
had been Urza's own handiwork. He had converted the central pump 
that had worked the last of Tocasia's onulets, a beast now as 
mythological in Argive as minotaurs and rocs.
    Tawnos poured a small amount for himself and for Kayla and a 
more generous helping for Urza.
    Urza raised his chalice in a toast. "We have passed through 
fire over the past few years, and that has tempered us. Now the 
fires grow hotter still, but we are stronger, and we are proof 
against the flame. To Argive and Korlis!"
    "To the memory of Yotia!" said Kayla.
    "To the new Lord High Artificer and Lord Protector of the 
Realms!" said Tawnos.
    "To the new Chief Scholar!" replied Urza, and metal clanked 
between them. Urza drained his cup and said, "We had best be 
moving along. If we are late, the Argivians will make being late 
part of every ceremony from here until doomsday!"
    Urza started for the door, then paused. He whistled a small 
tune, identical to the one Tawnos had used minutes before. The 
mechanical bird unfurled its wings and sailed off the 
mantelpiece. Harbin swatted at it but missed, and the bird 
fluttered around the room, dodging the young boy's best-aimed 
shots.

                          * * * * *

    The ceremony itself was typical of all Argivian ceremonies: 
long-winded and stifling. Tawnos had thought he would not survive 
the wedding earlier in the month, but this was infinitely worse, 
for he and Urza were at the center of the activity. There was no 
chance to sneak out when you were on the podium with all eyes on 
you.
    The Great Hall had once been a cathedral to a god now 
forgotten and out of fashion. It was packed with all manner of 
Argivian nobles, clad in finery that swelled their forms to twice 
their size. In addition the incense used in the hall was 
overwhelmed by the clashing odors of perfume worn by the Argivian 
women (and some of the men). Tawnos wondered if he could afford 
to sneeze in his tight outfit, and his eyes watered.
    The Argivians bothered Tawnos, and the nobles worst of all. 
Owing to the former apprentice's Yotian origin, most tended to 
treat him like some rustic relative. He always felt he was out of 
place in Kroog, a boy from the coastal provinces in the big city. 
At least, though, in Kroog he was among Yotians. Many of the 
Argivians seemed to assume that all Yotians had trouble with the 
language. They spoke slowly and loudly to him.
    Worse still were those Argivians who acted as if he were 
still no more than Urza's apprentice. Occasionally they did not 
address him at all in the Lord High Artificer's presence, as if 
he were no more than a hanger-on, a dogsbody, a servant to Urza. 
Even when the artificer made sure to mention Tawnos's inventions, 
such as the triskelion, a mobile fortification, the eyes of the 
nobles glazed over and Tawnos could almost hear their ears 
clicking off.
    No, thought Tawnos, worst of all were the stiff collars. He 
reached for his but halted his fingers in time. It would be just 
like a rural bumpkin to pull at his neckline in the middle of a 
ceremony.
    The ritual was interminable. There was a presentation of 
honors; a recognition of foreign delegations; a recognition of 
important nobles that was effectively a roll-call for the entire 
cathedral; a platitude by the Chamberlain of Argive that was 
longer than most sermons. This was followed by a listing of good 
things that had happened of late, which were (truly or otherwise) 
ascribed to the efforts of Urza and his faithful assistant, 
Tawnos.
    The tawny-haired man's position on the podium gave him a 
chance to sweep the crowd with his eyes and pick out faces. Kayla 
and Harbin in the front row. She seemed nearly wilted in her gown 
but was still game, while the boy had surrendered to boredom a 
half-hour back and was now kicking the sides of the pew in a 
desultory fashion. The apprentices were led by Richlau the 
schoolmaster, the senior students Rendall and Sanwell at his 
side. Sharaman was in full military harness and looking almost 
comfortable in his dress uniform.
    There were others: Argivian noblewomen in full regalia, and 
young courtiers vying with them for flashiness. Korlisian 
merchant lords, more restrained, but still bedecked in the most 
sumptuous of fashions. There were dwarven diplomats from the 
Sardian Mountains, a dour group of diminutive people who made the 
Argivians look positively festive and the Korlisians evenhanded. 
Their mountains held much of the resources that Urza needed, but 
they were willing to trade their metals and stones for gold, 
which Urza considered a minor metal of little real value in the 
battlefield.
    There were Yotians present, dressed colorfully but simply. 
They were refugees who had fled to Argive after the fall and 
represented some of the most powerful families in the region, yet 
next to the Argivians they seemed like poor relations.
    There were also others of whose identity Tawnos was unsure. 
There were a band of fur-wearing barbarians from Malpiri, and a 
group of priests, black-robed savants with mechanical devices 
hung around their necks. Gixians, Tawnos reminded himself, from a 
monastery far to the northwest. Urza had received an offer from 
them to aid in his studies, but Tawnos found them too fanatical 
in their devotion to the machines themselves. They treated even 
the ornithopters as if they were living creatures. It made Tawnos 
nervous, and he avoided them, as did most of the rest of the 
populace, who had no time for gods of any stripe.
    The chamberlain's invocation ground to a close, and he was 
replaced by the lord of Korlis, whose voice was slightly more 
pleasant but who seemed intent on showing everyone that her 
nation could be just as long-winded as the Argivians. She spoke 
of the recent events, of the erecting of the defensive towers 
along the borders of both Korlis and Argive, and of the continual 
ornithopter patrols that kept them safe from the Fallaji devils.
    It was more than just Urza's devices that kept them safe for 
the moment, Tawnos thought. Word had reached Penregon that Mishra 
had plundered most of Yotia and drained Zegon as well, and was 
looking for new supply sources. Apparently the attempts to fold 
Sarinth far to the west into the Fallaji empire had not gone 
well, and a huge force had settled there to besiege the principal 
cities. Instead of gaining needed resources, Mishra had succeeded 
in opening another front. Should he continue in this fashion, 
Urza's brother would soon surround himself with enemies.
    Of course the situation was not lost on the Argivian nobles, 
nor on the Korlisian merchants who wanted to reopen their 
precious trade routes. Now was the time, they said, to press the 
advantage. Now was the time to retake Yotia. Now was the time to 
put Mishra in his place.
    Urza had surprised Tawnos with his response to the noble 
demands. In Yotia he retreated to his orniary and let others do 
the talking and planning. Now he met with the nobles and the 
merchant lords whenever possible and never shirked from showing 
them some new device or implementation. They, in turn, had opened 
their vaults to him, allowing him access to power stones, land, 
and other resources needed to build.
    Tawnos thought he knew Urza's plan. The artificer would 
continue to build his avengers, ornithopters, sentinels, and 
soldiers until he had more than any dragon engine could best. 
Only then would he move against his brother.
    Tawnos hoped Urza would have time to carry out his plan. 
Given the enthusiasm of the Argivians and the greed of the 
Korlisians, he was not sure.
    The lord of Korlis finally surrendered the podium, and his 
young majesty presented the titles. Urza knelt (a feat in itself, 
considering the stiffness of his costume), and the young king 
placed the Lord High Artificer's mitre on Urza's head. Then he 
laid the scepter of the Protector of the Realms in Urza's hands. 
The crowd burst into applause as Urza rose and recognized their 
cheers.
    They were quieter for Tawnos, but only slightly. He received 
the heavy velvet robes (lengthened to cover his large frame) of 
the Chief Scholar. He knelt as well, and the king placed a golden 
circlet on his head. Even kneeling, Tawnos was almost as tall as 
the king and had to bow forward to prevent the Argivian from 
having to reach up.
    Then the benediction, and Tawnos swore he saw the entire 
audience shudder to a man as the chamberlain remounted the podium 
and launched into a rousing screed against the Fallaji devils. 
That was what was missing, Tawnos thought. There were no Fallaji 
present, at least none who would announce their heritage. The 
chamberlain declared Urza to be Lord Protector of all the lands 
not held by the Fallaji and their allies.
    In other words, all lands not under the rulership of Mishra.
    Finally the ceremony was over, and the people filed out for a 
ceremonial banquet, which would be dominated by even more lengthy 
speeches. Every merchant and noble with at least some claim to 
the title would rise and deliver his own thoughts on the matter.
    Tawnos couldn't wait.
    Back in his chambers Urza smiled and pulled the miter from 
his head. It was a heavy thing, and Tawnos had wondered if the 
older man would fall over from the weight.
    Urza hefted the miter, clearly delighted. Finally Tawnos 
said, "I've never seen you this cheerful when the people praised 
you in Kroog. Is it the fact that they are your own countrymen 
that makes you smile?"
    Urza looked up, puzzled for moment. Then he smiled broadly. 
"You think that is it? That I have become a vain old popinjay, 
thriving on the adulation of the crowds? Look into my new hat, my 
former student, and see the truth of the matter."
    Tawnos moved over and looked over the brim of the upturned 
miter. Gemstones were sewn into the lining of the tall hat. That 
was why it was so heavy.
    No, not gemstones, Tawnos realized. Power stones, pure and 
un-flawed. There were more than had been in the chest Urza had 
shown him five years ago.
    Tawnos looked at Urza, and the Lord Protector beamed a warm 
smile. That was why he had put up with all the pomp and trappings 
of the ceremony, the Chief Scholar realized. That was why he had 
endured the speeches and courted the nobles and why, while 
claiming modesty, had accepted the post of Lord High Artificer.
    All to gain more power. All to gain more resources.
    Urza left the miter in Tawnos's hands and went to fetch his 
chalice before the pair left for the interminable banquet. Tawnos 
shook his head. His former master had not changed at all. His 
devices were still at the center of his universe.
    Tawnos did not know if that knowledge made him feel better or 
worse.
    
                           Chapter 23
                     CIRCLES OF PROTECTION

    The Brotherhood of Gix summoned their master to Mishra's 
workshop.
    The priests did so only because Mishra, the Artifice Qadir of 
the Fallaji, was going to decamp soon, moving westward to the 
caravan city of Tomakul. The Sarinthian front had expanded into a 
full-fledged war, and Mishra needed to be closer to action. 
Already manpower had been stripped from occupied Yotia, and 
troops were making the long trek north and west to the wooded 
shores of Ronom Lake
    The Gixians knew of these decisions, for they had infiltrated 
most of the daily workings of the workshop and the surrounding 
factories. Over the past few years they had become a regular part 
of Mishra's court and were for the most part tolerated. They had 
spun that tolerance into a web of information. Little came to 
Mishra's factory that did not reach the Gixians' ears and through 
them, their master.
    The mines were mostly tapped out now, said the reports from 
Yotia, and entire mountains were being stripped away for any 
resources they could provide. Similarly, the tribute of men and 
supplies from Zegon was drying up. Far-off Almaaz had bought its 
own protection by sharing its mystic song mages, but Mishra was 
now depending on that nation for iron and lumber as well.
    Then there was Sarinth. There were the official commander's 
reports of great dragonlike wyrms that haunted the forests, and 
light troops who struck from ambush. The city of Sarinth itself, 
immured to years of assaults from the Yumok nation to the north, 
was as hard to crack as an iron-shod chestnut.
    There were other Sarinthian reports, these from Ashnod and 
harder for the Gixians to get their hands on, though not 
impossible. These reports were friendly and conversational, but 
they never failed to mention the problems of the current Fallaji 
commander and the inevitable tragedy that would ensue if the red-
haired woman were not immediately given free reign in military 
matters. Mishra held firm to his decision: he did not give her a 
command, nor did he call her back to his side, and the Gixians 
approved of both decisions.
    And last there were the reports from the east, from the 
passes through the Kher Ridges to Argive and Korlis. The war 
there was a slow grinding process, as two titans hurled 
themselves against each other. Urza was busy, of that there was 
no doubt, ripping huge chunks from the Argivian landscape to feed 
his own war machines. The land was ringed with towers that 
appeared almost overnight, each tower containing mechanical 
protections. The camp was awash in rumors that the Argivians were 
about to cross the mountains and the desert and press on into 
occupied Yotia. Mishra was forced to relocate his court to 
Tomakul, closer to the heart of his empire, closer to the seige 
of Sarinth, and further from the thinly defended Yotian border.
    This last item was a bad thing for the Brotherhood of Gix. 
Such a move would disrupt their organization, which they had 
shaped into a perfect machine. So they gathered in their quarters 
(situated beside the spillage from one of the great iron 
foundries) and called their master.
    Their chant was logical and precise, their motions practiced 
and machinelike. They had been taught how to call upon Gix before 
they left Koilos, and the demon had left precise instructions 
when to call upon him. Now, in the windowless room of their small 
quarters, the twenty-four brothers chanted the proper dirges and 
motioned their hands in the proper manner, carving symbols in the 
air.
    In return, the air winked at them, coalescing into a great 
pillar of blackish smoke, smelling of burning oil. There was the 
sound of crashing gears, and from the smoke stepped their master, 
Gix, resplendent in his living armor, his snakelike tendrils 
flexing and coiling from the back of his head.
    "You have summoned me," said Gix. "I trust it is for a good 
reason."

                          * * * * *

    Gix moved unseen through the darkness of the desert night, a 
landscape hidden from the heavens by clouds of smoke and 
illuminated from beneath by the light of the foundries that ran 
around the clock.
    The great trees that had originally cradled the factories 
were dead now, their lumber sawn up and used to make catapults, 
rams, dragon engines, and other war machines. The surviving 
stumps had been hollowed out and converted to barracks and 
foundries and plated with sheets of thin copper. There were still 
humans about, both warriors and slaves, but much of the work was 
now done by automatons- great clanking beasts that shuffled 
mindlessly from one task to the next.
    It was no Phyrexia, thought the demon, but it was a good 
start.
    His followers had been correct. Once Mishra relocated his 
command center, he would be tougher to strike at. Further, it 
might take years for the human artificer to raise Tomakul to the 
same wonderful level of civilization that he had achieved in this 
region.
    Now was the time to strike, the demon thought, before the 
advantage was lost.
    Gix moved like a spirit through the empty hallways and 
mechanized forges. He left his children, the priests, behind, 
after rewarding them with a touch of the dreams of Phyrexia. They 
lay in a stupor now, dreaming of their mechanical paradise. Gix 
moved best alone.
    Were he discovered, Gix knew that with but a thought he could 
easily return to Koilos. He had gained an affinity with the 
desert caverns over the years, and simply by willing it so he 
could travel there. He needed help from his priests to be 
summoned elsewhere, but he could go home at will.
    Gix allowed a narrow smile to cross his lipless face. He 
thought of Koilos as home now. Not Phyrexia, to which he could 
not return, not at least without first punishing the interloper. 
Not without taking from the trespasser his valued stone of power.
    There was only one incident en route to the workshop. An 
automaton from one of Mishra's factories crossed before him. 
Sensing something unfamiliar, it stopped in place, whirring 
menacingly. Gix was uncertain if the machine had the rude 
sentience to recognize him as a stranger or if it was merely 
sounding an alarm as an automatic reaction.
    In the passing years he had developed an understanding of 
these simple machines made by clumsy mortal children. Gix reached 
out mentally to the artifact, caressing it with soft words as a 
human would comfort a wounded animal. It did not matter if the 
animal understood the words, only that it understood the intent 
behind them. The priesthood back in Koilos had been rebuilding 
the old su-chi automatons, and this one was little different from 
them.
    The machine shivered for a moment as Gix's mind touched the 
small shard of power stone that served both as its heart and 
brain. The demon changed only a few small matrixes within the 
crystal itself, but those were enough to convince the lead-minded 
device there was nothing out of the ordinary and no alarm need be 
sounded. The automaton stopped whirring and soon scooted out of 
sight.
    Gix entered the workshop, gliding past bleary-eyed guards who 
no more noticed his passing than they did the smokes that now 
rose from the surrounding landscape. The demon's feet did not 
touch the ground as he floated effortlessly to the thief's 
chambers, where his minions had assured him his prey awaited.
    Indeed he was present: slumped backward in a work chair 
before a great board made of slate, a piece of chalk still 
clenched in his hand. Gix's mechanical eyes swept the room. It 
was filled with books, most of which were covered in a thick 
coating of dust. At the far side near a heavy wooden throne 
another man, a Fallaji guard, was asleep.
    Gix nodded. One less being he would have to kill immediately. 
He moved toward the inert form of the sleeping Mishra.
    The human looked almost cherubic in slumber. His beard was 
now flecked with bits of gray, and his hair was cropped at the 
neckline behind him. Mishra was wider now than he had been when 
he had entered Phyrexia, the excess weight spilling over his belt 
line. There were small wrinkles beside his eyes, and lines 
stretched across his forehead. The crown of rulership had rested 
heavily on that head.
    But Gix could sense an alertness about the man, even in 
slumber. His mind was working, dreaming of new devices and new 
plans. Even in rest there was the sense of motion about him. The 
demon would have to move quietly.
    Originally Gix had thought to merely excise the top of the 
man's head and scoop the brains out slowly, to make Mishra aware 
of what was happening to him before he perished. Now, seeing the 
man think even when asleep, Gix decided to merely slash his 
throat and take the power stone for himself.
    The power stone. It lay within a small pouch hanging from 
around Mishra's neck. Gix could feel the crystal's presence, just 
as he could feel Mishra's, or feel the automaton's heart. The 
ordinary human across the room was a statue, a lump of earth by 
comparison. Both Mishra and his stone exuded a sense of power 
that Gix could almost taste.
    The demon held up a finger, and a single needle-sharp talon 
extruded from his fingertip. He leaned forward. One swift cut, he 
thought, along the base of the jawline, from ear to ear.
    There was a noise, a humming so soft that only Gix could hear 
it. Beneath the folds of the human's vest, within its pouch the 
gem began to glow in rainbow colors. It flickered to life of its 
own volition, the colors spilling from the gathered opening of 
the bag and bathing Mishra in its light.
    Gix froze for a moment and not of his own will. The stone was 
aware of him as he was aware of it. Somehow, it could prevent him 
from carrying out his plan. He pressed a hand forward, and with 
every inch progress became more difficult, until at last it was 
like pressing through forged iron: solid and unrelenting.
    Gix shook his head in puzzlement. There was no indication 
earlier that the stone offered any personal protection to its 
holder. Yet he could not lean forward and end this one's life.
    The demon changed his goal. He would take the gem itself and 
then kill the human for his insult.
    The gem seemed to sense Gix's intent and flashed brightly as 
the demon reached for its pouch. Gix pulled his hand back and let 
out a hissing curse. The stone's proximity had burned him like 
acid, and wisps of smoke rose from his scalded hands.
    Across the room, the other human stirred in his sleep. Gix 
tucked the burned hand under his arm, muttering in a clicking 
tongue of the pain.
    Gix looked at the slumbering Mishra and let out a low, 
catlike hiss. The stone offered some protection to itself and its 
user, at least from creatures such as the Phyrexian. It burned 
him as he approached.
    No, not burned, thought the demon. It was attempting to 
recognize him and to dominate him, to command him, as it had 
commanded the dragon engines years earlier. The stone, though 
itself unthinking, recognized his sentience, and it rejected him 
as dangerous. That rejection was the burning.
    Gix perched on the edge of the worktable. The stone protected 
the man. The stone protected the stone while in the man's 
possession. Gix thought about it for a few moments, then smiled.
    The answer was to change the nature of the stone, or to 
change the nature of the man.
    The stone was half of its original, and perhaps its 
protective nature stemmed from that cleaving. It was seeking its 
mate, thought Gix. Perhaps it had somehow determined that Mishra 
was its opposing half. That would explain the wards that kept a 
Phyrexian creature such as himself at bay.
    Unify the halves, and the entire crystal would be restored. 
Gix could take it back to his homeland.
    And the man? Gix looked at the sleeping Mishra. Perhaps he 
could be changed as well, altered to something that would serve 
Gix's masters better as a live slave than as a dead example.
    Yes. It would take time, but Gix had little but time. Mishra 
was separated from his fellow humans by his intelligence, by his 
position, and by his power. Could Gix recruit him, and his 
brother for that matter, into his world?
    Would that not be a more fitting punishment than just killing 
them?
    Gix let a lipless smile spread across his face. Yes, there 
were more ways to kill a creature than just by ending its life. 
Sometimes all you had to do was give it what it wanted.
    Gix tilted his head back and barked a short string of 
clicking syllables. Within his body, small alterations were made, 
and he called out to the machines in the caverns of Koilos. They 
answered his call and pulled him back to their warmth and 
comfort. In an instant he was gone.
    In Mishra's workshop, Hajar stirred and inwardly cursed for 
allowing himself to drift off. The preparations for relocating to 
Tomakul had drained the life from him as well as from Master 
Mishra.
    Hajar padded over to where Mishra was sleeping, still seated 
in one of his chairs. His vest had come open, and the pouch 
containing his talisman, his multicolored stone, lay on his 
shirt. Hajar smiled and tucked the pouch back within Mishra's 
shirt, covering the qadir of the Fallaji with a blanket.
    The guard blinked and sniffed the air. There was an odor 
present, a mixture of burning coal and machine oil; probably the 
result of a wind shifting its bearings and blowing over some 
sulfur pit or workroom.
    Hajar shook his head. He for one would be glad when they were 
quit of this place and back under the desert sky. He checked the 
doors to make sure they were locked, then retreated back to his 
own position and drifted back to sleep, dreaming of that desert.
    In their quarters, the Brotherhood of Gix dreamed as well, 
dreams sent by their masters. There were new orders, said the 
dreams, and it would require that they serve in Mishra's court 
longer than had been planned. But the rewards would be great once 
they succeeded.
    All the dreams in Mishra's encampment that night were 
pleasant.
    
                           Chapter 24
                         THE THIRD PATH

    Loran moved down the curved hallway of the tower with 
practiced grace. For the first year of her tenancy among the 
ivory towers, she had regularly gotten lost, for the corridors 
and walls were not straight but rather curved to fill their outer 
shape. Slowly she had stopped thinking in terms of north and 
south, and instead estimated in terms of distance from the 
tower's center and the angle from the entrance. Now the towers 
were no longer an enigma to her.
    The archimandrite had noticed her growing assuredness, of 
course-she seemed to notice everything-and congratulated her on 
the matter. "Drafna still rises from meetings and heads for the 
wrong door," she said.
    Drafna was confused by many things but proved to be brilliant 
with artifacts. He could postulate an entire artifact from the 
merest scraps and was rarely incorrect in his assessment. As he 
pored over Tocasia's notes he occasionally reminded Loran of the 
young Urza and Mishra, so intent was his desire for 
understanding.
    On a daily level, Drafna proved to be a trial. He regularly 
disagreed with whatever the majority seemed to prefer. Were it 
not for Hurkyl, he would have left the Union long ago.
    Hurkyl held the leash, and Loran soon realized many of 
Drafna's discoveries were in fact made by her and only relayed 
through the balding scholar. She was a timid woman, almost to the 
point of being invisible. In the three years Loran had been at 
Terisia City, she had heard the woman complete a full sentence 
only three times. In many ways, Hurkyl reminded Loran of herself 
as a young woman.
    City life seemed to agree with Hurkyl. She, her husband, and 
all their students back on Lat-Nam, apparently, had shaved their 
heads because the school was mostly underground and shaving of 
all body hair kept the lice at bay. Since staying at the ivory 
towers of Terisia City, Hurkyl had allowed her hair to grow out 
and proved to have thick, luxurious tresses that caught the light 
like strands of obsidian cord. Drafna had returned to Lat-Nam 
several times, but Hurkyl always remained. The archimandrite was 
the center of the Union, but Hurkyl was one of the keystones of 
that group, as well as Feldon and, despite himself, Drafna.
    And, Loran had come to recognize, herself as well.
    The halls were full of lesser scribes and scholars as she 
wended her way to Feldon's private sanctuary. The city was 
quickly becoming a refuge for those individuals who saw their 
work threatened elsewhere. Most were from the lands bordering the 
Fallaji empire, but there were numerous expatriates from Zegon, 
Tomakul, and other Mishra-held cities. To Loran's surprise, there 
were some from Korlis and Yotia as well, and some dwarves from 
the Sardian Mountains who did not trust Urza and the Argivians.
    There had also been an infusion of charlatans, tricksters, 
hoaxers, and outright frauds. Yet for every three such con men 
(and con women) there was an individual who carried a useful 
device, an old scroll, or something that added to the growing 
body of knowledge kept in the tower. Loran would have evicted the 
lot of them, but the archimandrite had taken them in, and the 
Union was stronger for it.
    Then there was the Brotherhood of Gix. Their order of black-
robed monks venerated some sort of machine god, which should have 
made them invaluable in working with ancient artifacts. But their 
love of the artifacts approached fetishism, and they were 
continually judging both the artifacts and those who used them. 
To those careless enough to ask, they explained at length that 
they held Urza and Mishra both unworthy of the great devices they 
had built and believed the two would be punished for their 
effrontery. The brotherhood left little doubt that it had the 
same opinion of Drafna and herself. As a group, they seemed to be 
holding something back as well, listening to everyone but saying 
little in response save to offer praises to the machine.
    Feldon had brought back with him some seers from Sarinth and 
shamans and witch priests from the Yumok nations of the 
mountainous northern coast. These last were heavy men with sallow 
skins, sweating profusely beneath their furs and seal-hide capes. 
Loran could see why Feldon got along with them, for both he and 
the Yumok priests were uncomfortable in the warmth of Terisia 
City.
    The archimandrite brought the scholars and librarians of her 
city. They ranged in quality and temperament from enthusiastic 
bibliophiles to hidebound book-straighteners. The latter would 
rather die than let anyone open their cherished tomes and risk 
the information within escaping. Still with kind words and a 
steely will the archimandrite pried their holy texts from their 
hands.
    There was one bitter disappointment. The song mages of Sumifa 
refused the offer of the Union. Instead, they had thrown in with 
Mishra and were using their skills in his service.
    "I don't see why that's a problem," Drafna said upon getting 
the news. "The Sumifans-all Almaazians, for that matter-are an 
irritating people at best. Their language is filled with trills 
and warbles, and it's hard to understand them."
    "They have a version of old knowledge," said the 
archimandrite calmly. "Their songs carry some sort of power, 
which allows them to calm, and to some degree control, savage 
beasts."
    "Hokum," snorted Drafna.
    "Perhaps," responded Loran, "but there might be truth behind 
their claims, some natural effect we are missing. There might be 
something we can learn from."
    "If there is anything at the core of their teachings," said 
Drafna, "it is wrapped under so much folderol and mummery that 
it's generally useless to us. Like that machine god of the 
Gixians. Now there's a bad lot: creepy fanatics with delusions of 
mechanical Utopia. They're just not all here." The scholar tapped 
his bald pate repeatedly for emphasis.
    Feldon usually started frowning the moment Drafna opened his 
mouth. Now he slapped the table with an open hand. "Don't dismiss 
the song mages out of hand. Just because we don't understand a 
phenomenon doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
    Drafna turned frosty. "I find it hard to believe that music 
truly calms the savage breast, that's all."
    "I find it hard to believe in men flying in Thran artifacts," 
snapped Feldon. "Or in mechanical dragons, for that matter. But 
we live in a world where they exist, and I, for one, want to be 
prepared for them."
    Now, at Feldon's door, that conversation came back to Loran. 
Feldon and Drafna had become opposite poles in their discussions. 
Was that why Feldon had asked her to come to his personal study, 
as opposed to bringing something before the entire group?
    She knocked, and a heavy voice bade her enter.
    Feldon's study was spartan-a low table piled with books in an 
orderly fashion; a few chairs around a low table; and a small 
slate board along the wall. The room was lit by a single window. 
The heavy bear of a man was seated before the table, which was 
clear but for one item.
    "Did you hear the news?" Loran asked as she entered.
    Feldon glanced up with a haggard look. "About Yotia? Drafna 
told me about it at breakfast. It's ancient history already."
    Loran nodded. Even rumors took their time traversing the 
length of the Fallaji empire. But some refugees from Zegon had 
arrived in the city the previous evening with important news: 
Urza had made his move across the Korlis/Yotian border and was 
liberating cities from the overmatched Fallaji.
    "Ancient history," said Feldon. "By the time the news reaches 
us, Whatsisname could be in Tomakul."
    "Or have been stopped by a counteroffensive," noted Loran. 
"But you did not ask me up here to discuss the news from the 
battlefronts. What's wrong?"
    "What do you make of this?" the lame man asked, motioning 
Loran forward. "Yumok fishermen brought it up with their nets; 
the same group that delivered that coral helmet a year ago."
    It was a cross between a bowl mounted on a thick pedestal and 
a squat, wide-rimmed goblet. The bowl was about a foot across, 
with a pair of heavy handles mounted on each side. The bowl 
appeared cop-perish, but it was unlike any copper Loran had seen 
before. The device reminded Loran of a sacrificial bowl used by 
the old religions of Argive.
    "It's called a sylex," said Feldon, his eyes not leaving the 
bowl. "At least that's what it calls itself. And it's from 
Golgoth, which I've never heard of either."
    "You know what it is?" asked Loran.
    Feldon tipped the bowl toward Loran. The interior of the 
bowl, which would normally be smooth, was covered with small 
incised figures that seemed to spiral before her eyes from the 
rim into the base.
    "It's purpose is written on it," said Feldon.
    Loran narrowed her eyes. "These are Thran glyphs," she said 
at last.
    Feldon nodded. "I can't read those characters," he said, then 
pointed to another curving line of characters. "But these are 
Fallaji characters, written in an arcane style that I can read. 
These resemble the song markings of the Sumifans, and these match 
the incisions on my cane. These"-he pointed to a few other lines-
"are unlike anything I've ever seen. Do you know what they mean?"
    "A way of reading Thran," said Loran. "A master cipher to a 
host of old languages."
    Feldon smiled. "Indeed. If only the message it bore was not 
so grim."
    Loran raised an eyebrow. "And it is?"
    Feldon leaned forward over the bowl. "I don't have all of it, 
but I think I have most of it. It's called a sylex, and it's from 
Golgoth, as I said. Whether Golgoth is a land, a king, or its 
maker, I have no idea. It is supposed to herald the end of the 
world." Loran looked at Feldon and said nothing.
    Feldon shook his head. "I know what you're thinking. Mummery 
and claptrap. That's one reason I didn't bring it forward to the 
others. Drafna thinks I'm going to start hanging strands of 
burning incense and spinning prayer wheels any day now. But 
listen to the translation of the archaic Fallaji: 'Wipe the land 
clear. Bring the ending. Topple the empires to bring a fresh 
start.' And this: 'Call the end, fill with memories of the land.' 
Sounds pretty dense."
    "Fill with memories," said Loran. "Sounds like something out 
of charlatan's patter. Old magics that require the whisper of a 
dying sun and the smile of a cat. And wasn't there an old Fallaji 
legend of a city in a bottle, which survived when the rest of the 
world was to be destroyed?" Feldon looked up. "You don't believe 
it then?" Loran shook her head. "I think this is a wondrous find, 
which will unlock many other mysteries for us. Perhaps it carries 
some warning of an ancient time. But no, I don't believe it."
    "Touch it," said Feldon, leaning away from the bowl. "Go 
ahead, touch it."
    Loran reached out and grasped the side of the bowl. There was 
an instant feeling of disquiet, as if the sun had suddenly passed 
behind a cloud, leaving her in shadow. She looked up, and the 
entire room seemed to have dimmed. Out of that dimness, she 
thought she heard a cry, the plaintive lament of a young child, 
though so faint that it was almost below her ability to discern.
    She released the bowl's edge, and the world returned to 
normal. The sun passed from behind the cloud, and the child's cry 
was gone entirely.
    "You felt it too," said Feldon.
    Loran nodded and sat down opposite Feldon, the sylex between 
them. "There is something here."
    "Something we don't understand yet," said Feldon. "Is it a 
warning? Or a weapon?"
    "But what does it mean?" asked Loran. "Fill with memories?"
    "Has Hurkyl taught you any of her meditative techniques?" 
inquired Feldon.
    "She's taught the archimandrite, who's passed a bit on to 
me," said Loran. "But there are a number of meditative techniques 
used by scholars to focus attention and concentration, ranging 
from the song-smiths of Sumifa to-"
    Feldon interrupted her with a hasty wave of the hand. "But 
Hurkyl, our silent compatriot, what of her meditations?"
    "The archimandrite said 'she sits in the morning and thinks 
of her home in Lat-Nam, of the azure-colored waves, white with 
froth, suspended over the shore before crashing down.' I think it 
calms her to think of home," said Loran. "While it is fresh in 
her mind, it keeps her from needing to return to her island."
    "Anything else?" asked Feldon.
    Loran shrugged. "There have been some interesting incidents," 
she said. "The archimandrite mentions that after her meditating 
sessions, Hurkyl's quarters become neater. The books are shelved 
in their proper order, and her styli are back in their case. No 
one remembers putting them away, of course."
    "You believe that?" said the bear of a man gruffly.
    "I think we need to research the matter further," returned 
Loran "If it were anyone else but Hurkyl, Drafna would be 
shouting from the parapets that it was all bunk and hokum."
    "Yes," nodded Feldon. "But have you tried the techniques? 
Have you thought about your homeland?"
    Loran shrugged again. "I don't really want to think about 
Argive at the moment or what is happening there."
    "Yes, I suppose so," said the bearish scholar. "I'm going to 
have to learn that technique, I suppose. Sounds like it might be 
akin to filling something with memories of the land."
    Loran did not answer but looked at the bowl. She reached out 
for a moment but did not touch it again.
    Feldon said, "If it is a weapon, is it one the brothers could 
use?"
    Loran shook her head. "I don't think so. There is no 
mechanism here, no set of weights and cables, no obvious source 
of its power. All there is is a warning and the bad feeling that 
surrounds it."
    Feldon nodded. "I agree. And yet why do I feel so loathe to 
tell the others about it?"
    Loran concurred with the feeling. "Tell the archimandrite at 
least," she said. "And make a parchment rubbing of the interior. 
The translations within will prove invaluable to our work. Then 
put it in a safe place, secure from any would-be thieves. Just in 
case it is what it says it is."
    Feldon nodded again, but his eyes were on the sylex. "It's a 
little tempting, though, isn't it? Wiping everything clear and 
starting again?"
    Loran rose and paused at the door. "Yes," she said, "but your 
glaciers would probably melt. And then what would study?"
    Feldon allowed himself a weak smile. "You speak the voice of 
reason. No matter how bad things are now between Mishra and 
Whatsisname, it hasn't gotten all that bad yet."
    Loran smiled as well and left Feldon to his studies. Outside 
the room, in the curved hallway, she touched the hand that had 
held the bowl. It was numb, and feeling was only now starting to 
return to it. She flexed her fingers and tried to will the nerves 
to respond.
    Loran shook her head. It hadn't gotten all that bad.
    Yet.
    
                           Chapter 25
                              RACK

    Tawnos was in chains. A set of manacles bound his wrists no 
more than a foot apart, and a second set similarly constrained 
his ankles. The chains of the manacles were gathered together at 
his midsection where another, longer chain secured the entire 
collection to a large iron ring in the floor. He could not stand 
up fully, much less move comfortably.
    Not that there was much room to move in or places to go if he 
could. The room was without furniture save for a single stool. A 
grate above allowed in some diffuse light on an irregular 
schedule, and another grate in the floor carried away waste. A 
single iron door with a shutter was set along one wall. A human 
skull leered in the corner, the remains of a previous occupant. 
Other than that, nothing. Nothing but him and his chains
    A pity, really, thought Tawnos, because the war had been 
going so well up to that point.
    Mishra had spread himself too thin, and the combined kingdoms 
of Argive and Korlis took advantage of the weakness. Mishra 
managed to hold the northern passes well enough, but the defenses 
into Yotia were threadbare at best. Raiding from the combined 
kingdoms intensified, until finally a group of Korlisian 
volunteers were trapped in Yotia and massacred.
    The Martyrs of Korlis were noteworthy for both their youth 
and the fact that they were not in the pay of anyone else. 
Instead they were true patriots of their nation, the sons and 
daughters of merchant lords. Their slaughter electrified the 
southern of the two united countries, and demands rang out to the 
combined king to take action immediately.
    It had happened as Tawnos had predicted, before Urza was 
ready, but later than Tawnos himself had anticipated. The Lord 
Protector had sufficient manpower to throw his machinery south 
without seriously depleting the northern passes. With most of 
Mishra's forces heading west to Sarinth, no one expected a strike 
against Argive.
    There were strikes, of course, but they were badly planned 
and hastily launched and dealt with by the forces at hand. 
Instead, a full army of Argivians and newly patriotic Korlisians 
headed south and west, backed by ornithopters, Yotian soldiers, a 
variety of avengers, including the new sentinel model, 
triskelions, and a four-part flying creature called a tetravus. 
The legions spilled over the borders and into occupied Yotia.
    The Fallaji garrisons were not enough to hold the borders but 
sufficient to offer more than token resistance and prevent a 
quick campaign. The Fallaji began a regular retreat over the next 
year, withdrawing from one province to strike in another. They 
burned the territories to which they never intended to return.
    By the fall of the first year the areas south of the wreckage 
of Kroog were freed from Fallaji rulership, if not their raids. 
This included Jorilin and the other coastal cities. By the end of 
next year, the Fallaji had been driven from most of Yotia with 
the exception of the trans-Mardun provinces and the Sword 
Marches. Seven enemy dragon engines had been destroyed in the 
process in pitched battles that tested Urza's machines to the 
utmost.
    The land was wrecked by the despoiling Fallaji and the wars 
of liberation, but it was retaken at last. Tawnos rode at the 
head of the army through the streets of recovered towns to 
cheers. To hard eyes as well, from those who had suffered under 
the Fallaji and wondered what their former queen was doing, safe 
and secure in Penregon.
    They got their answer soon enough. Yotia was incorporated 
into the combined kingdoms of Korlis and Argive, without so much 
as asking the newly freed people. The queen would not return, and 
Yotia would be a vassal state for the unified kingdoms. After 
more than ten years of war, Yotia had traded one master for 
another.
    Tawnos understood this at the time. He knew it was the only 
way to convince the Argivian nobles and Korlisian merchant lords 
to help mend the shattered landscape and feed a population whose 
fields had been burned by the retreating Fallaji. But the part of 
him that was Yotian did not like it, and it was clear others felt 
the same way.
    There was a similar reaction to the Lord Protector's next 
decision. The people assumed that Urza would clear out the rest 
of the provinces, restoring a complete Yotia. Instead he eschewed 
retaking the Sword Marches of his father-in-law. The army massed 
for an assault across the Mardun, making for Tomakul itself.
    The Yotians muttered and talked about the Korlis merchants, 
and how the Korlisians lusted to regain their protected trade 
routes to beyond Tomakul. Tawnos knew better-Mishra had 
apparently made Tomakul his base of operations, and Urza was 
coming for his brother.
    The procedure was slow, methodical, and utterly relentless. 
The advance was held to thirty miles a day, though some of the 
automatons could travel further than that. At every night's stop 
one of Urza's towers was erected, fitted with great mirrors and 
signal fires to communicate with its neighbors. A permanent 
garrison was stationed of men and machines, and the remainder 
pressed on.
    As they pressed westward the resistance stiffened, and more 
manpower was called for. From his headquarters in Penregon, Urza 
was finally forced to weaken the passes in order to supply the 
main assault. In addition the Lord Protector hired mercenary 
units, promising plunder when Tomakul fell. The Korlisians were 
nervous about the decision to offer Tomakul to the sword, but 
since most of the mercenaries were theirs, they abided by it.
    By this time Tawnos was leading the army westward, though 
officially in a capacity advisory to General Sharaman. Tawnos 
knew the strengths and weakness of his machines, and the general 
trusted Tawnos's judgment sufficiently to translate the Master 
Scholar's advice into orders. They were within sight of the great 
golden domes of Tomakul when everything fell apart.
    Fallaji Cavalry had struck along the length of the supply 
line throughout the march and on several occasions had taken a 
tower, forcing part of the army to double back to re-establish 
their lines of communications. At first the attacks had been 
sporadic, but now they were almost continual. Indeed Tawnos 
blamed their defeat in part on the regular nature of those 
attacks. The Argivians had been immured to the continual raiding, 
and as a result they didn't realize the nature of the assaults 
had changed.
    Tawnos also blamed the defeat on lack of adequate 
information. Sarinth's capital had fallen as they pressed west, 
after years of siege, and no one told the Argivian force. Most of 
the Sarinthian countryside was still in revolt, but the nation's 
great walled city had finally fallen and troops previously tied 
down in siege were now flooding south, bearing down on Tawnos's 
column.
    Urza had taken too long to arrive at Tomakul, and Mishra now 
had the opportunity to respond in force.
    First were the dragon engines. Mishra had lashed together at 
least a dozen, most of those clanking imitations, plus two of the 
ones that had leveled Kroog. These moved like panthers and struck 
without mercy. There was also a new type, one that could fly, and 
it scattered the ornithopters like sparrows before a hawk.
    Then there were the transmogrants: zombielike beings that had 
once been men but now were shambling engines of destruction. 
These bunched up against their assailants, and Tawnos's clay 
statues were slaughtered in droves. The transmogrants had been 
taught to pull the clay from the statues' forms, like ants 
cleaning a carcass. The amorphous clay had not the chance to 
regather itself.
    Neither did the Argivian army. From its position farthest 
forward, it was driven back to post after post: retreating, 
fighting, then retreating again. Word arrived that new Korlisian 
mercenaries were coming up the line, bringing with them the 
mechanical garrisons from the previous towers.
    The reinforcements never materialized. Instead the retreating 
Argivian forces found one of the towers in the hands of Mishra's 
cavalry, who had flanked the line of march and now bore down on 
the remains of Sharaman's force with Urza's own automatons.
    The field was covered in blood and resounded with the screams 
of the valiant and the dying. Tawnos held his own for a short 
while, surrounded by a pair of his clay statues. He formed one 
island of an archipelago of Argivian defenders, ringed by Fallaji 
swordsmen and unliving opponents. The sky belonged to flying 
engines of destruction.
    Then there was an explosion and darkness.
    He woke in the dark of the pit. He had been bruised badly, 
particularly around the face, but was otherwise unharmed. He had 
now been conscious several days, by his own count, and except for 
an un-speaking guard who slapped a bowl of gruel-thin porridge 
before him, there had been no visitors.
    There was a soft clicking noise as the shutter to the iron 
door slid open. A flash of dark eyes sparkled on the other side, 
and it slid back.
    Then the door was open, Tawnos winced at the brightness. 
Several figures stood in the doorway, silhouettes against the 
light beyond them.
    The foremost strode into the cell and removed her gloves. She 
wore spiked armor.
    "Hello, Duck," said Ashnod. "I hope you've enjoyed your 
quarters. It's not much, but it's better than you deserve."

                          * * * * *

    "It's called an oubliette," she said as two guards brought in 
furniture. "It's apparently an old Fallaji tradition from back 
when they took prisoners on a regular basis. A dimly lit cell, 
perfect for making personal enemies disappear. Tomakul is 
tunneled with them. We had to clear some of the bones out of this 
one so we could put you here. The skull was left as a reminder. 
Its owner starved here, ignored by the guards and abandoned by 
her captors."
    The guards brought in a heavy chair with thick pillows for 
padding. Ashnod set herself gently down on the pillows. The 
guards placed a small table before her. The table had clawlike 
legs that gripped the rough stone floor. Ashnod tried to shake 
the table, and when it did not move she nodded her approval.
    The table was fitted with a single manacle. One of Tawnos's 
hands, the right one, was freed of his wrist cuff and forced at 
dagger point through the table-mounted manacle, palm upward. The 
guards fastened the cuff shut with iron pins, and two of them 
left. One remained.
    "There are those among the Fallaji who want you dead," said 
Ashnod. "They are, fortunately, outnumbered by the ones who want 
you to suffer a long time first."
    She pulled from her bag a circular device looking like a flat 
plate, to which an odd set of struts and wires had been attached. 
She slid the plate forward beneath Tawnos's right hand. The 
remaining guard placed the dagger's edge against Tawnos's throat 
as Ashnod attached small clamps to each of his fingertips. The 
clamps drew blood as they pricked his flesh.
    Tawnos waited until the dagger had been withdrawn from his 
neck, then said, "And which group do you represent?" His lips 
felt like lumps from the earlier, unknown, beating.
    "As always, I represent myself," the red-haired woman said, 
throwing a knife-edge switch before her.
    Tawnos convulsed as a charge of energy passed up his hand and 
into his body. He nearly fell from his stool, but his hand was 
firmly manacled to the table, and the table was firmly set on the 
floor. He twisted and turned as the current ran through his body.
    Ashnod tripped open the switch. "It works," she said. Tawnos 
gasped, "What... is ... ?"
    Ashnod replied, "The Fallaji have a number of traditional 
tortures: rack, thumbscrew, and garrote, Mishra had worked his 
own version of the rack, years ago, designed to cause maximum 
discomfort for minimum effort. This"-she patted the device that 
had ensnared his hand-"is a smaller version of my own rack. Like 
it?"
    "Love it," gasped Tawnos. "Fits you perfectly. Why don't you 
just kill me?"
    "That's one option," said Ashnod. "One I don't want to be 
forced into."
    "Ashnod," said Tawnos, "when you were our prisoner, we 
treated you well."
    "Here's a hint, Duck," said Ashnod. "By Fallaji standards 
this is being treated well. Most of your compatriots have been 
killed. Mishra doesn't even trust Yotian slaves anymore. He 
thinks Urza can read their minds at a distance. Mishra wanted to 
deliver your head, pickled, to Momma Duck Urza. I talked him out 
of it; said you had knowledge we could use."
    "I won't tell you anything," spat Tawnos.
    "I know," said Ashnod calmly. "But it was either this or the 
pickling jar."
    "Why tell me this?" growled Tawnos. "In the hopes I'll tell 
you something useful?"
    "In part," said Ashnod.
    "And with your friend listening?" asked Tawnos. Ashnod shook 
her head. "Understanding Argivian is considered to be a black 
mark in the Fallaji armed forces these days. Watch." she turned 
to the guard and said clearly, "I turned your father into a 
transmogrant. And your grandfather and your brother too. Because 
they were insufficient bedmates." The guard said nothing.
    Ashnod turned back. "See? If I said the same thing in 
Fallaji, he'd be after my blood." She turned to the guard and 
barked out a command in the desert language. The guard started to 
protest in the same tongue, and Ashnod shouted at him again. The 
guard hesitated, glowered at Tawnos, then left the cell. The door 
swung shut behind him. The shutter opened briefly, then closed. 
"Now you have to do me a favor," said Ashnod. "I'm at your 
disposal," said Tawnos bitterly. "My back is to the door," she 
said. "And I figure our guards will be checking regularly on my 
progress with you. So when the shutter opens, give me the high 
sign and I'll give you a little dose."
    "Why would I do that?" said Tawnos.
    "Because if you don't, I'll have to zap you randomly just to 
keep up appearances," she said, and threw the knife-switch again. 
Tawnos's body stiffened as the charge roared up his arm. "The 
secret word is 'traitor,' okay?"
    "Easy to remember," said Tawnos. "Just stop doing that."
    "Oh come on," said Ashnod with a smile. "This is nothing 
close to a lethal dose for a man your size and age. Trust me, I 
know."
    "I believe you," said Tawnos. "Those transmogrants, the 
zombie men. They are yours, aren't they?"
    "What do you think?" she said, smiling.
    "They're horrible," said Tawnos.
    Ashnod's smile flickered for just a moment, and when it 
returned there was a forced feeling about it. "I thought you 
would understand, of anyone."
    "They were once living men," hissed Tawnos.
    "Emphasis on once," returned Ashnod. "They were criminals, 
slaves, prisoners; people they were going to kill and leave out 
for the vultures anyway! I found a use for them!"
    "Traitor!" snapped Tawnos quickly.
    Ashnod threw the switch, and another bolt of energy blasted 
through Tawnos's arm and shoulder. It seemed to him that she left 
the switch closed for slightly longer than she needed to. When 
Tawnos recovered, she continued.
    "The desert has only two resources. The Thran relics are one, 
and Mishra has gone as far as he can with them. The other is 
people. They're a resource too."
    Tawnos said nothing.
    "I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty," said Ashnod.
    "Or bloody," added Tawnos angrily.
    Her hand hovered over the switch, then pulled back. "We don't 
have all the wealth of the eastern nations," she said 
defensively. "We have to make do with what we have."
    "You don't take care of what you have," said Tawnos. When 
Ashnod looked at him, confused, he said, "You've stripped Yotia 
to the ground."
    Ashnod's eyes lowered. "Yes. That. I argued against that, 
too, but Mishra overruled me there. That ever happen with Urza?"
    Tawnos hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "More often than 
I want to think about. Why was it a bad idea?"
    "Didn't I just agree with you?" asked Ashnod.
    "Yes," said Tawnos, "but I probably won't like your reason 
why."
    "Because it's a waste of resources," said Ashnod. "Of 
material and manpower we might have held and used later."
    "Thought as much," said Tawnos. "Traitor."
    Another flip of the switch, though this one was not as long 
as previous. Nevertheless, Tawnos was sure that his heart had 
stammered in its beating in the middle of the jolt.
    "But you were overruled," continued Tawnos, when he could 
breath again.
    "Uh-huh," said Ashnod. "Mishra's been putting distance 
between the two of us for years now. He wants my transmogrants, 
my battle armor, and my other creations, but he doesn't want to 
be seen as depending on me. It's a sign of weakness among the 
Fallaji, and even after all these years he depends on their 
support."
    "The other chieftains," said Tawnos, guessing whom she meant.
    "And others," returned Ashnod. "He has an aide from way back 
who's like his second shadow. And then there's the Gixians. They 
would just love to go pawing through my notes."
    "Gixians?" inquired Tawnos. "The Brotherhood of Gix? Machine 
worshipers?"
    "Yeah," grunted Ashnod. "Nasty little creatures."
    "They're in the Argivian court as well," said Tawnos. "Your 
spies?"
    Ashnod shrugged. "Don't know. They may be playing both sides 
against the center. I don't trust them."
    "Nor I," agreed Tawnos. "Less now that I know they're working 
with Urza's brother as well. Traitors."
    Another throw of the knife-switch, and Tawnos yelped. Finally 
he said, "I don't know if I can take much more of this."
    "Agreed," said Ashnod. "And we've spent long enough for me to 
claim you'll be a very hard nut to crack. Loyal unto death to 
Momma Duck Urza and all that."
    "So they will kill me, now," spat Tawnos. "Was that what all 
this was? One last chance to taunt me?"
    "One last chance to see if you're as smart as I am," said 
Ashnod, sharply, "and one more chance to embarrass the others on 
whom Mishra depends so heavily. If everything goes well, a chance 
to have you owe me a favor. A girl can never be owed too many 
favors."
    "I don't understand you," said Tawnos.
    "You will," said Ashnod, "if you're as smart as I think you 
are. For now, this discussion is over." She flicked the switch 
shut again, and the pain radiated through Tawnos's body until 
finally the darkness swallowed him.
    Tawnos did not know how long she kept the charge going, but 
by the time he recovered the guards were back in the room and he 
had been freed from the table and its device. His right hand was 
a tight ball of pain as they refastened his original chains.
    "But you didn't ask anything," he gasped. "About the 
artifacts."
    Ashnod knelt beside him and hissed, "I don't need to ask 
anything. We have the remains of your precious artifacts. They 
will tell me more about Urza and you than a year and day of 
torture would."
    Then she was gone, and the room was in darkness again.
    For a long time he sat in the shadows, slowing mastering his 
racing heart and his labored breathing. Once the shutter in the 
door opened, then shut again after an unseen watcher determined 
Ashnod had not killed him.
    Tawnos slowly opened his hand. Clenched tightly in his palm 
were two of Ashnod's earrings and a spool of golden wire. The 
gemstones in the earrings glowed with their own internal light.
    She wanted him to prove he was as smart as she was, he 
thought.
    Tawnos allowed himself a smile, and crawled over to the skull 
that had been left in his cell.
    Ashnod was summoned to Mishra's court in the palace of the 
old Pasha of Tomakul. It was a month after her discussion with 
Tawnos, and three days after she had filed a final report on 
Tawnos's artifacts. There were definitely design components she 
could incorporate into her own work.
    She did not find Mishra at his workbench. Instead he was 
seated on the former pasha's throne, patting his fingertips 
together. Slowly.
    Ashnod had been surprised by Mishra's appearance when she 
first returned from Sarinth. The man had let his waistline grow, 
and there were jowls beneath the silver-flecked beard. He was 
decked in his desert robes, billowing things that made him seem 
all the fatter. He had tucked into his belt the symbol of Sarinth 
itself, a razor-sharp ankh.
    The strain of the war was telling on him, thought Ashnod. He 
had been afraid of his brother's response for years, and when it 
finally came, he beat it back. Now he was afraid of the next 
assault.
    Beside the throne and slightly behind it was Hajar, trusty 
and silent as ever. On the other side was one of the Gixians, a 
repulsive priest with a hunchback and mismatched eyes.
    Ashnod knelt, then rose to hear Mishra's words.
    "Tawnos escaped his dungeon cell five nights ago," he said 
quietly.
    Ashnod frowned. "Why was I not informed?" she said hotly. 
"Has he been found?"
    "Not yet," said Mishra.
    "And no one told me?" snapped Ashnod. "I might have aided the 
pursuit." . "Or hindered it," said the Gixian.
    Ashnod gave the priest a look that clearly showed she was 
sizing him up for the transmogrant tank. "What do you mean?"
    Mishra answered instead. "An accusation has been made about 
your involvement in this matter."
    "My ..." said Ashnod, letting her voice trail off in 
astonishment. "Who makes such wild accusations?"
    Mishra said nothing, but the Gixian priest laughed. It was a 
nervous, clicking chuckle.
    "You did meet with the escaped prisoner," said Mishra 
finally.
    "Once!" said Ashnod hotly. "Almost a month ago! On your 
orders! To ascertain whether he would break under the rack. I 
quickly determined that he would not and left him there to rot. 
It was there in my report."
    "Of course," said Mishra smoothly, waving aside her comment 
and the report. "The fact of the matter is, Tawnos made his 
escape by means of a device similar to your own staff."
    "Pardon?" Ashnod wondered if she was acting sufficiently 
surprised by the news.
    "A device that weakened his guard," continued Mishra. "A 
device that allowed him to immobilize a patrol that had almost 
snared him. A device similar to that which you used against me 
once before, at the walls of Zegon."
    "That proves nothing," said Ashnod, then took a deep breath. 
"I was relieved of my own staff when I was captured in Kroog. 
Tawnos could have examined it then and prepared himself for the 
eventuality of capture. It is not my fault if your guards did not 
search him sufficiently."
    "And your conversation," said Mishra, ignoring her words. 
"Very unusual interrogation technique."
    "My methods have been suited to your needs before," said 
Ashnod, but she felt a cold chill run down her back. Had one of 
the guards been able to understand them?
    As if reading her mind Mishra said, "While the guards spoke 
only Fallaji, to prevent them from communicating with the 
prisoner, they did have fairly good memories. Their recitation of 
the words proved interesting. They did not understand any of the 
words, so the translation was garbled, but they paid special 
attention whenever you mentioned my name."
    The cold chill became a winter blast. Ashnod said, "If you do 
not trust me, Master, next time send along a guard who speaks the 
prisoner's language. I am sure there were mistakes in what they 
heard and reported to you."
    "I would be inclined to believe you," said Mishra, "were it 
not for one last piece of evidence. Priest, if you please?"
    The Gixian chuckled and held out his hand. In his palm were 
the setting to a pair of earrings. The gemstones had been 
removed.
    "Found them in the sewers beneath the cell," said the priest, 
with a giggle.
    "Amazing what people lose," said Ashnod coldly.
    "Indeed," said Mishra, looking over Ashnod's shoulder now. 
"They look similar to a set I've seen you wear. Except those are 
now missing. And these are missing the power stones that would 
have been at their centers."
    Ashnod opened her mouth and shut it. Mishra's mind had been 
made up before Ashnod arrived at the door, and he'd paid not the 
slightest heed to anything she had said. Even were she innocent 
of the accusations, the circumstances damned her.
    And she was not innocent.
    "Milord," she said, switching tactics, "were you aware there 
are members of the Brotherhood of Gix in Urza's court?"
    Mishra's face was calm, but there was the barest twitch of 
his lips at the mention of his brother's name. Instead he said, 
"You know that from your interrogation of my brother's student?"
    "Yes," said Ashnod.
    "Was that in your original report of the interrogation?" 
asked Mishra, his eyes narrowing.
    Ashnod realized her mistake. While claiming her honesty and 
innocence, she had revealed there were things she had not 
reported. She kept her face emotionless and said, "I did not want 
to make wild accusations"-she nodded at the priest-"without 
proof."
    "And do you have proof?" said Mishra.
    "I was waiting for confirmation from other sources," said 
Ashnod, "but thought you had best know of it now."
    "I know of it," said Mishra, "because the good priest here 
has informed me of the situation. Which you had not. You've made 
their case for them."
    Ashnod grasped at straws. "Surely I am not to be singled out 
because a prisoner escapes."
    "You are not," said Mishra shortly.
    "There are the guards," said Ashnod.
    "They are already dead," said Mishra, "at my command."
    Ashnod paused for a moment. "I see. And my fate?"
    She looked at Mishra and thought she saw his face soften, but 
only for an instant. "You are banished."
    "Most Revered One, I-" started Ashnod.
    "Banished," said Mishra, slightly louder. The priest giggled 
and rubbed his hands together. Yes, Ashnod thought bitterly, the 
Gixians had their paws in this from start to finish.
    "Urza would not treat his apprentice so shabbily," said 
Ashnod hotly.
    As soon as the words left her lips she knew they were a 
mistake. Mishra's face burst into an emotional storm. "What my 
brother would or would not do is no concern of yours!" he 
thundered. Ashnod felt the force of the words like hammer blows.
    Mishra leaned back in his chair. The momentary storm had 
abated, but the fire was still in his eyes. "You are banished 
from this court and from the Fallaji empire. Leave now. If you 
are found anywhere within my lands after sunup, you will be put 
to death. Slowly. Am I clear?"
    Ashnod looked into Mishra's face, then nodded. "As glass," 
she said. She bowed low and retreated from the throne room.
    She stormed through the halls, making for her quarters. No, 
she realized, the rest of the brotherhood was already there, 
going through - her notes and books, stripping her lab of her 
personal discoveries, looting her possessions. They would like 
nothing better than to delay her, then to claim Mishra's order as 
a chance to get rid of her once and for all.
    Instead she went to the stables and took her favorite horse, 
the black charger that had carried her from the battlefield in 
Korlis. She took only the clothes on her back and the knowledge 
in her mind. That would have to be enough.
    She rode out of the pasha's royal complex and reined the 
horse in. The street led east and west. East to Argive, a road 
most likely watched, or west to the unknown.
    She pulled the horse's reins and began the long trek to the 
west, to Terisia City and the lands outside either of the 
brothers' control.
    The guard at the gate noted her decision and informed the 
priest of Gix who had asked him to keep an eye out. The priest 
reported to his superior, who whispered it to Mishra. Mishra 
merely nodded and began to plan the next campaign of his glorious 
empire.
    
                           Chapter 26
                           CLOCKWORKS

    Tawnos almost made it to the border before the mak fawa 
caught up with him.
    He had almost expected it. He had been extremely lucky so 
far, and he knew that luck would run out sometime.
    After his escape he had cut north and east across the desert, 
making for the passes of Argive instead of following the route of 
ruined towers back to Yotia. That had shaken the immediate 
pursuers. He spent some time among the Sarinthian refugees on the 
shores of the Mardun but traveled mostly alone and at night. He 
rode by the soft light of the Mist Moon when he could and by the 
erratic sputtering of the Glimmer Moon if its larger sibling was 
not in the sky. Neither moon had been aloft the previous evening, 
and, close to his goal, Tawnos decided to risk traveling by day.
    He had almost lost his horse and his life to one of Mishra's 
inventions earlier in the day. The creation was some sort of 
reactive device, similar to Urza's sentinels. In this case, the 
device lay beneath the sands, waiting for a trespasser.
    As Tawnos rode through the device's domain, the sand around 
him began to chum, like water coming to a boil. Tawnos tried to 
reign in the beast, but the horse bolted, taking the scholar with 
it.
    He was lucky again. Had he stayed Tawnos would have been 
trapped. Metallic coils and saw-toothed arms erupted from the 
sands, flailing blindly in all directions, A rasping shriek rent 
the sky from the ground-shattering creature. Far off in the 
distance behind Tawnos came an answering scream.
    Tawnos clung the horse's mane, looking behind him as they 
fled.
    The coils and arms twitched briefly, then slowly pulled 
themselves back into their sandy pit, covering themselves as they 
retracted. In another moment the ground was as it had been 
before.
    Tawnos felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his back. If the 
device had merely attacked, he would only have had to avoid it or 
outrun it. But it had signaled that it had been tripped, and 
something further back had answered the scream.
    Tawnos dug his heels into the horse's flanks and rode hard 
for the passes, hoping not to meet any other hidden traps en 
route.
    He looked back once to see a cloud of dust on the horizon. 
Pursuit. Tawnos pushed the horse harder, but when he looked back 
again there was already a dark dot at the base of the cloud, 
ripping up the desert as it passed.
    A dragon engine. The land was rising now, and small, stringy 
shrubs dotted the rock outcroppings. Tawnos thought about hiding, 
but instead he chose to make for the pass. Most of the dragon 
engines were large, clumsy beasts and would have trouble 
negotiating the rocks easily.
    He looked back a third time and could make out the details of 
the dragon engine's form. It was one of the recent ones, and 
though it was a smoother, sleeker creation than the earlier 
Mishra-manufactured models, it still did not compare to the 
monstrosities that had leveled Kroog. Even at a great distance, 
Tawnos could see the beast's head lurch back and forth like that 
of a spastic insect.
    Tawnos smiled, but the smile died as great wings sprouted 
from the creature's back. They unfurled in the afternoon sun and 
began to beat as the engine charged forward. The cloud of dust 
disappeared as the mechanical creature sailed aloft.
    Tawnos cursed and jabbed the flanks of his mount hard, 
spurring it to a full gallop.
    He would not make it, he thought. Flying dragon engines had 
destroyed most of his air support at Tomakul. There was nothing 
in the Argivian arsenal that could stand up to them.
    For a moment Tawnos considered abandoning his horse and 
hiding, but instead he pressed on. If he could reach the narrow 
passage at the beginning of the pass, he might be able to find an 
Argivian outpost before the dragon found him.
    He almost made it.
    Tawnos did not see it, but he could feel the pressure of the 
air as the beast dived above him. There was a roaring, and heat 
scorched his back.
    The horse screamed and stumbled, jolting him from his saddle. 
Tawnos dived forward, arms swung before his face to protect 
himself. He managed to twist and land on a shoulder, but the 
force of the blow rolled him to one side of the rocky 
outcropping.
    The Chief Scholar gagged on the smoke rising from his burning 
horse. It was still alive and thrashed in agony as its flesh 
burned away.
    Tawnos felt pity for the horse, but the objective part of his 
mind also noted that the dragon engine had breathed some sort of 
flaming jelly, a substance that was not extinguished even as the 
horse convulsed in the dirt. Something new to worry about, he 
thought.
    Tawnos looked up and saw that the dragon engine was above 
him, pulling up for another swooping dive. There was little cover 
that the flaming liquid could not breach, and the scholar had no 
doubt that the engine had sensed his movement and was coming back 
to finish the job.
    That was when the metal-winged birds appeared. They were like 
a cloud of insects that rose from the east and swarmed the great 
engine. At first Tawnos thought they were real birds that had 
somehow been driven into battle. Now he saw they were small 
constructs, each no larger than a man. They swooped and dived 
around the larger engine like sparrows harrowing a hawk.
    The dragon engine craned its neck back and struck against one 
of the smaller winged machines. The avian nimbly darted away, 
warned of the assault by the change in air pressure caused by the 
dragon's movements.
    Though wracked with pain, Tawnos smiled. He knew what the 
bird artifacts were and who had built them. And from whom the 
builder had gotten the original idea.
    The bird machines dived and darted around the dragon engine. 
The engine managed to remain aloft, but the avians were faster 
than its snapping jaws. It breathed its ignited fluid, but that 
only brought down a single opponent. The remainder flocked around 
it, and, beating its wings frantically, the dragon engine lost 
altitude.
    The bird machines had razor-sharp beaks and tore the outer 
housing of the dragon engine away. There were several holes 
already in the mak fawa's back, bored in concentrated attacks 
from the smaller machines.
    Tawnos watched as a small bird machine flew into one such 
tear in the engine's fuselage, near the joint where the dragon 
engine's wing strut met the body. There was a skittering, 
crunching noise, and then a small explosion. The wing folded in 
on itself, trying to retract back into the body. The dragon 
shrieked in almost living pain and pitched to the left.
    It plummeted to the ground, its one good wing still trying to 
scoop the air beneath it.
    Tawnos crouched as the dragon engine struck the ground two 
hundred yards west of him. Even at this distance he could feel 
the heat of the explosion as its liquefied tanks of fire ruptured 
and the entire creature went up in an incandescent ball of flame. 
Tawnos shielded his eyes from the flame, and when he could look 
again, nothing remained but a burned out shell of metal ribs. If 
the engine had been operated by crewmen, they were dead.
    The metal birds swooped and regathered in a flock, a chaotic 
combining and recombining of individuals in different flight 
patterns. Then they organized themselves into a V-shaped 
formation and winged eastward toward the pass.
    Tawnos limped along behind them, making for Argivian 
territories.

                          * * * * *

    "Clockwork Avians," said Urza, setting down his favorite 
chalice. "And yes, they were based on your toy for young Harbin."
    "I had assumed as much," replied Tawnos, settling down in one 
of the overstuffed chairs that now dominated Urza's reception 
hall. His wounded arm was in a sling, but the Master Scholar was 
otherwise unharmed.
    Urza lowered himself into the opposite chair. The Lord High 
Artificer's hair was pure white now, and the lines around his 
face were deeper. Tawnos was sure Urza had lost weight since he 
last saw him, and he knew the older man now used spectacles with 
which to read. Despite himself, Tawnos reached up and ran his 
fingers through his own hair. It was starting to thin in the 
back.
    "After you were ... captured," said Urza, "I sat down with 
Harbin and went over all your old toys. He knew in what order you 
had built them and kept them in good working condition. There 
were some bits of brilliance among them, you know."
    "Mostly ideas and fancies that did not seem to have immediate 
use," said Tawnos.
    "Indeed," said Urza, with a wry smile. "Well, the avians had 
an immediate use. Those flying dragon engines were bad enough, 
and when they started breathing this liquid fire ..." He held up 
his hands. "We were hard-pressed by your absence. We thought you 
dead."
    "I wasn't," said Tawnos. "Not quite." He flexed his right 
hand.
    "I'm glad you weren't," said Urza, and Tawnos saw the older 
man meant it. He could imagine Urza at the drawing table, turning 
over and over in his hands one of Harbin's toys that his son had 
outgrown, shoving aside the memories of their work together in 
order to unlock the design secrets of Tawnos's creations.
    The moment passed, and Urza cleared his throat. "The avians 
were a gods-send. They were simple, cheap to produce, and easy to 
target against Mishra's larger machines. One of the enemies of 
this war is distance. By the time any weapon moves from the front 
to somewhere it can actually do damage, a counterweapon has been 
created and deployed. The clockwork avians have given us a chance 
against the flying dragon engines, but by the time we had 
regrouped to make another assault, Mishra had a new guardian on 
his borders."
    "The ground-breakers," said Tawnos. "I met one the same day I 
was attacked by the dragon engine."
    "Nasty," agreed Urza. "They slow the army down, which gives 
my brother still more time to prepare a counterattack."
    "What was the liquid fire?" asked Tawnos. "The substance the 
dragon engine breathed."
    "Another new development," said Urza, "apparently out of 
Sarinth. There are deposits of oil and thicker, more viscous 
fluids that bubble out of the ground there. My brother has found 
a way to break down that liquid to its component parts, and one 
of those parts is highly flammable, like goblin powder. It almost 
destroyed the army before we got the avians in the air." He 
paused for a moment. "We still hold Yotia."
    "And the passes in Argive and Korlis," said Tawnos.
    "But we haven't been able to press forward since then," 
concluded Urza. "We're still waiting for him to make his move. To 
attack somewhere so we can react. Neither side seems to have the 
power to make a major push nor the time to adequately secure the 
borders. And in the meantime, we're draining our resources at a 
faster rate."
    "I noted more foundries on the way back to the capital," said 
Tawnos.
    "More foundries, factories, and mines," returned Urza. "We 
have felled most of the forests from Korlis and are buying metal 
from the Sardian dwarves. The merchants are starting to complain 
about the amount of gold heading north, and they are agitating 
for a campaign against the dwarves themselves. They want us to 
fold the dwarven territories into ours and their resources with 
them."
    "And your opinion?" asked Tawnos, thinking he should have 
asked, "And your decision?" instead.
    "I don't want to attack without good reason," said the older 
man, "but I'd prefer to keep the dwarves at an arm's length. You 
can't trust anyone just because they claim to distrust the 
Fallaji Empire and want to be your friends. The Gixians did 
that."
    Tawnos nodded. One of the first results of his return had 
been the rounding up and imprisonment of the priests of Gix. The 
fact that they were advisors in Mishra's court made many people 
in Argive very nervous and others very embarrassed.
    "The priests of Gix had wheedled their way into the school 
while you were gone; did you know that?" said Urza. "And right 
under Richlau's nose, too. He was redder than a setting sun when 
it all came out."
    "Nice to know there was some good from all this," said 
Tawnos.
    A silence fell between the two men. Urza frowned slightly, 
and ground his palms together. "I've been working on your clay 
statues as well," he said at last. "I have an idea about using 
that primal clay material without the framework. It would be more 
malleable that way."
    Tawnos looked at his mentor. "Urza, what's troubling you?" He 
knew the older man well enough to recognized when Urza was 
talking around a subject.
    The Lord Protector raised a hand to argue, then shook his 
head and was silent for a time. "Harbin," he said at last. "He 
wants to be an ornithopter pilot."
    Tawnos nodded slightly. "We've talked. He rode out to meet 
me."
    "Like a flash of lightning, as soon as word reached Penregon 
of your return," said Urza. "When we first heard about the Battle 
of Tomakul, and feared you dead, he wanted to run out and join an 
army unit. To avenge you, you know."
    "I know," said Tawnos somberly.
    "His mother was shattered when she thought you dead," said 
Urza, shaking his head, and looked off into the middle distance. 
"When I came back from a campaign, Harbin never rode out to meet 
me."
    Tawnos shrugged. "I know he respects you."
    "Respects, yes," Urza said irritably. "He's always so polite 
and respectful. His mother has taught him well, there. But we 
don't really talk. He knew all about the toys you made for him, 
but he has no interest in artifice beyond how it can be used. 
He's bright, but that basic sense of curiosity is missing. And he 
thinks the world of you."
    "He respects you," repeated Tawnos. "He just grew up around 
me."
    "Yes," Urza let his voice trail off, as if his thoughts took 
him somewhere else. Then he said, "So he told you he wants to fly 
an ornithopter?"
    "About the second set of words out of his mouth," said 
Tawnos, "after he made sure I was still alive."
    "And you think?" Urza raised his brows.
    Tawnos sighed. "He's fourteen. That's a good age to start 
training. He's quick, and he's bright, as you said yourself. He'd 
make a good pilot."
    "His mother will have me slain if I do," said Urza. "She 
doesn't want her son exposed to the war. She wants him safe and 
secure. He should go into government, she says. She's already 
arranged a marriage for him when he's of age, you know?"
    "He's told me," said Tawnos.
    "She mentioned it in one of her correspondences," said Urza, 
nodding at a pile of unanswered mail. "Nice family. Argivian 
nobility." He ground his palms together. "But the problem is, 
everyone is needed in the war. Everyone. My own factories are 
operating under skeleton staffs as more men and women are needed 
for duty. I've tried using goblin slaves in the workshops, but 
they create as many problems as they solve. How can I demand 
everyone suffer for this accursed war, then protect the boy? But 
if I don't, his mother will be heartbroken. I don't really want 
to do that either."
    Tawnos looked at the older man. Urza could reason out the 
smallest detail of a device, but real life always confounded him.
    "I think you should let the boy take the training," said 
Tawnos at last, phrasing his thoughts carefully.
    "Well, he's made his case to you," said Urza.
    "And made it well," said the former apprentice. "He's smart 
and has good reactions. If he's expected to eventually lead, he'd 
best start now."
    "But his mother-" began Urza.
    "Will have to accept it," finished Tawnos. "I'll speak with 
her and remind her that I came back in one piece." Urza shook his 
head. "If he's lost in battle-"
    "I didn't say you should send him into battle," said Tawnos. 
Urza raised an eyebrow, and Tawnos continued, "Just let him train 
to become a pilot. Then make sure that his assignments are in 
more peaceful parts of the kingdom. Don't send him to Yotia if an 
assault is brewing, but have him run messages to Korlis. Scouting 
missions. Aerial surveys. There are more than enough jobs for an 
ornithopter pilot that do not involve direct contact with the 
enemy."
    Urza looked at his hands. "He won't like it."
    "Then he'll complain about it," said Tawnos, "and if he comes 
to you, you can point out how bad it would look if the Lord High 
Artificer and Protector of the Realm used privilege to put his 
own son in a combat unit over other deserving young men."
    Urza rubbed his chin. "He'd hate that."
    "Yes he would," said Tawnos. "You see, I have no desire to 
see Harbin endangered. But I think shielding him from everything 
will not help him either."
    Urza chuckled and hoisted his heavy chalice. "It is good to 
have you back, Tawnos. I have been lessened in your absence."
    "And I in yours, Urza," said Tawnos, raising his own goblet. 
But as he spoke he heard swift footfalls in the hallway outside. 
Both men turned toward the door as the messenger arrived, 
grasping the door frame to bring herself to a halt.
    "Chief Scholar," said the messenger. "Lord High Artificer." 
She gulped for air. "A message has come from the spies. Mishra's 
army is on the move."
    Both men looked at each other. Then Urza said, "Where? Yotia? 
The Passes?"
    The messenger shook her head and inhaled deeply. "Terisia 
City. He's headed west. For Terisia City."
    
                           Chapter 27
                             SYLEX

    The ivory towers were burning.
    The invaders had first swarmed from the desert more than a 
year ago and almost overpowered the defenders in the first wave 
before the gates were closed and the great metal bolts of the 
portcullises secured. There were thousands of them: grim-faced 
desert warriors and mindless machines, spilling from the east 
like hungry insects. They looted the surrounding land, and what 
they could not carry they burned. They were at the gates of 
Terisia City within days.
    They failed to take the city. The gates were shut in their 
face, and Mishra's army was turned back. The next spring they 
returned with a contingent of siege equipment, battering rams, 
and dragon engines.
    Then began the siege, a slow and torturous process that 
wracked the city and its people. The towers proved their worth, 
for the enemy could not get close to the walls without suffering 
withering fire from the spires. Each tower was in turn protected 
by the city walls behind it and by the adjacent towers. The 
entire city was wrapped in a cocoon of stone and protected by a 
bristling array of ballistas, archers, and grapeshot catapults.
    A flying dragon engine made an attempt to burn the city to 
the ground, but as it flew overhead it disintegrated from the 
firepower and shot brought to bear against it. There was no 
second attempt by Mishra's forces to fly over Terisia City.
    Through it all there had been no clue as to the reason for 
the attack. The city had attempted to parley with the invaders, 
but any attempt to reason with them was met with arrowshot and 
swords.
    The intervening winter bought the city time, and the leaders 
used that time to fill the city granaries, remove its innocents, 
and strengthen its defenses. The Union used the interval to press 
forward with its studies.
    It had been enough, for the siege stretched into months 
without a sign of either side breaking. The scholars in their 
ivory towers had kept one of the two most powerful armies on the 
continent at bay while they continued their own work, as they 
attempted to discover all the secrets of the third path, the path 
that was neither Mishra nor Urza.
    That path was charted by Hurkyl's meditative techniques, as 
Feldon had predicted. The key lay in concentrating on the 
memories of one's homeland and pulling forth the unknown energies 
from those memories and that land. Hurkyl discovered the energy, 
but the archimandrite named it, calling it mana. Loran thought at 
the time the name was misleading, smacking as it did of old 
Fallaji tales of wizards and not of science. But despite the 
name, the archimandrite had succeeding in researching and 
refining this mana, had distilled it down to its base elements. 
And she turned those base elements into a weapon against the 
desert warriors.
    But now Hurkyl was dead, the archimandrite was missing, and 
the city of the towers had been betrayed and occupied by the 
Fallaji. The ivory towers were isolated, surrounded within and 
without, and one by one they began to fall under Mishra's 
concentrated assault.
    The Archimandrite's Tower, one of the few that survived 
intact, was in disarray. In the center of the Archimandrite's 
Hall, Drafna bellowed at the Sumifan guards, shouting final 
orders for a sortie. His balding pate was barely visible over the 
shoulders of the gathered guards, but Loran knew the scholar's 
shout anywhere.
    Drafna stood up on a chair to be better heard, and Loran saw 
the wildness in his eyes, the manic intensity that seemed to grip 
the scholar like a fever since Hurkyl had perished. The passage 
of time had not weakened that fire. He had been there when his 
wife had died at the gates of the city, when the Gixians had 
betrayed them.
    They had all seen the dangers without but had ignored the rot 
within. The other scholars had paid scant heed to the machine-
worshiping priests as they moved among them, saying little but 
listening a great deal. The Gixians had learned much in Terisia 
City, and the scholars often treated them as a harmless, if 
backward people. When the priests of the brotherhood felt they 
finally knew enough, they betrayed the scholars and opened the 
city gates to the enemy.
    Hurkyl, ever-attentive, figured out what was happening and 
convinced Drafna to rally those guardsmen who remained loyal. 
Drafna's forces tried to press back the Fallaji assault and close 
the gates before the enemy could enter the city proper. But 
Mishra's troops were ready for the assault and had a trio of 
dragon engines ready to capitalize on the treachery.
    Drafna's forces were scattered at the gates, and the dragon 
engines began to roll forward. That was when Hurkyl revealed to 
the enemy the greater power the Union had gained through her 
studies.
    Loran had watched from the closest of the towers during the 
assault, trying to bring the catapults the bear against the 
advancing dragon engines without harming the loyal garrisons. 
Hurkyl stood at the city gate, and for a brief moment she was 
alone before the three dragon engines. She looked like a frail 
doll, dressed in azure, her thick black hair flying like a 
pennant behind her. She closed her eyes and silently raised her 
arms, and around her the world began to change.
    A glow enveloped her, a sapphire hue as blue as the seas 
around the island of Lat-Nam. It radiated outward, casting a new 
set of shadows against the ground. The human troops wavered under 
the light, and the dragon engines ...
    ... disappeared. They were not destroyed, nor did they simply 
fail or retreat. Instead they slowly faded from view. The 
surroundings became clearer and clearer until the engines seemed 
to be no more than colored fog.
    Then they were gone, gone through the actions of one woman.
    Hurkyl staggered from the force of her mystic work, and 
Mishra's human forces took advantage of her weakness to press 
forward. Her sapphire-blue glow was dimmed, then extinguished 
entirely beneath a wave of spearmen. Hurkyl had defeated the 
artifacts but not the warriors who accompanied them.
    Loran saw Drafna trying to lead a charge to where his wife 
had disappeared beneath the spearmen, trying to hack his way 
through the enemy to reach her, but it was too late. The bald-
headed scholar was driven back to another tower, and the city 
itself fell to Mishra's forces.
    The city was sacked and burned, its surviving populace 
butchered, and its glass roofs smashed so that not a single pane 
remained whole. The scholars in the towers collapsed their 
tunnels back into the city itself, sealed their windows against 
the smoke and the cries of the martyred, and prepared for the 
worst. First one, then a second, then a third of the ivory towers 
fell to the invaders, who moved in a circle around the city 
itself like an apocalyptic clock.
    There would be no salvation from the Fallaji, no last-minute 
rescue. Loran had received correspondence from a friend still in 
Argive, months out of date but speaking of a rebellion among the 
dwarves of the Sardia mountains. Urza would have his own hands 
full, Loran realized, and there was no one else to oppose Mishra 
in the west.
    Nature brought a brief respite. A sandstorm blew up out of 
the desert to the east, carrying a heavy, thick load of dust that 
reduced visibility and halted Mishra's army entirely. Many of the 
scholars used the storm as cover to escape from the city itself, 
taking with them what they had learned about the new teachings. 
Some said the archimandrite had fled, though others said she had 
been captured by Mishra, and still others said the sandstorm was 
her doing, as the banishing of the dragon engines had been 
Hurkyl's.
    Yet the storm would not last forever, and with its passing 
the ivory towers would again begin to fall, one after another. 
Those scholars who had survived were preparing to abandon the 
city entirely now. The land beneath the towers was honeycombed 
with tunnels, and enough survived to allow a safe escape to the 
hinterlands.
    Drafna bellowed another set of orders at the Sumifan guards 
and servants, who moved with the calm, relaxed demeanor with 
which Sumifans did all things. Loran looked around but did not 
see Feldon. She had been sure he would make it to this tower, if 
he could.
    She found him in his study, staring at the Golgothian Sylex. 
He looked up briefly from the copperish bowl as she entered and 
sighed. "Fill it full of memories, and start over again," he 
said. "Scrape it all clean, like a glacier."
    "If what it says is true," said Loran. "However, I think it 
would be as dangerous to the user as to its target."
    Feldon grunted and rose. "I agree. Drafna ordered me to fetch 
every bit of artifice in the tower. He intends to lead a sortie 
with the surviving guards, to fight his way all the way back to 
Lat-Nam if he has to. He's in a fey mood, that one. I think he'd 
be more happy if he died than if he made it out. Anyway I sent 
everything else down but this...." His voice died as he stroked 
the side of the sylex.
    "Do you think it will work?" asked Loran. "That it will end 
everything, as it claims?"
    Feldon looked at her. "Do you want to find out?" he asked.
    Loran looked at the bowl for a long moment, her thoughts 
racing.
    Then she shook her head. "There's too much we don't know 
about this."
    Feldon nodded. "Agreed. But if we do not use something like 
this, what should we do with it?"
    "We should destroy it," said Loran.
    "I don't know if we can," said Feldon. "It's been beneath the 
sea for who knows how long, and it has resisted every attempt to 
take a sliver of metal from its side. Perhaps Hurkyl could have 
done something to it with her mana... ." Again he let his voice 
die. He looked at the bowl for a long time. "I don't want to give 
it to Drafna," he said.
    "Are you afraid he'd lose it?" asked Loran.
    "I'm afraid he'll use it," corrected Feldon. "Since Hurkyl 
died, he's been, well, strange. I don't think he really cares if 
the rest of the world survives or not."
    "His world died with his wife," Loran said, and Feldon nodded 
in agreement. "So take it with you yourself. We have to leave 
soon."
    "With my game leg I won't get far," said Feldon. He tapped 
his cane against his twisted limb for effect. "I'm going to try 
to get out, but I think I'd better be traveling light."
    There was a pause, and Loran said, "You want me to take it. 
That's where this is going."
    Feldon gave a bearlike shrug. "You're leaving as well, either 
by the tunnels or with Drafna's charge."
    "By the tunnels," said Loran. "And you're coming with me."
    "Too old, too lame," he said. "You'd make better time without 
me. And there's better chance of the knowledge surviving if we 
split up. There's a small town at the foot of the Ronom Glacier, 
called Ketha. I'll meet you there within the year if I survive. 
But, yes, you should take it."
    Loran pursed her lips. "Why me?"
    "Have you been able to use the meditative techniques?" asked 
Feldon. "Have you been able to pull the mana from the land?"
    Loran held up her hands. "I don't believe that this is magic 
of any type. It's merely science that we have yet to understand."
    Feldon leaned against his chair. "The answer would then be, 
no you have not."
    Loran looked at Feldon, then at the bowl. He was right. She 
had not been able to master the techniques, either because her 
own memories of home were too faded or her home was too remote. 
Or the land was no longer as she remembered it. She considered 
that option as well and wondered if that was part of the 
"science" of this new and untried field. At last she shook her 
head.
    "That's why you should take it," said Feldon. "I've had small 
success myself, though I think of the mountains and ice when I do 
it. Everyone seems to be different and can manifest slightly 
different effects. Yet you have not, and that is why you should 
take it."
    "Because if something bad happens, I will not be able to use 
it in a moment of weakness," said Loran flatly.
    Feldon looked at the woman and let out a deep, heavy, sigh.
    Loran took the bowl. The feeling of shadow descended upon her 
as she grasped it, and she almost let it go. Instead she hefted 
it, looked at Feldon, and said, "Do you have a bag for this?"
    Feldon produced a battered backpack, one of his own from his 
glacier-exploring days, and Loran slid the bowl into it. It was 
heavy, but its weight was minor compared to the aura of dread 
that surrounded it.
    Loran and Feldon made their good-byes, and she hugged him. 
When they parted there were tears in her eyes. "Come with me," 
she urged.
    "We'll scatter like geese," said Feldon "They can shoot only 
so many of us."
    "Small comfort if you're one of the geese that's shot," said 
Loran. "Look after yourself."
    "You as well," said Feldon. Then she was gone.
    Feldon packed the last of his own belongings in a second 
backpack, pausing as he heard Drafna bellowing orders, readying 
the surviving troops for their assault. By now Loran would be in 
the tunnels, hopefully still free of Mishra's forces and the 
hated Gixians.
    Feldon hoisted his pack and shook it, trying to move the 
heavier items to the bottom. Below he heard the great doors of 
the tower swing open and the cries of the men and women who were 
going to fight their way past Mishra's army. At least, he thought 
wryly, that's what they hoped.
    Feldon counted to a hundred just to assure himself they would 
be gone, then counted to a hundred a second time. Then, gripping 
his walking cane securely in one hand, he began to hobble his way 
down to the tunnels. As he limped along, he mumbled prayers: for 
himself, for the rest of the surviving scholars, for Drafna, for 
the archimandrite, and for Loran. Particularly for Loran.

                          * * * * *

    A month later, Loran lay dying, her right side smashed and 
twisted by the rockfall. A few feet away from her, the sylex had 
spilled out of its backpack and lay glimmering among the rubble.
    She had made it to the foothills of the Colekgan Mountains 
before disaster struck. The surviving populace had flowed through 
Mishra's lines like water through a steel sieve, spilling in all 
directions, seeking escape to every cardinal point save east. 
Loran had joined a group of Yumok nationals who wanted no more 
than to quit these supposedly civilized lands and return to their 
upland homes.
    They were moving through the first passes when the avalanche 
hit. It struck without warning, One moment a caravan of refugees 
wound its way among the cliffs, the next there was thunder from a 
clear blue sky and a rain of stone and soil as the path 
disappeared. Loran heard screams and shouts around her, but they 
were soon lost in a torrent of rock.
    Not after all this, she remembered thinking. She made a 
silent, impassioned plea to gods long-ignored. She remembered 
thinking as well this was no accident.
    She had been right. Now that the dust had settled, figures 
moved among the debris.
    At first she thought they were other refugees who had 
survived the rockslide and were searching for survivors. She 
tried to raise an arm to call them and realized she could not 
move her right arm. Her entire side was a thick smear of blood 
along her travel cape, and it hurt to move her head to look at 
it.
    Suddenly she realized the figures were not Yumoks. They were 
dressed entirely in spiked armor with heavy, flowing capes. They 
moved among the debris, poking at bodies nonchalantly with their 
swords.
    They were looters. They had set the avalanche, she realized. 
They had brought the mountain down on the caravan to scavenge the 
bodies.
    She must had shuddered or spasmed in pain at the thought, for 
a voice over her right shoulder called, "We've got a survivor!" 
The voice was muffled behind steel but fairly close.
    "Good," responded another voice, this one female and 
unmuffled. "I was afraid that you did your job too effectively, 
Captain."
    Loran tried to turn herself about to see who was talking, but 
she could only twitch. Heavy, gauntleted hands laid on her 
shoulder, and she felt pain radiate from her wounds. A face hove 
into view, hidden behind a thick metal visor. It looked like one 
of Urza's automatons, save for the fact that there were human 
eyes behind the eyeholes.
    They were not particularly warm or comforting, but they were 
human.
    "Alive or dead?" asked the female voice.
    "Alive, but not by much," said the man behind the visor. His 
breathing was as sharp as her own, and Loran realized what was in 
those eyes. Pain. There was pain in the soldier's eyes.
    "We don't need by much," said the woman. The armored figure 
stepped aside for a moment, and Loran saw the woman. She was 
dressed in similar, spiked armor, but lacked a helmet. Loran 
could see thick red curls spilling onto her shoulder plates. "We 
just need a little information," the woman continued coldly, "and 
then she can die like the others." There was no pain in this red-
haired woman's eyes. Only power.
    "Milady, look at this," said the soldier, coming back into 
view. He was carrying the bowl-shaped sylex.
    Loran must have tried to move, twisted in place, tried to say 
something. All she knew was that a moment later she was in 
intense pain, pain that seared through her like a blade. When her 
senses cleared again, she saw the red-haired leader turning the 
sylex over in her hands.
    Ashnod, she realized, and wondered if her lips formed the 
words as she said them. But word was that Ashnod had been cast 
out from Mishra's camp. What was she doing here, with her own 
soldiers, then?
    "Interesting," said Ashnod, running her slender fingers along 
the inside of the bowl, tracing the script within as it spiraled 
to the base. "Most interesting. And I think our little friend 
knows about it. You're no Yumok, nor a Fallaji. Some scholar from 
the east, perhaps?"
    Loran said nothing and wondered if she would be able to die 
before anything else horrible happened to her. The stories of 
Ashnod's cruelty were legendary.
    The red-haired woman seemed to read her mind, for she said, 
"We're going to have to nurse this one back to health, Captain. 
And then she has much that she's going to tell us. I'm sure of 
that."
    Loran willed herself to die, but her only reward was Ashnod's 
laughter.
    
                           Chapter 28
                             ARGOTH

    Gwenna watched her invader from her perch on the interwoven 
upper branches of the trees. She spotted this one first, and 
therefore it was her claim, her invader. The others were going 
back to the hamlet to send messages farther south to Citanul and 
Titania's Court, to ask for judgment on this development. Until 
then it was her duty to watch him and judge the invader.
    She had never seen an invader before, though there were 
enough stories about invaders over the years for her to know they 
came in all shapes and sizes. They were similar in that they were 
not from Argoth, usually driven to shore by the storms that 
protected the island. All invaders were similar because they had 
no contact with the land at all and did not understand it.
    This invader was mannish, like the druids of Citanul, 
Argoth's only true city. The invader was taller than these druids 
and had sandy blond hair gathered in a horse's tail behind its 
head. It was dressed in blue pants and white shirt, with a blue 
jacket that now hung from the side of its craft. The invader said 
something in a language Gwenna did not know and kicked the 
machine. Gwenna assumed it was a mannish curse, invoking mannish 
gods who never listened anyway.
    Gwenna herself was elvish, as were most of the natives of 
Argoth. There were pixies, treefolk, and all manner of other 
forest dwellers on Argoth, but the elves were the smartest and 
most refined of all the races-at least in Gwenna's opinion. There 
were only a few of the mannish breed, and they tended to keep to 
their holy orders and stone retreats. Gwenna wondered why, since 
there were so many elves in the world, most of the invaders from 
the old tales were mannish in nature.
    Invaders almost always came by sea, their boats smashed on 
the surrounding reefs or pulled into small maelstroms around the 
island's coast. They were usually waterlogged, battered, and weak 
by the time they arrived, and as such put up little or no fight 
when it was time to kill them. This one, however, came from the 
air and seemed to be in much better shape for it.
    The invader's craft looked like a wounded bird curled up on 
the white sand of the beach. If Gwenna had not seen it land, she 
would not have thought it could fly at all. Indeed it was hardly 
much of a flier. More of plummeter, for it dived like a cormorant 
for the beach, pulling up only at the last moment. Even then, it 
had smashed into the sands with a bone-thumping crunch. One wing 
was twisted at an odd angle now as a result of that crash.
    Titania's Law was fair but firm on the matter of invaders. 
They should be watched, and word sent back to Citanul, to 
Titania's Court. If it damaged the island (as most invaders did, 
sooner or later), it would have to be destroyed.
    Gwenna could not imagine why this particular invader needed 
to be destroyed, but such was Titania's Law, serving the great 
goddess Gaea. This invader looked mostly harmless, unlike a 
waterlogged savage. But those were the rulings of the land: 
observe the invader to see what crimes it committed against the 
land, and then, when the order came from the court, dispatch it 
before it could cause any further damage.
    So Gwenna watched.

                          * * * * *

    Harbin circled the crashed ornithopter, then kicked it again. 
The blow did not do anything to repair the smashed device, and it 
made him feel only slightly better about his situation.
    When his father agreed to allow him to train to be an 
ornithopter pilot, he dreamed of flying such a craft into battle. 
Instead, he had spent a dozen years on routine matters. Running 
messages and orders throughout the combined kingdoms of Argive, 
Korlis, and Yotia. Conducting surveys along the northern coast of 
Malpiri. Carrying diplomats and bureaucrats from Kroog to 
Penregon. They were vital assignments, but safe ones.
    He tried to be reassigned to a combat unit, or at least to a 
garrison unit, but received no aid from his elders. Mother had 
been adamant against his flying in the first place. Father had 
been cool and distant, as always, and spoke about the importance 
of not showing favoritism. That was very much like Father: the 
perfect answer to every question. Even Uncle Tawnos was 
sympathetic but did not attempt to change matters.
    There had been excitement in his work. He was once assaulted 
by Malpiri tribesmen when on the ground and discovered Fallaji 
raiding parties four separate times. On one such occasion, he was 
pursued by a flying dragon engine and outflew it, bringing it 
within range of one of his father's clockwork avian flocks. Yet 
still, while most other pilots had been moved to the front, he 
had been left behind in relative safety.
    Harbin smelled a plot, and the plot stank of his elders' 
collusion. He tried once more for a combat posting and was told 
that after his present tour of duty he should settle down to a 
training position. He was twenty-six now, they said, practically 
as antique as the first primitive ornithopters. Melana, his wife, 
would like him to take the training position, but then his wife 
spent all her time in Mother's court and would like nothing more 
than for Harbin to abandon flying altogether.
    There was a rustling among the forest leaves, and Harbin 
tensed, his hand going automatically to his sword hilt. The 
rustle continued, and soon a pair of eyes on multicolored stalks 
raised from the impenetrable green. The eyes blinked at Harbin in 
the sunlight, then pulled back and retreated deeper into the 
forest. Harbin caught a flash of yellow and black striping and 
realized he had been looking at a forest slug, though one almost 
as large as himself. The slug was more afraid of him than he was 
of it.
    Harbin shook his head and realized that he was still gripping 
his sword hilt. The blade was one of Tawnos's "new metals"-
lighter, stronger, and more versatile than the blades previously 
in use. The blades had proved useful in combat and had turned the 
tide in a number of critical battles against Mishra's forces.
    Harbin carried one of the first of the new metal blades, and 
his craft had been one of the latest longer-winged, lighter 
creations from Urza's workshops. Had it been a lesser craft, it 
would not have survived the storms that drove him to this strange 
beach.
    More collusion of the elders in controlling his life, thought 
Harbin. More unwanted protection that probably saved his life.
    The storm had come out of nowhere as he skirted the Korlisian 
coast. He tried running from it but was driven farther and 
farther out to sea. He tried to climb above it, but the rising 
anvil of the thunderstorm kept towering over him like a great 
wave. It was as if the storm held its own intelligence and was 
intent on keeping Harbin from escaping its grip.
    At last he flew into the storm itself and was battered for 
three days and three nights by its fury. Howling winds threatened 
to snap the wings and peel back the protective housing, while 
bolts of lightning chained around him. Odd electrical fires 
danced along the wings and the guide pulleys. For one horrible 
moment the entire craft had been inverted, and Harbin saw the sea 
rise before him like a wall of water before he regained control 
of the craft.
    Then the storm was gone, and he was in clear air. Behind him 
the storm still boiled like soup, but ahead there was land, a 
huge rolling expanse of greenery. Where the land met the sea 
there shone a bright strip of white sand, gleaming like a beacon. 
Exhausted from three days of continual battle against the sky, 
Harbin brought the wounded craft down hard on the beach and felt 
something give as the craft landed. He tumbled from the 
ornithopter and collapsed on the sand in exhaustion beneath one 
of its half-folded wings.
    It was afternoon when he awoke, and Harbin could not be sure 
if he had slept a few hours or a few days. He had been 
undisturbed, and fortunately he had set the craft down above the 
high tide mark. Brushing the sand from his uniform, he surveyed 
his surroundings and the damage to his craft.
    His world was a straight line of beach of such a white 
brilliance that it hurt his eyes. The sky above was a crystalline 
blue, unmarked by clouds overhead, but turning first white, then 
gray, and finally black along the horizon out to sea. The storm 
was still offshore, waiting patiently like a cat at a mousehole.
    Inland was a verdant jungle, seemingly untouched by man. It 
began at the beach's edge with a thick tangle of low-lying 
vegetation, but soon mounted in towering, white-barked trees of a 
type that Harbin had never seen before. The forest was so ancient 
that the upper branches were interlocked, forming huge canopies.
    Harbin wondered if perhaps this was the way Argive had 
looked, long before Father and Mishra began their continual war. 
Before the lands were strip-mined and the skies turned dark from 
the factory smoke. Perhaps this was the way paradise was supposed 
to look.
    Harbin took a sighting on the sun. He was south of civilized 
lands, farther south than the southern Korlisian coast. He had no 
idea of his longitude. Home could be due north, or northwest, or 
northeast. If he guessed northwest, Harbin figured, if he flew 
that direction, he would probably hit land. Eventually.
    Harbin looked back at his craft. It was mostly in good shape. 
Some of the wires had snapped, and the pulleys along one of the 
control surfaces were stripped, the result of his landing. The 
worst effect of the storm had been to splinter the right wing 
strut. It held up to the brunt of the storm, but cracked halfway 
through. It would have to be replaced before he took another 
chance with the winds aloft.
    Harbin kicked the craft a third time but not as hard. Then he 
opened the housing and pulled out the repair kit every 
ornithopter carried.
    Within the steel box was a collection of tools: a hammer, and 
an axe with two spare heads; a flexible piece of saw-toothed 
metal; spools of wire and spare pulleys; spools of thinner catgut 
and steel needles to repair holes in the wings; a balled coil of 
rope. He thumbed through the box. Fishing hooks. Tape measure. 
Emergency rations. Flint and tinder. An oversized hat to protect 
from the sun. Harbin looked at the collection and felt Father's 
heavy hand again. It was as if his elder thought of every 
contingency for such a crash. And Urza probably had.
    Harbin gnawed on a chunk of smoked meat and walked around his 
craft a few more times. With the exception of the main strut, he 
could take the ornithopter aloft immediately. But he would have 
to find the right tree for the replacement strut.
    That meant going into the jungle, the one with the huge black 
and yellow slugs in it.
    Harbin hoped the slugs were the worst of the dangers in the 
primeval forest. He hefted his axe and headed into the thick 
vegetation.

                          * * * * *

    Titania's rules on invaders were straightforward and strict, 
and Gwenna knew what the response to her report would probably 
be. Still she followed the letter of the law in dealing with the 
latest invader. She watched.
    Of course word would come from the court that if the invader 
had not damaged the land it should be captured. If it had damaged 
the land, it should be killed. And of course, given time to 
communicate, even mystically, back to the court and to gain a 
response, it was inevitable that the invader would do something 
to damage the land and would have to be destroyed.
    Gwenna felt a slight touch of sympathy for the invader. It 
did not know it was signing its own death sentence by stealing 
Gaea's bounty without permission.
    Perhaps that was Titania's intention after all. Titania spoke 
for the goddess Gaea, and the elves, pixies, and treefolk 
listened.
    The invader moved gingerly though the border vegetation, 
trying to find a path through the undergrowth. The scrub and vine 
maples tugged at its pants, and the water dripping from the 
canopy above left dark stains on its white shirt. Gwenna started 
after it, moving quietly from tree to tree by the interlocking 
branches, remaining out of sight. Once she brushed a dead branch, 
and sent it clattering to the forest floor. She remained 
perfectly still as the invader scanned the area, looking for her. 
Then it set out again, and she followed, an arboreal shadow.
    Once he was past the scrub vegetation on the beach, the 
territory opened up beneath the great trees. The soil was thick 
here with rotted vegetation, and the canopy was broken only by 
blown-down and toppled trees. The fallen giants served as nurse 
logs for new growths, straining for what little light penetrated 
the leaves above.
    The invader stopped at one of these glades and chose a 
particularly straight sapling of yarrow wood. It circled the tree 
three times, then nodded and pulled a strip from its shirt and 
tied it around the trunk at about eye level. Then it headed back 
for the beach in a clear line. Though it did not use it, the 
invader carried an axe in its hand.
    Gwenna knew in an instant what the invader's intent was. By 
cutting down the live tree it would sign its death warrant. The 
messengers would return and they would say, "Has the invader 
damaged the land?"
    Gwenna would be forced to respond, "Yes, it cut down a 
sapling."
    The messenger would say, "Then the invader must be similarly 
cut down."
    And to Gwenna that seemed a waste. She wanted to know more 
about the broken bird thing that the invader rode. How could it 
fly and carry a mannish invader? There had never been a winged 
invader before. Perhaps they needed to learn more of it and leave 
it alive.
    Gwenna quickly scouted the area and found a nearby deadfall, 
where a huge paleroot had recently blown over in a storm, taking 
other yarrows and tangleoaks with it. She found an uprooted 
yarrow about the same size as the one the invader marked. This 
tree had been recently killed by the fall. She offered the proper 
prayers to Gaea and removed the dying branches of the yarrow with 
her own blade, then pulled the entire sapling to where the 
invader would return, and laid it across the path.
    The invader returned with a large coil of rope and found its 
way blocked by the fallen sapling. It was confused, then looked 
at the tree it was about to fell, then at the deadfall. It 
shrugged (a curious, mannish shrug), and tied the rope to the 
fallen sapling, taking Gwenna's offering and sparing the living 
tree. It pulled and struggled and cursed (in its strange 
language) and finally dragged the dead tree back to its campsite.
    Gwenna felt relieved she did not have to kill the invader 
immediately.
    The invader came back within the forest one other time, to 
find fresh water. It didn't kill anything then, either, instead 
surviving on food it brought with it and fishing in the gentle 
surf. Fishing was permitted by Titania; she only protected the 
land.
    The invader spent most of its time hacking at the yarrow, 
then removing one of the bird thing's wings and replacing it with 
the spar it had carved. Gwenna watched but found its actions 
boring and confusing. It would measure something, cut it, measure 
again, cut again, and eventually trim the new spar to resemble 
the old. These actions seemed a waste of time to Gwenna.
    The nights were warm, and the invader did not light a fire, 
though it obviously laid one. As a signal to others, perhaps? she 
thought. Were there more of these flying men in the world?
    On the fourth night the invader retired early, and Gwenna 
crept down from her arboreal perch, leaving the forest and 
crossing onto the beach itself. She felt odd without the 
protection of the trees above, but her curiosity had gotten the 
best of her.
    The invader was sleeping in the belly of its wounded bird, 
now sporting a new wing of roughly hewn yarrow. She was close 
enough to see the invader clearly now and thought about how much 
like a child it looked. Soft cheeks and a smooth forehead. She 
was close enough to touch it, to draw her dagger across its 
throat as it slept.
    She could do it, too, and claim that the invader had 
despoiled the land in some way and as such had to be destroyed. 
But in her heart she knew she could not lie to her fellows, and 
besides, Gaea would know the truth. If Gaea knew, Titania would 
find out.
    And she was still curious how the bird thing worked.
    The invader struggled in its sleep, reacting to some threat 
in its dreams. Gwenna darted out of view, and the young mannish 
invader mumbled something and twisted in its sleep again. Gwenna 
circled the craft once more and knew that it was a made thing 
that smelled of dead wood and oily resins. Then she retreated 
back to her hiding place to continue the watch, as Titania would 
have wanted it.
    In the morning Gwenna was startled awake by a new sound, a 
sound that convinced her in a moment she had made a mistake in 
sparing the young invader.
    She could see the beach from where she perched, and the bird 
thing was moving now. The invader was within it, and the bird 
thing was flapping its great wings. There was a high, whining 
noise that hurt her ears, and the sand billowed out in great 
dusty clouds beneath the moving wings. The invader's craft took a 
single, low hop on the beach, then a second, and then shot into 
the air like an arrow.
    Gwenna watched the mechanical creation gain altitude, the 
wires that ran through its wings singing as it caught the wind 
like a kite. The bird thing began to circle and spiral upward 
over the warming sand of the beach. Gwenna wondered if it was 
going to fly deeper into the island's heart and how she was 
supposed to follow it if it did.
    Instead the bird thing increased its altitude until it was a 
small dot, then flew northwest, toward the continual line of 
storms that marked the borders of Titania's influence.
    Gwenna came out of the beach again, watching the small craft 
as it became smaller still and finally disappeared entirely from 
her sight. She had not expected the bird thing to fly again. She 
had not expected the invader to be foolish enough to escape. She 
had no doubt it would fail in the attempt and be driven back to 
shore elsewhere along the island coast.
    But if it was driven back or destroyed by the storm, she did 
not see it.
    An elder came to her two days later and found her still at 
her post, waiting for the bird thing to return. She told him that 
she had watched the invader as he repaired his craft and then 
departed.
    The elder asked, "And did it damage the land while it was 
here?"
    Gwenna replied, "No, it did not."
    The elder thought for a moment, surprised by the answer. Then 
he said, "Then you did the right thing not to slay it if it 
violated no law."
    And that was that. The invader did not return that month, nor 
in the month that followed, nor in the month after that. No one 
found the remains of the invader or its bird thing along the rest 
of the coastline, and it was assumed it had been destroyed by the 
storms that surrounded and protected Argoth.
    Gwenna was unsure. There was a nagging in her stomach about 
the invader; about the fact that she kept it from despoiling the 
land and thereby preserved it from death. She wondered if she had 
done something wrong in letting it live.
    To Argoth's pain and her own shame, she would live to see how 
wrong she had been.
    
                           Chapter 29
                       MANA AND ARTIFICE

    The assistant announced Harbin's arrival to the Lord High 
Artificer and Protector of the Combined Kingdoms of Argive, 
Korlis, and Yotia. Harbin did not wait for Urza to respond but 
was in the room already, hot on the assistant's heels, not giving 
his father a chance to send him away.
    "Father, you must see me," said the younger man.
    "And see you I do," returned Urza, pushing his glasses back 
up on the bridge of his nose. He nodded to the assistant, and the 
young girl retreated to her own studies.
    Harbin looked at his father. Urza was leaner now and his 
frame had taken on an almost birdlike quality. His hair was snow-
white and had receded to expose most of his careworn brow. He 
wore his spectacles all the time now, not just when working. He 
looked old and tired.
    "You have read my preliminary report, sir," said Harbin, 
politely but without preamble.
    "Yes," said Urza, patting a small stack of papers. "And I 
must say you were fortunate. The storms of the southeast have 
shattered boats and sent good men to the bottom. Both your mother 
and your wife were beside themselves with worry. I trust you have 
seen them and reassured them."
    "I sent word to them, Father, but came here first," said 
Harbin.
    Urza looked at the young man, surprised, then nodded. "You 
found something beyond the storms," he said.
    "An island," said Harbin. "More than an island, a huge 
landmass to the south and east of Korlis. Heavily forested, but I 
noted from aloft there were huge mountains as well, as big as the 
Kher Ridges. I kept multiple sightings on my return, and even 
given the storms I think we can find it again."
    Urza said nothing but merely ground his palms together 
slowly.
    "There's enough lumber there to launch an armada of 
ornithopters against the enemy and enough ore within those 
mountains to make new legions of avengers," continued Harbin. The 
young man's face was alight with possibilities. "This is the 
chance to tip the battle in our favor for once."
    Urza held his silence, and his eyebrows furrowed. Harbin 
said, "Sir, have I said something wrong?"
    Urza's eyebrows rose, and he shook his head. Harbin wondered 
where his father's thoughts were while he talked. Instead Urza 
said, "Harbin, what was it like flying back to Penregon?"
    Harbin thought for a moment. "It was unremarkable, sir."
    "What did you see of the land while you were aloft?" asked 
the older man.
    Harbin shrugged. "Mines, factories, farms, towers, outposts. 
Nothing out of the ordinary."
    "Hmmm," said Urza. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Argive was 
once a land of rolling hills and manor-house estates. Did you 
know that?"
    "I know the histories, sir," said Harbin.
    "Histories that I was alive for. Korlis was covered with 
forests, though now not a tree stands between its capital and the 
coast. Yotia was an open territory of fertile fields. Now its 
fields are barren, and the Sword Marches is a plain of blackened 
glass."
    "That is because of Mishra's inventions," said Harbin 
quickly. "His ground-breakers and armageddon clocks. He would 
rather destroy the land than to give it up to you."
    "Yes, those are the qadir's inventions," said Urza, not even 
speaking his brother's name. "But have I been any better with my 
creations? The land has been ripped asunder in our pursuit of 
resources to fight this war. There are reports from among the 
surviving Sardian dwarves that burning rain falls from the sky 
into their land, searing the flesh and corroding any exposed 
mechanism. The qadir has plundered nation after nation. Have I 
been any less effective in my own work?"
    Harbin was silent for a moment, then said, "This is unlike 
you, sir. Is there other news I should know of?"
    Urza let loose a small smile. "Why is it everyone knows when 
I am troubled except me?" he said and turned back toward his 
desk. "I've been going through Richlau's old papers. You knew 
him?"
    Harbin said, "He was the Master of Apprentices at the 
Artificer's School." Then he paused and added, "I didn't know he 
was dead. I am sorry."
    "Happened while you were away," said Urza. "I knew him when 
we were very young. He died of natural causes in his library. But 
still, his death has troubled me."
    Harbin said nothing. They had both become immured to the 
continual losses of the war, both of manpower and machines, but 
the passing from simple old age was something that Harbin had a 
hard time considering. If Richlau had been older than his father, 
then he must have been very old indeed.
    "In any event, I've been going through his personal papers, 
and found correspondence with another old friend, named Loran." 
Urza tapped a thick pile of letters. "She was another scholar and 
went to Terisia City to study when you were very young."
    Harbin thought he understood. Terisia City had fallen to 
enemy forces and been sacked. Since then it had been taken and 
retaken several times. If Loran was there, she was probably dead 
as well.
    "Loran writes of some meditative techniques they were 
developing in the city," continued his father. "They allowed the 
user to manipulate matter and living things. To fly. To jump 
great distances. To shatter objects. What do you think of that?"
    "I would find such a claim ... dubious," said Harbin. It was 
the kindest phrase he could think of.
    "Dubious?" said Urza, catching the halt in Harbin's voice. 
"How so?"
    "I find the existence of such things unlikely," said Harbin. 
"Flying without an ornithopter. Have you ever encountered 
something like this?"
    Urza was quiet for a moment, and Harbin wondered, not for the 
first time, what he was thinking. The older man's hand reached 
for the amulet that always hung around his neck. "No. Not 
exactly. Sometimes when I am starting on a new device, there is a 
spark, a feeling that I get, when everything falls into place. 
But no, nothing that would allow me to fly without an 
ornithopter."
    "Well, then," said Harbin, "if you did not think of it, it 
probably does not exist. Sir."
    Urza smiled broadly. Harbin relaxed, and for the first time 
since he was a child he felt comfortable with the older man. "You 
think too highly of me," the artificer said.
    "As any good son should," said Harbin. Urza's face clouded 
for a moment, and the younger man felt at once he had gone too 
far. Quickly he added, "If this meditative technique was valid, 
it didn't work against the enemy, did it? Terisia City was sacked 
and burned, and all the meditation in the world did not prevent 
that."
    Urza said, "Well reasoned."
    Harbin replied with a small nod, and Urza picked up the pile 
of letters, then set them back down. "Before your return," he 
said, "I was wondering how to continue protecting ourselves from 
the qadir and his machines. We have almost emptied the land and 
have little to show for it. We stand, more than ever, on the edge 
of a blade, poised between salvation and defeat. Perhaps, I 
thought, if our devices could be developed to work off this 
meditative energy, this mana ..."
    Harbin was silent, unsure if his father was truly speaking to 
him or not.
    Urza sighed deeply. "No, you're right. There is too much 
unknown, even if there is some grain of truth at the heart of 
this. It would take years to discover what the ivory-towered 
scholars had come up with, and all their work is now among the 
qadir's plunder."
    Urza looked up at Harbin, and his face was stern and self-
assured, as it normally was. "But this new discovery, this new 
land, is an opportunity to finally gain the advantage over my ... 
over the qadir. You've done very well, Harbin."
    "Thank you, Father," said Harbin. "I've already started plans 
for securing the island."
    "You?" said Urza, and blinked. "Just because you were 
fortunate to get past the storms once-"
    "I should lead any expedition that returns there," rejoined 
Harbin. "It is a well-reasoned argument." The younger man folded 
his arms.
    "Your mother will not hear of this," said Urza.
    "Which is why I came to you first," said Harbin, "instead of 
talking to her, or to Uncle Tawnos. If you say yes, they will not 
argue with you."
    Urza pulled the glasses from his face and pinched the brow of 
his nose. "Then you leave me no choice," he said at last. "You 
will lead the expedition to this new land."
    Harbin had expected more of an argument, or at least more 
fire in the Lord Protector's voice. Instead there was just 
exhaustion.
    Urza rubbed his chin. "Harbin?" he said.
    "Yes, sir?"
    "Do you dream?" asked Urza.
    The question caught the younger man by surprise. "Dream? I 
suppose everyone dreams."
    Urza held up his glasses, and the muddied sunlight caught 
them. "I dreamed I had made a set of lenses that let me look into 
the human heart. To see to the core of its being. I used them to 
look at my brother, and there was only darkness. Only darkness in 
my brother's heart."
    "Sir?"
    "Only darkness," repeated Urza, and sighed. "That is why we 
are going to bring this new island of yours into the war. Because 
we need to beat back that darkness."

                          * * * * *

    "Bunk! Bunk and camel droppings!" bellowed Mishra, throwing 
the book against the far wall of his workshop. The offending tome 
fluttered end over end before its covers spread like a bird's 
wings and it smashed, spine first, against the far wall. Hajar 
quietly walked over to the jettisoned book, straightened its 
pages back into a semblance of order, closed it, and placed it on 
a growing pile.
    "Most Revered One," said Hajar simply, "even among the dross 
there may be accidental gems."
    "Gems? Gems?" snapped Mishra. "There are no more gems among 
those convoluted daydreams than there is grass in the Suwwardi 
Marches, these days!"
    Hajar started to say, "The Scholars of the Ivory Towers held 
our forces at bay for-" but Mishra waved a hand at him.
    "They had stout walls and good weapons," the qadir rapped 
out. "This mystic effluence had nothing to do with their 
success."
    "The generals who oversaw the siege and later sacking would 
disagree," said Hajar.
    "Those generals were looking for an excuse for their own 
incompetence," snarled Mishra. "They found it in the nonsense of 
those scholars. A dragon engine goes missing, and they blame 
witches and pixies!"
    He might have said more, but: his words were already being 
garbled by the phlegm in his throat. The Artifice Qadir of the 
Fallaji Empire bent almost double in a long, wheezing fit of 
coughing.
    Hajar waited for the attack to abate. Mishra had grown heavy 
over the years, and sometimes it hurt his lungs to breathe. The 
thick yellowing smoke that hung night and day over Tomakul did 
little to abate his illness. Hajar had recommended Mishra retreat 
to the clearer desert air, but as in most matters these days, the 
bodyguard's advice was ignored.
    The fit was a short one, and Mishra pulled a silk scarf from 
his pocket to wipe the sprayed spittle from his lips. "Scholars," 
he snarled, picking up where he left off. "Mystic energy within 
the land itself. Tapping into that energy through memorization 
and meditation. Hokum! We drove the charlatans out of Zegon, and 
they all fled to Terisia. And I thought there was knowledge 
there!"
    Hajar said, "Even among the dross there-"
    "Is more dross!" shouted Mishra. "There is no more truth in 
those books than in the 'true sight' of some old Fallaji wise 
woman sitting in the square, trading rose-colored visions for 
brass coins."
    Hajar stiffened at the slur against the Fallaji, but Mishra 
ignored it. "I hoped there would be some great weapon, some 
master artifice that could finally defeat my brother," he 
wheezed. "But all that is here are campfire tales and petty 
mystics!" Another coughing fit rose to his lungs, and Hajar 
walked over and stoked the coals, then poured a ladle of water 
over the red-hot embers. Heat and steam seemed to help His Most 
Revered One's breathing.
    Mishra needed something to help him, and Hajar had hoped it 
would be among the books looted from Terisia City's ivory towers. 
Hajar believed the generals when they said the scholars had some 
sort of raki powers that allowed them to defeat the dragon 
engines and transmogrants and to keep the Fallaji at bay for so 
long
    As Mishra searched, the empire crumbled. They were reduced in 
the east to skirmishing and petty raids across the Kher Ridges. 
In the south Yotia was a lawless frontier, at least those parts 
that had not been turned to glass by Mishra's inventions. The 
descendants of the ground-breakers, the armageddon clocks, had 
fused huge sections of the land to black glass, denying the enemy 
any use of it. Elsewhere huge plows churned through the dying 
land in desperate attempts to pull something useful from the 
earth's bosom. To the west was untamed and barren wilderness, 
already plundered to keep the war machines going.
    The pieces were beginning to fall apart now. There was civil 
war in conquered Almaaz and revolution in Sarinth. Many of the 
tribes of the Fallaji were now raiding fellow tribesmen, and 
discipline was breaking down.
    Ashnod, gone these many years, was to blame, Hajar felt. 
Without her to argue and plot, without her for the generals and 
war captains to fear and conspire against, the various factions 
within the empire were turning against each other. Urza was the 
continual enemy, but he was far away. It was Ashnod everyone 
hated and feared.
    She had been spotted in Sumifa, said one report. No, in the 
Colekgan Mountains, said another. No, she was seen in Yotia and 
was going to sell her secrets to Urza, said a third. Nay, said a 
fourth, she was dead from her own diabolic devices. Whatever the 
truth, Hajar knew the empire suffered without her.
    Mishra's coughing fit subsided, and the qadir again dabbed at 
the corners of his mouth with his kerchief, an automatic gesture 
these days. "It is hard for you to understand, Hajar, but know 
that all of my devices are rooted in some basic principles." "If 
you insist, Most Puissant One," said Hajar. "And this"-Mishra 
motioned at the ever-growing pile of books- "this school of fools 
acts as if those basic principles do not exist! You don't need 
wings to fly or a transmogrant to build an army! All you need is 
thought and land, and you can wish things into being!" He slapped 
another book, and a fountain of dust shot out from between its 
covers. "Pah!"
    Mishra raised his kerchief to his mouth and retreated to his 
throne. He lowered his large bulk into the chair and said, "Call 
for the Gixians."
    Hajar bowed but did not move. "The Gixians?" "They've been 
playing with Ashnod's works for years," snapped Mishra. "Perhaps 
they have some trick I can use against my brother." "With 
respect, most honorable one," said Hajar, "there are those who 
say you rely on the Gixians far too much."
    Mishra's forehead creased and he growled, "There are those 
who also say I rely too much on you, Hajar. Now fetch me those 
accursed priests."
    Within the hour three of the priests were brought before 
Mishra. Hajar had not liked the priests when they first arrived, 
and he liked them less with every passing year. They had slowly 
infiltrated the bureaucracy and made themselves invaluable to the 
empire. Since Ashnod's desertion (no mind that she had been 
banished; if she had been loyal, she would have remained), they 
had taken over that woman's laboratories and slaughterhouses. And 
they had taken over Mishra's own mild attempts at training young 
Fallaji in artifice, turning the schools into a mere extensions 
of their priesthood.
    A pair of young Fallaji men accompanied the head priest as 
they approached the throne. Perhaps the Gixians saw this as 
tribute to
    Mishra, but Hajar thought of it as an abomination. These 
young men should have been warriors. Instead they were chanters 
for a foreign religion.
    Worse yet, within the last ten years the Brotherhood of Gix 
had taken to modifying their own bodies in their worship of the 
machine. Flesh was woven with links of chain and metal scales, 
and even limbs were replaced with clunky mechanical devices. They 
mutilated themselves and declared themselves more holy for their 
efforts.
    The lead priest was such an abomination. He had no eyes; 
rather a plate of curved metal covered his eye sockets, polished 
to a mirror's brightness. The plate had been bolted to the 
priest's face at the temples, and occasionally a trickle of blood 
would drip down alongside one of the bolts. The priest was 
dressed in heavy robes, and Hajar wondered what other parts of 
his body he had modified in the name of his machine god. Hajar 
suppressed a shudder and decided he did not want to know.
    The lead priest bowed, the two Fallaji acolytes following his 
motions like puppets on a string. "Most Wise, Most Thoughtful, 
Most Powerful Qadir," said lead Gixian, "we offer whatever help 
we may give in your illustrious name."
    Mishra rested both hands on his belly, templing his fingers 
and tapping them softly. "You said Terisia City held great 
knowledge."
    The priest bowed again. "That is so. My fellow brothers 
walked among their scholars and learned much."
    Mishra continued, "I have reviewed much of the material that 
we have recovered and determined it to be without merit."
    Again the priest bowed. "If that is what you determine, that 
must be correct," he said smoothly. Hajar wondered that the man's 
spine did not snap from changing opinions so quickly.
    "Yet you said they had great power," said Mishra.
    Yet another bow. "They may have hidden their true strengths 
from us or cloaked them in mysticism, assuming that we would 
respect their beliefs," said the priest. He cocked his steel-shod 
head and added, "We are industrious but not all-seeing."
    "But we have nothing useful from Terisia City, save the 
traditional plunder," said Mishra, his voice sounding thick again 
as the fluids began to settle in his lungs. Hajar automatically 
moved to the hot coals and scooped another ladle of water onto 
them. Mishra began another long cough, and the priests and Hajar 
waited for him to finish.
    "Most Illustrious One," said the lead priest, "there are some 
things we have learned."
    "Such as?" prompted Mishra.
    "Mysteries of the human body," said the mirror-plated Gixian. 
"We have studied much of Ashnod's work, and we believe that we 
have ..." He paused for a moment and then continued, "... 
improved it."
    Mishra leaned forward now, his bulk shifting beneath him. 
"Improved it? How?"
    "Ashnod thought of the body as a resource," said the Gixian. 
"We believe the body is a machine and should be able to be 
improved like a machine, thereby made more holy. And more 
powerful."
    "More powerful?" rasped Mishra. "How? Can it be used as a 
weapon?"
    The lead priest turned toward Hajar, though how the monk 
could see without eyes confounded the older Fallaji. "We can talk 
to you of this," said the Gixian, "away from prying ears."
    Mishra nodded. "Hajar, leave us."
    Hajar set down the ladle. "Most Revered One, I-"
    "I said, leave us," said Mishra again. "I want to hear what 
the good monks have to say of the matter. Away from prying ears."
    Hajar started to argue, then stopped. He nodded, bowed 
deeply, and left the room, pulling the ornate doors shut behind 
him.
    "Now," said Mishra, smiling and leaning forward toward the 
three monks, "tell me more."
    
                            PART 4
                         CRITICAL MASS
                          (57 - 63 AR)
    
                           Chapter 30
                           WAR DRAMS

    The demon Gix sat in the cavern of Koilos and feasted on the 
minds of two of his followers. One was a spy who had come west 
from Argive and was still obviously human. The other came from 
the court of Mishra, and she was festooned with rings and other 
metal ornaments. Her left arm was entirely artificial. Her face 
was a rictus grin that indicated further work in the jaw and 
throat.
    One priest knelt on either side of the demon, and he gripped 
their skulls and pierced their flesh with his talons, sucking 
their memories from them. He savored their experiences, their 
messy lives and flamboyant emotions, as he took in their 
knowledge.
    The more human priest, the one from Argive, was obviously 
jealous of his companion. He could not modify his form in the 
same fashion as she did, for he had to operate among the other 
humans in Argive's capital, Penregon. But this plain, 
unornamented one held wonderful information, of the new discovery 
of the island off Terisiare's southeast coastline. The new land 
was wrapped in storms, but once past the bad weather there was a 
land rich for the taking, similar to Phyrexia's first sphere in 
its wildness, but more organic and disorganized.
    He scanned through the mind of the priest from Mishra's 
court, and there was nothing similar there. Yes, they had raided 
Ashnod's notes and were already successfully using her work on 
the human body to modify themselves. And yes, Mishra relied more 
and more on the priests with every passing month and was now 
susceptible to the brotherhood's suggestions and recommendations. 
But Mishra was hurting badly for resources now and had sucked 
most of the lands dry.
    But no word of the new island's discovery within the priest 
from the Artifice Qadir's court.
    Gix let the information click through the registers of his 
own mind. He wanted to reunite the split power stone, but he was 
not sure now which brother should do it for him. Mishra had been 
the initial invader of his domain but now was depending on Gix's 
puppets, the priests, more and more. Urza, wrapped within his own 
hierarchy of supporters and students, remained an enigma to Gix, 
but with the resources of this new island he would be able to 
overpower his brother, given time.
    Gix wanted one of the brothers dead and the other 
sufficiently weakened so that he would not stand in Gix's way. 
But both humans had been working through their proxies, through 
their own minions, and had not met face-to-face in decades.
    Perhaps, Gix thought, he could change that.
    To the metal-studded priestess from Mishra's court he 
presented information that Urza had found a new source of 
material to keep his war machine functioning. The woman shuddered 
as the new data flooded into her brain, and a single, oily tear 
pooled at the corner of her eye.
    Gix ordered the male spy to return to Argive and allow 
himself to be captured. He must then reveal, only under torture, 
that Mishra himself planned to take the prize of the island 
kingdom personally, giving himself a boon of materials and 
opening the entire southern coast of Urza's kingdoms to attack.
    Almost as an afterthought, the demon burned out that part of 
the man's brain that contained the feelings of jealousy of his 
fellow monk. The man let out a small gasp.
    Machines did not feel jealousy, noted Gix. Neither should 
their worshipers.
    He released the pair, and the woman moaned as the mental 
connection was broken. The man collapsed, and Gix had to summon a 
pair of su-chi, partially restored by the priests, to drag him 
off to recover elsewhere. Given the damage done to his mind, 
there would be little difficulty in his being caught by the 
Argivians.
    Gix leaned back on his throne and clicked his taloned fingers 
together. Now, finally, all the pieces were falling into place.

                          * * * * *

    Gwenna had been there when the first invader came and was 
there when the invasion proper began. Titania was no fool, and an 
invader that escaped the land was expected to return. Gwenna and 
others of her clan had been recruited to serve as shore watchers 
for the next year or ten years to guard against the recurrence of 
men from the sky.
    And they did return, from the sky and from the sea.
    Gwenna was at the tree line overlooking the pristine white 
beach where the invader had first landed. It was morning, and the 
storms that formed the outer barricade of the island were a dark 
line against the horizon.
    Then darker flecks appeared among the gray horizon, slowly 
becoming clearer and more solid as they sailed out of the rain. 
The dark blots quickly resolved into large boats. It was a 
flotilla of ships sailing out of the storm.
    There were other flecks aloft, no more noticeable than gnats 
swarming around the greater shadows. They were the bird things, 
Gwenna realized. Their small size alongside the greater 
silhouettes spoke of the boats' huge size. Each of the great 
ships had to be the size of an entire elven hamlet.
    As Gwenna watched, more ships sailed out of the gray storm, 
and then more still. Some were streaming black smoke, and others 
white steam; still others billowed out with great sails, torn by 
their passage through the heavy weather, looking like specters as 
they neared the shore.
    It was an armada unlike any that Gwenna could recall, not 
even out of the old lore. The invaders were coming to Argoth.
    The force was making for a peninsula westward along the 
coast, and Gwenna began moving in that direction. She thought of 
moving along the beach, but already the small bird things were 
overhead, swooping and scouting the area. Instead she kept to the 
upper levels of the trees, running along the great branches and 
leaping the occasional chasms within the interwoven branches.
    She found young Doril at her watch position, staring at the 
armada as it bore down on them. The younger elf's eyes were wide 
with fear.
    Gwenna shook her and told the youngling to take word of the 
invasion back to Titania's Court. But even as she spoke, Gwenna 
knew that with a force so large, Gaea herself had to know. If 
Gaea knew, Gwenna reminded herself, then Titania, their queen, 
must be aware as well. Still Doril was petrified, and even flight 
was a sufficient action for her at this point.
    The invaders had landed by the time she arrived. Their boats 
did not moor but drove up onto the beach itself. The bows of the 
great craft split open, and out of them spilled a torrent of 
creatures like ants from a ruptured anthill. There were men among 
them, but there were other things of a type that Gwenna had never 
seen. Some looked like beetle-headed humanoids, and these took 
the perimeter of the beachhead. Others were mechanical giants 
with knees that bent oddly, and they were already unloading 
supplies. Huge castlelike creations rumbled from the bellies of 
the ships, bristling with armament and blades. A great machine 
with a saw-toothed mouth lumbered forward on spider legs.
    If Gwenna had any doubts as to her own responsibility in this 
invasion, they were banished when she saw the figure leading the 
assault. There, among the mechanical beings and human warriors, 
was her Invader, the one that she had refrained from killing over 
a year ago. He was bellowing orders to the men and machines, and 
they responded to his words. He turned to listen to another man, 
a taller, older man with broad shoulders. They spoke, and then 
the younger Invader snapped another set of orders, and the 
machines bent to his will.
    The spider-legged creation lumbered toward the tree line, 
even as the mechanical giants began to dig the foundation of a 
fortress above the high tide line. The sawteeth of the great 
spider behemoth bit into the trees, and sawdust and bark flew in 
all directions as it chewed its way into the jungle.
    Other ships were landing now along the beach, their bellies 
rupturing and giving birth to other monstrosities. Some of the 
ships had hung on the reefs, but enough passed through that 
gauntlet to repeat the scene Gwenna witnessed all along the 
coastline. Overhead, the sky buzzed with bird things, both large 
and small.
    There was no time to wait for a response from Titania's 
Court. These were not solitary invaders cast up from some 
shipwreck. This was a force, armed and dangerous, which within 
moments of its landing began to assault the land.
    Gwenna knew she should wait for official response, but she 
also knew what the response had to be. If she waited the forest 
would be lost. Her perch shuddered as one of the great 
bleachwoods toppled, taking with it two more trees with which it 
had interlinked branches.
    Gwenna retreated, pulling back to the deeper heart of the 
forest. She needed to gather the rest of her clan and form a war 
party.
    The invaders would not wait for such niceties as permission.

                          * * * * *

    Ashnod stared at the sylex and smiled. It had taken many 
years, but its secrets were at last hers.
    She ran a finger along the bowl's lip. The world seemed to 
darken around her, and she welcomed that darkness. It spoke of an 
entirely new type of power, a new resource that she could 
harness.
    She had learned well, though her teacher had needed some 
encouragement to share the secrets of the ivory towers. The 
scholar was gone now, though not dead. Ashnod would have found a 
way to preserve her if she had merely died, but the woman had 
instead escaped, made off into the night either by herself or 
with aid.
    It mattered little. She left most of her knowledge behind.
    It required a different way of thinking, a way Ashnod had 
trouble understanding at first. Hers had been a world of the 
physical, like the other artificers. But once the concept existed 
that the land itself held power, that it only needed to be 
released, the rest of the theory fell easily into place.
    Once you believed in magic, it could happen.
    Ashnod lifted her fingertip from the bowl, and the world 
returned to normal. This device was too dangerous for direct use, 
but the secrets it revealed were powerful enough to demonstrate 
her abilities to Mishra and to regain her place by his side.
    He needed her aid desperately. The tribes of the Fallaji were 
finally falling apart, and the non-Fallaji nations they had 
conquered were wracked by revolution and civil war. Through it 
all, an ever-increasing wave of devices spilled across the 
eastern passes from the foundries and workshops of his accursed 
brother.
    She had made her own home in Almaaz, far from its now-ruined 
capital of Sumifa, and played one faction off against another as 
that country spiraled into dissolution. At one point she thought 
she could unite the nation and return to Mishra as Almaaz's 
queen, but now ...
    He would be much more impressed with the power and knowledge 
she held than with any mere nation.
    There was a shadow at the door-one of her own acolytes, 
veteran of several sides in the civil war. She had shared some of 
her secrets with her students but not enough to make any of them 
dangerous. She told them nothing of the true power of the sylex.
    "Mistress?" said the acolyte.
    "Speak, Thaxus," Ashnod replied grandly.
    "News from Tomakul," he said.
    Ashnod looked up, her eyes narrowing. "Out with it."
    "Word has reached Mishra that his brother has found a great 
island, filled with trees and metals to let him fuel the war 
effort."
    Ashnod nodded. Yes, such news would make Mishra all the more 
desperate. "Is it true?"
    "The Artifice Qadir has reopened the boatyards at Zegon, and 
has dispatched slaves to build a fleet of his own," said Thaxus. 
"He intends to take the island for himself."
    Ashnod nodded again. Yes, that was very much like Mishra. He 
needed a new goal to keep his empire together, and the promise of 
fresh plunder was enough to keep the child-men who were the 
Fallaji war chiefs in line. And he would need help if he was to 
succeed. Her help.
    The news was at least three months old. Mishra would have 
finished his ships by now.
    Thaxus shifted from one foot to another, and when Ashnod 
looked up, there was fire in her eyes.
    "Saddle my mount," she said, "with supplies for a long trip."
    "Where are we going?" asked Thaxus.
    "You are not going anywhere," said Ashnod with a wicked 
smile, one that the apprentices had learned to fear. "I, on the 
other hand, am going home."

                          * * * * *

    Junior Artificer Sanwell, who a lifetime ago stood with Urza 
among the ruins of Kroog, found the Lord Protector in his 
workshop. A great area had been cleared in the center of the 
room, and a glowing sphere hovered in the center.
    The sphere shone with a color unknown to Sanwell, a 
combination of swirling yellows and greens that seemed to etch 
their intensity into his eyes so they were still visible even 
when he screwed his eyes shut against the brilliance. Lightning 
danced off the surface of the sphere as it spun, unsupported, in 
the center of the room.
    Sanwell wanted to shout, but Urza noticed him and cut the 
power to the machine himself. The sphere spat one last arc of 
greenish lightning, then floated gently to the floor. Sanwell 
noted that the Lord Protector's white hair had been standing on 
end and surmised that his had been as well, within the field of 
the great device.
    "Rakalite," said Urza briefly, grinning, as if the name 
explained everything. "Works on the same principle as the old 
amulets of Kroog, wrapping the body in a protective field that 
nurtures its healing. What do you have?"
    "The spy, Milord."
    Urza's smile disappeared, and Sanwell could see the old man 
make the mental transition from thinking about his devices to 
thinking about the war. "The Gixian? What of him?"
    "We finally got him to talk," said Sanwell gruffly. "I'm 
afraid we had to break him to do it."
    "Of course," said Urza softly. "What did he know?"
    "He was Gixian, a priest in the order," said Sanwell. "And 
yes, he was funneling information to Mishra. He gave us some 
other names, but they've already fled the kingdom."
    "The qadir knows," said Urza sharply. "He know about the 
island."
    Sanwell nodded. "Your brother-The qadir is said to be 
building his own invasion fleet and will be leading it to the 
island himself."
    "Tawnos is there," said Urza. "Harbin is leading the 
expedition." The old man ground his palms together. The motion 
raised his shoulders, and to Sanwell it made him look like an 
albino vulture. He was silent for a long moment, looking at where 
the oddly colored sphere now rested on the floor. He muttered 
something Sanwell could not hear.
    "Milord?" asked Sanwell.
    "I'm going, I said," Urza grunted, looking up at Sanwell. His 
face was exhausted, and all the spirit that had been there 
moments before had been drained from it. "I'm going to that 
island. To meet my brother one last time."
    
                           Chapter 31
                       MAGIC AND MACHINE

    Harbin arrived in the Court of Queen Titania of the elves of 
Argoth.
    He had been surprised to discover that the island had its own 
queen. Indeed he had been surprised to discover that island was 
inhabited by more than trees and multicolored slugs. Nothing from 
his earlier scouting showed clearings, wood fires, or any of the 
normal trappings of civilization.
    But these elves were not normal. They lived in the trees 
themselves, and had somehow bent them to their own wills. Great 
cathedrals of open space had been nurtured in the center of the 
woods, and the elves made their homes among the branches. The 
Court of Titania was the greatest of those cathedrals, and 
banners of green, gold, and white dripped from the branches 
overhead.
    Harbin had set down his flight of ornithopters in a clearing 
about a half-mile away. He was greeted by a small army of elves, 
dressed in armor made of varnished reeds and armed with razor-
tipped bone spears. Darting among the warrior elves were pixies, 
small humanoids with dragonfly wings, and behind the lines of 
elves were centaurs and treefolk-giantlike creatures who looked 
very much like the forest that surrounded them.
    Among the armed guard was a single tall elf, almost as tall 
as Harbin himself. He was dressed in green and white robes that 
seemed to swirl around him like a cloud. He held his hands out 
palms upward. Harbin returned the gesture. In Argivian, the elf 
said, "You are to come with us. No harm will fall upon you while 
within Titania's power. I am her Speaker."
    The voice was clipped and precise, another surprise for 
Harbin. The elves they had fought to date had their own language 
and showed neither the ability to nor the interest in 
communicating; only in fighting, tooth and nail, for every piece 
of land on the island.
    The raids had begun almost immediately after Harbin's landing 
and grew in intensity with each passing month. The shore towers 
were under assault almost immediately, and the work crews were 
victims to snipers as soon as they entered the forest proper. It 
had become necessary to clear the land within a mile of each 
tower, and even that was a difficult operation. Often the forest 
itself would begin to grow back unless the brush was regularly 
cleared and burned.
    Then came the major assaults, of elves, centaurs, and 
treefolk. There were massed battles against crudely armed beings 
who fought with the passion of raging animals. There were animals 
among them as well: cougars, wolves, and other wild creatures. At 
first Harbin thought the armies drove the animals before them, 
but soon he realized the elves exerted some measure of control 
over the mindless creatures, much as the Argivians did over their 
machines. They would make lightning strikes from the tree line, 
then fade into the forest once Argivian forces arrived. Those who 
pursued the elves beneath the canopy of green were ambushed.
    Battlements surrounded the towers, and stockades of newly 
hewn lumber were set up a reasonable distance from the ever-
advancing frontier. Heavy, modified ornithopters, now called 
ornibombers, strafed the jungles to clear it of wildlife and 
elven raiding parties before the lumbering machines even rolled 
forward. Slowly, the resources were pulled from the land and 
poured into making more stockades, battlements, and machines.
    The losses were horrible, both of men and machines. The 
Argivians rarely saw their opposition, and then suddenly they 
appeared, a huge horde of elves, or a flight of pixies, or an 
army of treefolk. A group of the last had reached one of the 
shore towers and was shredding supply boats before the Argivians 
realized the treefolk burned the same as any other tree.
    One morning the attacks stopped as quickly as they had begun. 
Seven days later an elf appeared at the doors of the stockade, 
unarmed and carrying a scroll.
    Harbin himself was at that fort and ordered the guards to 
open the gates and allow him to parley with the elf but to be 
ready to shut them should it prove a trap.
    It was not. The elf extended the scroll, and Harbin took it 
from her. It was a map to a location a few hundred miles inland. 
A note attached, in fluid script, stated that if he wished to 
parley, he should appear at that location at a certain location 
and time.
    Harbin nodded to the messenger. The elf took a step back and 
turned to go. She hesitated for a moment, and Harbin almost swore 
she was going to say something herself. But she only shook her 
head, and walked back to the tree line. The moment she passed 
beneath the shadows of those trees she was gone.
    The time given was not sufficient to relay word back to 
Penregon, and, after some concerns, Tawnos allowed the young man 
to go to the meeting but insisted he take a flight of 
ornithopters with him.
    Now the Speaker led Harbin beneath the trees and into the 
Court of Titania. He had left two men behind to guard the 
ornithopters and took two with him. But if the queen violated her 
word of safe passage, it would matter little whether they were 
together or apart.
    They were preceded and followed by pale elven warriors, their 
faces painted with chalk. The procession was flanked by other 
races that watched as they marched by. Once Harbin swore he saw a 
human face among the crowds, but it was gone and he could not 
pause to find out.
    At last they were let into the great cathedral itself, bathed 
in green light from the leafy canopy overhead. The ground was 
firm and even (much of the land beneath the trees was boggy and 
uneven, slowing their work even further). A long processional was 
cleared, flanked by still more elves and pixies, straining to 
look at the invaders. Near the front were humans dressed in brown 
robes and hoods. They looked daggers at Harbin as he passed.
    At the end of the processional was a great dais, its steps 
rising to a white marble platform that ended in a throne as green 
as the heart of the forest. Seated on the throne was the queen 
herself.
    Her beauty was unearthly. No, Harbin realized; her very being 
was unearthly. Her face seemed like a jade mask, narrow and 
pointed at the chin. Her form was lithe and lean and, if she were 
to stand, she would be taller than Harbin. She was decked in 
tendrils and vines, the brilliant yellow-green of new shoots, but 
her eyes were deep, old, and unfathomable.
    The Speaker motioned for Harbin to remain at the base of the 
dais and took a position two steps up and to one side of the 
queen. Titania's face tightened as she regarded Harbin, and the 
man had the feeling she was mentally peeling away his flesh to 
get a look at the soul beneath. It was not a pleasant sensation.
    There was a silence for a moment. Then the queen spoke, and 
her words were music. Harbin realized her tongue was related to 
the elven languages he had heard before as chamber music was 
related to barbarian chants. Her voice transfixed him and held a 
fire all its own.
    The Speaker said in his clipped tones, "I speak for Queen 
Titania. Titania speaks for the goddess Gaea, most bountiful and 
all-powerful. Argoth is under the protection of Gaea and home to 
her children. You are not welcome here, and you should leave."
    For all the soft trills, it was a blunt message. Harbin 
responded. "I bring the welcome of the combined kingdoms of 
Argive, Korlis, and Yotia, its king and people. I bring the 
welcome of the Lord Protector of the Realm, Urza the Master of 
Artifice. I am Urza's son, Harbin. Speak to me as you would to 
him."
    The Speaker relayed the message to Titania, and Harbin 
wondered why the vine-clad woman smiled for a brief instant. Then 
she spoke again, and the Speaker translated.
    "She knows who you are and what you are," he said. "She wants 
to know if you understand what she just said."
    Harbin took a deep breath. "Tell her I have heard her words. 
But also tell her that our people will not leave this island."
    Again, the words were relayed, and Titania's response was 
short, like a dagger thrust.
    "Then your people will die here," said the Speaker. "You have 
despoiled the land and must be punished. That is Gaea's Law."
    "If I may," said Harbin, raising an empty hand. "Titania 
should know that my people need the lumber on your shores and the 
minerals beneath your hills. We are at war against a greater, 
darker power and need every resource we can muster."
    The Speaker did not even wait to translate this, but merely 
repeated, "She knows who you are and what you are. You are not 
welcome here, and you must leave."
    Harbin raised his other hand. "My father's brother threatens 
all our land with great machines of mass destruction. Without the 
lumber and ore to protect ourselves, we will be destroyed. With 
our destruction, Mishra will find your land and destroy it as 
well."
    The Speaker translated, and Queen Titania remained silent on 
her throne, her face impassive. Harbin had expected a more 
immediate reaction.
    Then it occurred to him. Queen Titania was not truly present 
in this great hall. The beautiful creature before him was a 
mannequin, a puppet operated from afar. It looked truly alive, 
but it was nothing but vines and wood. Was the unseen Titania 
considering his words, or was she busy elsewhere, conferring with 
advisors?
    Finally Titania spoke, and the Speaker's face tightened as he 
listened. To Harbin he said, "Your enemy has already found our 
land. He has landed on the western shores with a force as great 
as your own. Like you, he is already despoiling the land that he 
touches."
    "It is as I told you," said Harbin. "He has great and 
powerful engines of destruction."
    "And how are they different from your engines of destruction, 
human?" said the Speaker, without relaying the message to his 
queen.
    Harbin fumed for a moment, then said, "Tell your queen that 
if she will ally with us, we can defend her against Mishra."
    The Speaker paused for a moment, then relayed the message. 
The response was short and guttural, and Harbin did not really 
need the translation.
    "She says, 'No thank you,' " said the Speaker diplomatically.
    Harbin was exasperated. "You don't understand. Unless you 
ally with us, unless you allow us to harvest some of your 
resources, Mishra will sweep across your land. Only as an ally 
can you hope to surv-"
    Harbin was cut off by a long, tremorous outburst from the 
queen. Her face was filled with anger, and Harbin marveled for a 
moment at how lifelike the mannequin seemed.
    "The dwarves of the Sardian Mountains were your allies," said 
the Speaker. "Where are they now?"
    Harbin was stunned. "How do you know of the Sardian Dwarves?" 
he blurted.
    "The goddess Gaea knows all. She speaks to Titania," said the 
Speaker. "Titania speaks to me. Where are your former allies?"
    "I never heard them called allies," said Harbin, recovering. 
"They were another race that bordered Argive, in the mountains. 
We traded with them for metal and then discovered they were 
trading with Mishra as well."
    "You killed them," said Titania, in a language clear and 
understandable to Harbin's ears. "Your people killed the Sardian 
Dwarves. Few survive, as slaves or exiles, but their mines have 
been plundered and their halls are now warrens for goblins. Is 
this the fate of your allies?"
    Even in rage, even speaking his own language, her voice was 
beautiful. Harbin stammered, and said, "I was only a youth at the 
time, but-"
    "And Yotia?" said Titania. "Your mother is Yotian, human. How 
has that nation fared as an ally? Is not its northern border a 
sheet of fused sand and black glass?"
    "That is not my father's fault!" said Harbin hotly. "It was 
Mishra who did that!"
    Titania did not listen. Instead, she tilted her head, as if 
listening to music that no one else could hear.
    Then the queen of the elves stiffened in her chair and 
screamed.
    Harbin took a step back, along with most of the court. The 
queen's face was contorted, and Harbin could see parts of her 
wooden mask splinter as she screamed. Leaves fell from her vine-
covered dress and grassy tendrils spun out of control. She 
twisted once in her chair and was still.
    Harbin was suddenly very much aware of where he was: deep in 
the heart of unknown territory. Surrounded by beings who had 
fought his work since its inception. Protected from them only by 
the word of their monarch, who had just screamed in pain as he 
yelled at her.
    Harbin did not turn around, but he imagined every elf, 
centaur, and pixie in the forested vault was drawing his weapon.
    But as quick as Titania's attack came on, it passed. The 
queen stirred and collected herself, and Harbin saw that her 
green garments were regrowing themselves.
    Yet when she looked at him, Harbin saw that her eyes were 
deep, tired pools, and she suddenly seemed worn and haggard.
    "You and the other invaders stink," she said simply and 
quietly. "You smell of metal and machine oil. Both sides despoil 
our land, and both sides will be driven out. Argoth is not yours, 
Child of the Artificer. It belongs to neither your father nor to 
his brother. Go now. Tell the other humans this message: Leave 
now or be driven from our shores."
    Titania lowered her head. The Speaker said, "This audience is 
over."
    Harbin wanted to press his point, to warn Titania further of 
the danger of Mishra, but her mannequin was already unraveling, 
the vines and grasses pulling away from the form, rotting as they 
separated. Finally all that lay on the throne was a jade mask.
    "You will be protected as long as you remain within our 
lands," said the Speaker. "Now you must go."
    Harbin and the two other pilots were escorted from the halls, 
Harbin walking alongside the Speaker. There were so many 
questions here, so much said and not said. He had failed in that 
the Argivians needed the wood and ore and he could not get 
permission. But he knew that permission would never come from 
this strange queen. What device did she use to animate her 
puppet? And was she present, even now, watching them?
    There was another human face in the crowd, his face grim and 
angry. Harbin thought of the brown-robed men and asked the 
Speaker, "There are men here?"
    The Speaker nodded but did not lose a stride. "There are. But 
they are no friends of yours, Artifice Child. They hate artifacts 
and all devices and fled to our isle to escape it years ago."
    Harbin thought for a moment and said, "That is how you know 
about Urza and Mishra, then? They are refugees from the 
mainland."
    The Speaker smiled. "The Druids of Citanul came here 
centuries ago, Child of the Machine Maker."
    "But you said they hated artifacts."
    "Do you think," said the Speaker, "that yours is the first 
empire to rely on the tyranny of the machine? Or the last?" When 
Harbin did not answer, the Speaker asked, "Why did you bring your 
flying devices here?"
    "The ornithopters?" Harbin said. "It was the quickest way. 
And it would not harm your precious woods."
    "It was a show of power," said the Speaker.
    Harbin felt embarrassed. The Speaker was correct. But after 
seeing what the queen could do, he did not feel particularly 
powerful.
    "Yes, it was," said the Speaker smoothly. "A small show of 
power. Now allow us a small show of power in response."
    They emerged in the glen where the ornithopters had landed. 
All five machines were there, as were the two Argivians left 
behind as guards. There were the elvish warriors and more of the 
brown-cloaked humans. The Druids of Citanul.
    "Observe," said the Speaker, and signaled the brown-robed 
humans.
    At once the druids began a chant. It was a low chant, almost 
felt in the bones more than heard through the ears, and it used 
the language the Speaker had employed when he spoke to Titania. 
Their voices rose, then fell, then split into separate choruses, 
weaving and interweaving among themselves.
    The pilots reached for their weapons, but Harbin held up a 
hand to stop them. None of the elves moved.
    Then the ornithopters began to move of their own volition. At 
first Harbin thought it to be a simple breeze that caught the 
wind, but their wings began to unfurl to their full limits. 
Beyond those limits. As Harbin watched, the pulleys along the 
wings ripped from their grommets and the wires snapped, their 
sharp twangings punctuating the monks' chants.
    One of the pilots shouted and ran for his craft, but it was 
too late. The ornithopters rose like bucking horses, flapping 
their dying wings against the ground. For a moment, they looked 
like wounded, living birds. Then they crumbled in on themselves, 
their struts and fabric unable to withstand their own sudden 
animation.
    Where the ornithopters had been, there were now five piles of 
broken wood and hide. Already, the elves and druids were 
beginning to back away, disappearing into the trees.
    "Your show of power. Our show of power," said the Speaker. 
"Know that we could have done it once you were in the air, but 
you are under Titania's protection until you leave our lands. You 
have nothing to fear until you reach the lands you have 
despoiled."
    The Speaker smiled, and it was a mean, self-satisfied smile. 
"Have a pleasant walk back, human." And he was gone as well.

                          * * * * *

    Mishra had moved faster than Ashnod had assumed. He was gone 
by the time she arrived in Zegon, gone with the invasion fleet 
bent on wresting the new land from Urza. Only through personal 
favors and equally personal threats did Ashnod gain passage on 
one of the supply ships following in the wake of the initial 
attack.
    She could see the new land before it appeared on the horizon. 
It was marked by a thick column of smoke that grew as her ship 
passed through the storms, a dark beacon calling her forward.
    The shore was a blackened wreckage of burned stumps, jutting 
from the ground like rotted teeth. Already the tree line had been 
pushed nearly to the horizon, and Mishra's factories were already 
assembled and working full tilt to convert those resources that 
survived into useful weapons.
    Ashnod moved among the wreckage and discovered signs that the 
occupation had not gone unopposed. There was a shattered hulk 
that had been a dragon engine not far from the docks at which she 
had landed, and she passed an open grave filled with the bodies 
of transmogrants and what looked like elves.
    She wanted to seek out Mishra first but upon landing thought 
better of it. Mishra had banished her and might not be overjoyed 
to see her. Better to check with the hierarchy first.
    She went looking for Hajar instead. She found him, two mites 
up-shore, trying to unmire a war machine that had sunk, axles-
deep, in a swamp.
    Hajar looked at Ashnod stonily, then nodded. It was a warmer 
welcome than she had expected. Perhaps the older man was 
mellowing.
    "You are back," he said shortly.
    "New horizons, new opportunities," she replied. "Any chance 
of getting to see his nibs?" She laid her backpack on the ground 
and hefted a heavy box. "I brought presents."
    Hajar said nothing to her but turned the bother of 
extricating the titanic machine over to an underling. He started 
walking farther up the shore, and Ashnod followed, carrying both 
box and backpack. Hajar offered to carry neither, and Ashnod 
noted there was a slight stoop in the old Fallaji's shoulders as 
he moved. The years of watching Mishra's back were finally 
telling on the lean-faced bodyguard.
    They arrived at last at a blockhouse, and a huge fortress of 
rough-hewn lumber and unmortared stone. It looked as if this had 
seen some fighting as well, for the outer walls were scorched by 
flame.
    "I take it that there have been problems," Ashnod said.
    Hajar nodded. "The land is occupied and must be taken, inch 
by inch."
    Ashnod nodded in turn. "Any chance of talking with the 
original owners?"
    "A leader of their people appeared here soon after we 
arrived," said Hajar. "A green woman, wrapped in leaves and 
coiled vines."
    "How did it go?" asked Ashnod, already knowing the answer.
    Hajar sighed. A small sigh, but a sigh nonetheless. "Mishra 
ordered the dragon engines to set her on fire. She screamed and 
went up like kindling. Then the attacks began again."
    "How is he?" she asked as they passed within the heavy gates 
of the blockhouse. "Mishra, I mean."
    "He is," said Hajar, then looked at Ashnod. She saw there was 
a softening in his lean visage. "And he is not. You will 
understand when you see him again."
    The throne room of the blockhouse was a rough, frontier 
affair, a rude dais made of slabs of stone with a captain's chair 
from one of the ships serving as a throne. It was flanked by two 
Gixians, one with an artificial arm, the other with a steel plate 
bolted to his face across the eyes.
    Hajar remained by the door, and Ashnod noted the pecking 
order had changed in her absence.
    There was Mishra himself. He was thinner and more muscular 
than he had been when last she had seen him. What mass he 
retained was now muscles rippling beneath his robes. His hair and 
beard seemed darker too. Ashnod assumed that the older man had at 
last surrendered to vanity and used some Zegoni ointment to hide 
his age.
    But his eyes were as alive as they had ever been, as curious 
and as seeking. Ashnod had forgotten that look over the years.
    He still had the razor-sharp ankh of Sarinth tucked in his 
belt, even though that land was in full rebellion. Ashnod made a 
mental note not to mention it, as it might still be a sore point. 
She set the box down and the pack next to it and prostrated 
herself before the Artifice Qadir.
    "I bring you greetings, O Master of the Desert and now Master 
of the Sea," she said, rising without waiting for him to command 
it.
    "I thought I had banished you," said Mishra grimly. "I said I 
would have you slain if you were found within my territories 
again."
    "So you did, Most Sage and Just One," said Ashnod, hewing to 
the formal modes of address until she could discern Mishra's 
temperament. "And if you truly held this land, I would never 
choose to risk your wrath by appearing before your court. But it 
seems there is some doubt about that control at the moment, and I 
offer my aid to make this land yours."
    She looked at Mishra's face, seeking some smile, some 
recognition that he was glad to see her back. All she saw was a 
grim fire burning behind his eyes.
    "What offer of aid is this?" he said.
    "I have wandered far during my ... extended leave," said 
Ashnod, opening the top of the chest. "I've learned many things 
and found many items that may be of use to you."
    She pulled a copperish bowl from the chest. "I believe I can 
use this simple sylex to determine our future," she told him with 
a smile, holding it aloft.
    Mishra did not shift position as he regarded Ashnod and her 
gift. "You bring me metal dishes?" he said. "Have you become a 
coppersmith in your absence?"
    Ashnod lowered the bowl, disappointed. "More than just a 
serving dish, Most Powerful One. There are forces in the world 
beyond those of our mere machines. I have endeavored to master 
those forces."
    "Magic," interrupted Mishra.
    "Pardon?" asked Ashnod, startled.
    "Magic," repeated the qadir, "like the fools of the Union of 
Terisia City believed in."
    "For want of a better word-" began Ashnod, but Mishra cut her 
off.
    "Magic," he said a third time, "does not exist. It is all 
tricks, done with smoke, mirrors, and other devices. I have done 
such tricks. So have you, to fool the credulous. Magic is not 
real. Do not bother me with such trivialities."
    "Most Comprehending One," said Ashnod, "I do not think that 
the power of the scholars of the ivory towers is trivial-"
    Mishra laughed. It was a sharp, barking laugh that Ashnod did 
not like at all. "I never thought I would live to see the day the 
great and powerful Ashnod, Ashnod the Uncaring, would become a 
simple trading-camp charlatan, seeking to con her way back into 
my good graces."
    Ashnod felt her face redden at the rebuke. This was not going 
the way she had expected at all. She said, "I can offer some 
small demonstration-"
    Again Mishra interrupted. "Save your demonstrations for the 
gullible, Ashnod. I know your patter well. And I have missed it. 
But I have changed in your absence, even if you have not." He 
looked at her, long and hard, and Ashnod, for the first time in 
many, many years, wondered what he was thinking.
    Finally Mishra said, "You are welcome to remain with my 
forces, Ashnod, or go as you see fit. I lift your banishment. But 
know that your actions will be watched." There was a slight bob 
of his head toward one of the priests. "If there is any sign of 
betrayal, I will personally turn you into a transmogrant. Am I 
clear?"
    "As glass," said Ashnod, frowning. "But may we at least speak 
in less formal surroundings?"
    "You will come when I call," said Mishra, "or you will not 
come at all. You are brilliant in your own way, Ashnod, and I am 
sure that, returned to true work, to building artifacts, your 
talent will blossom again. You may go."
    Ashnod hesitated a moment, and Mishra said again, "You may 
go." There was granite in his voice.
    Ashnod bowed again, and retreated from the room. Hajar 
followed her.
    "Well, that went badly enough," she said, then turned to 
Hajar. "Things have gone downhill around here while I was gone."
    "It has been so noted," said Hajar simply.
    Ashnod wanted to ask more, to find out how influential the 
Gixians were, who really ran things behind Mishra's throne, when 
the door behind them opened. The priest with the steel-plated 
eyes emerged and bowed, slight and perfunctory, before Ashnod.
    "We are interested in your bowl," said the priest.
    "That trivial piece of magic?" said Ashnod, raising an 
eyebrow, "Magic your lord does not believe in?"
    The priest bowed again, and Ashnod swore she heard something 
click and whine as he did so. "The brotherhood is always open to 
new avenues, and, if they prove true, can present them properly 
to His Most August and Serene Personage. The bowl, please."
    "I think not," said Ashnod.
    The priest stared at her, if an eyeless thing could be said 
to stare at anyone. "We have been charged with keeping an eye on 
you, former apprentice. We have Mishra's ear, and we can be your 
best allies in his court." He smiled, and every other tooth was 
missing. "Or your worst enemies. The bowl, please."
    Ashnod looked at Hajar, and said, "Is this the way of the 
court, now, where petty muggings are common in its halls?"
    Hajar did not say anything. Or rather, he looked at the floor 
beneath them, and his look spoke volumes.
    "I see," Ashnod said, and handed the chest over to the 
priest. "Please accept this gift as a token of my appreciation," 
she said through clenched teeth. "May there be someone present to 
administer aid when you choke on it."
    The priest took the chest and gave her another toothy smile. 
"We knew you would show wisdom," he said, "once the situation was 
made clear to you." And he was gone, back into Mishra's throne 
room.
    Hajar did not say anything after that, but he did not have 
to. He escorted Ashnod to a tent city where most of the court was 
camped. She would have a private tent, and, as the qadir had 
directed, the permission to come and go as she pleased. If she 
needed anything, she should ask him. And then he was gone as 
well.
    Ashnod lowered herself on her bunk and shook her head. She 
had returned, but it was not the return of the prodigal that she 
had hoped for. And Hajar was right. Mishra was both very much as 
she remembered him and very different.
    She wondered if she should stay and decided that she should 
check out where else she could run before bolting.
    She pulled her backpack onto the bunk and opened it, pulling 
the
    Golgothian Sylex from its depths, still wrapped in her 
clothing. Mishra had been right about one thing, of course. She 
had become a coppersmith in the years that she was gone. She had 
become many other things as well. But she had remained a 
suspicious enough person to bring the duplicate of her own 
Grafting to present to Mishra. It was Ashnod's sylex that the 
priests of Gix now held, while she retained the original.
    Ashnod ran her finger along the edge of the ancient, rune-
etched bowl, and the light dimmed slightly around her.
    
                           Chapter 32
                     THE ROAD TO APOCALYPSE

    Harbin and his men arrived, footsore but otherwise unharmed, 
at the edge of Titania's territory. The elven queen had been 
honorable in her declaration of protection. Harbin felt they had 
been watched every step of the way, but there were no incidents 
with the natives. Even the animals seemed to stay clear of them 
as they trudged the long miles back to the base through the 
oppressive humidity found beneath the forest canopy.
    It was clear when they arrived at the border of her majesty's 
territory. The forest ended as suddenly as a cliff. One side of 
the border was the lush, green, and humid world of Titania. On 
the other was the land of Harbin's father and of the Argivians.
    It had been clear-cut, with every tree sawed down and hauled 
away. Smooth stumps marked the former forest like gravestones, 
and every bit of detritus and foliage had been stripped. Off in 
the distance, a huge mound of leaves and vines was smoking 
lazily, and beyond that, Harbin could see large machines ripping 
up the earth itself, searching for mineral wealth beneath.
    It looked more like the Argive he had grown up in than the 
Argoth that the elves claimed as their own, Harbin realized. His 
people had taken the land and made it their own, for good or ill.
    Harbin stepped out into the open; the ground immediately 
became hard-packed, and the sun beat down on him like a hammer. 
He blinked in the brightness, as each of his men in turn stepped 
into the sunlight.
    Behind them, from the forest, there was the war cry of elvish 
voices.
    As one, the five men bolted across the wreckage of stumps, 
hoping to make the cover of the burning mounds before the elves 
caught up with them.

                          * * * * *

    In his lair in Koilos, Gix watched his entertainment through 
the eyes of a minion.
    She was one of the unfortunates among his brotherhood, one of 
those who had failed the test of the machine. Her limbs had been 
replaced by servos and mechanisms, but the work was shoddy, 
quickly failed, and could not be replaced. She lay like a broken 
puppet at the foot of his throne, her useless prosthetics cast in 
all directions. She had cried about her fate for a long time 
until Gix tired of that and sewed her lips shut.
    Still she had her uses. Gix gripped her skull and tapped into 
her mind, watching the contest before them through the filter of 
her emotion and pain.
    Two of the su-chis were battling. Gix controlled them as he 
controlled the woman before him, but did so at a distance. With 
practice over the long years in this strange land and with the 
aid of few devices of his own creation, he had become very good 
at commanding the hearts and souls of these machines.
    The su-chis stood two paces apart and flailed at each other. 
One bore a length of chain, the other a club made of the leg of 
another su-chi it had previously beaten in battle. Gix commanded 
the two automatons to beat each other to pieces, and, loyal to 
their god, they did so without complaint or comment.
    There was no poetry to this battle, for both machines stood 
their ground, neither retreating nor dodging. Instead they 
relentlessly hammered away at each other, and the cavern walls 
echoed with the clang of metal on metal.
    As they thundered at each other, Gix's observer watched, 
flinching with each rasping clash of metal. Occasionally a part 
of one of the su-chis would fly off, and she would start 
suddenly, her skull firmly in the grip of the demon.
    Gix savored the feeling, the sudden rush of adrenaline 
through the priest's body. Without her senses, her reactions, the 
battle was merely a study of forces and impacts, of metal and 
resistance. But through human eyes, the two inhuman machines took 
on different appearances, and Gix relished the difference.
    The combatants were tireless, but in the end the metal itself 
succumbed before the mindless will of the participants. The 
chain-wielding automaton wrapped the length of chain around its 
opponent's neck and snapped its head from its pivots. The head of 
blue-metal wires bounced off its support toward the throne, and 
Gix's observer flinched at that as well.
    Meanwhile, the now-blind automaton attempted to hammer its 
opponent with its club. Its opponent let go of the chain and 
blocked the attack with an upraised arm, which bent under the 
force of the blow. Sparks began to issue from the joints of the 
former chain-wielder from the impact, yet it moved smoothly under 
the blow and reached up with both hands, driving its fingers into 
the clubber's chest.
    The former chain-wielder pulled its hands apart and ripped 
its opponent's chest open. There was a shower of sparks as the 
leg-wielder collapsed in on itself, lacking anything at its 
center to hold it together. Again the observer flinched and tried 
to turn away, but Gix held her head tightly and commanded her to 
keep her eyes open, to drink in the eye-searing sparks of the 
device's destruction.
    In an instant it was over. The chain-wielder towered over the 
broken pile of scrap metal that had been its opponent. Gix felt 
the fear and revulsion in his observer and drank it like a fine 
wine.
    He let go of her, withdrawing the talons back into himself as 
she collapsed into a twitching pile at the foot of the throne. 
Gix rose and strode to the victorious automaton. Sparks rained 
from its joints, and the battering it had received had caved in 
part of its skull.
    Gix held out a finger and pushed against the victor's chest. 
The su-chi, unbalanced, tilted backward, and smashed against the 
hard stone floor of the cavern. Its arms and legs separated under 
the blow, and its chest heaved in one last shower of sparks; then 
it was quiet.
    "Unworthy," he said as an epitaph.
    Gix looked at the two fallen devices. So very much like the 
brothers they were: mindless, easily manipulated, and relentless 
in their assault. And in the end the victor would be vulnerable 
to Gix.
    "Soon" said the demon through lipless teeth. "Very soon."

                          * * * * *

    Queen Titania was dying, thought Gwenna. The queen was dying, 
and the land was dying with her.
    A continual haze pervaded the surviving forest now as more 
and more of the land fell to assaults of the brothers. From one 
side Urza advanced, from the other Mishra, and they left nothing 
in their wake. With each glade that fell, with each knot of trees 
that was lumbered and consumed by their machines, with each 
mountain that was strip-mined, the land grew weaker. With the 
land, the queen grew weaker, and with the queen, the people.
    Gwenna could feel it, and so could the others. Their tie to 
the land, the soft and reassuring touch that they felt in the 
core of their being, was gone. There was only emptiness. 
Emptiness, and the smoke of the burning pyres.
    Titania had retreated to the most hidden part of her kingdom 
to plan the last assault, Gwenna had been told. But she had seen 
the queen before her retreat and knew that Titania would not 
emerge from her sanctuary again. Her majesty was harridan-haggard 
and exhausted, for each blow against the land was a blow against 
her. Gwenna knew that Titania was lost to them and with her the 
wisdom of Gaea herself and the goddess's protection.
    Gwenna would not stand aside and wait for news to come of 
Titania's surrender, nor for a final battle after their forces 
were so weakened they would be ineffective. They could stand 
against one of the invaders, but not both at once. She spoke with 
others among the elves and decided they must make their own 
assault.
    Then the red-haired human woman appeared to her group of 
plotters and gave them the opportunity to strike back.
    Now she and a legion of comrades had gathered on the denuded 
shores of Argoth, an area where the despoiling armies had passed 
but not remained. They waited on the shores for one set of 
enemies, in order to strike out against the others.
    The others rounded the headlands in their strange ships of 
metal and wood, their internal engines shooting sparks into the 
night sky. Some of the elves muttered among themselves, and 
Gwenna heard the word, "abominations." But she would ride in the 
belly of these abominations if it meant she could fight the 
invaders on their home ground.
    The larger ships remained in the deep waters of the bay while 
smaller craft came and beached on the shores. The red-haired 
woman with the ornate staff led the way, followed by a group of 
warriors swathed in cloth. These later warriors were led by an 
old human with a narrow face.
    The red-haired woman bowed curtly and said in Gwenna's 
tongue, "Are you prepared for the voyage?"
    Gwenna looked at her people. There was nervousness among 
them, but also anger. Anger at having their homes destroyed and 
their lands ripped asunder by the invaders. She nodded.
    "Then you'd best board and board quickly. As long as you are 
on shore, you are vulnerable," said the red-haired woman. 
"Fortunately, the storms offshore have abated, so it should be 
safe sailing."
    The storms were abating because Titania was dying, thought 
Gwenna, but she said nothing. Instead she merely nodded and gave 
the signal to her forces. They hefted their weapons and began 
climbing into the boats. Gwenna paused for a moment and listened 
as the red-haired woman and the old man made their good-byes. 
Gwenna did not understand what they were saying and wondered for 
a moment if the two had been lovers and were now parting, 
possibly forever.
    The thought appealed to Gwenna as she climbed over the 
gunwales of the boat and took her first steps away from Argoth 
and into the heart of the enemy land.
    "This is risky," said Hajar, as the elves in their armor of 
shellacked wood clambered into the boats.
    "Everything is risky," said Ashnod. "But we need to strike at 
Urza's boatyards before he can resupply further. We do not have 
the manpower, but these forest children are mad enough at him to 
do the job for us."
    "You should come along," said Hajar.
    Ashnod shook her head. "Mishra will accept your departure, I 
think, but if I leave, he will come after me." "He will be 
angry," said the old Fallaji. "He will be delighted," said 
Ashnod, "when you succeed." "I'll bring the boats back," said 
Hajar.
    Ashnod shook her head again. "Why? So they may be used to 
bring supplies from Zegon? There is nothing left there. It's all 
been melted down and chopped down and converted and sent here. 
We're at the end of things, Hajar. It is now or never."
    Hajar was silent for a moment, then said stiffly, "I have 
missed your way of thinking. The Brotherhood of Gix is not nearly 
as comforting."
    Ashnod said, "I will tell Mishra when he finds out that this 
was my idea but that you insisted on leading the raid so things 
would work out."
    Hajar chewed over the idea, then managed a small smile. "It 
has been an honor working with you. You think like a man," he 
said.
    Ashnod's fingers tightened around her staff, but she said, 
"Thank you, Hajar. I accept that as the compliment you mean it to 
be."
    The boats were loaded, and Hajar was gone, rowing out to the 
larger craft. Ashnod watched the sparkling lights of the craft 
until they sailed again around the headland and were lost. Then 
she began a long walk back to camp, wondering if Mishra would 
even notice that Hajar and the ships were gone.

                          * * * * *

    "He's sending me home," snarled Harbin, settling down in the 
camp chair across the tent from Tawnos.
    Tawnos looked up from his work but said nothing.
    "He says I am needed more back in Penregon," continued the 
younger man.
    Tawnos tightened a nut on the large construct he was working 
on and said, "He's right."
    "Of course he's right," snapped Harbin. "He's always right. 
That's what being Lord Protector is all about, isn't it? Being 
right."
    Tawnos stood up and regarded his handiwork. "This looks about 
ready. What do you think?"
    Harbin looked at the object. It looked like a large crate, 
seven feet in length and three in height and depth. It was 
unremarkable, save that it was made of metal and had a great, 
heavy lid.
    "Looks like a coffin," said the younger man.
    Tawnos took a step back, looked at the construct, and smiled. 
"Yes, I suppose it does. All the better, I guess."
    "What does this one do?" said Harbin, putting his irritation 
with his father aside.
    "When I was Mishra's ... guest, they kept me in a cell 
forgotten by the rest of the world," said Tawnos. As he spoke, he 
flexed his right hand, as if to shake out an ancient pain. "I'd 
been thinking about it and came up with this. It functions with 
some of the same mechanisms that power the old amulets of Kroog, 
along with Ashnod's staff from Zegon."
    "Uh-huh," said Harbin. "And what does it do?"
    "It will keep a body within in stasis-effectively asleep for 
as long as the power stones operate within it or until the box is 
opened." Tawnos looked at Harbin. "You see, I've been thinking 
about what your father will do with his brother once he defeats 
him. I don't think he could bring himself to kill him, but 
neither could he suffer him to live. This"-Tawnos patted the top 
of the lid-"is the third option."
    Harbin smiled and it was a warm smile. "Uncle Tawnos, you are 
now inventing answers to questions no one has even posed yet. You 
assume we're going to defeat Mishra or take him alive if we do."
    "Of course we're going to win," said Tawnos. "We did not come 
this far to give up."
    "I wonder," said Harbin.
    Tawnos blinked at the younger man. "You have doubts?" Harbin 
shook his head. "Not I, but in talking with Father... " He shook 
his head again. "He seems, well, not despondent, but weary, 
tired."
    "Resigned," said Tawnos. "His has been a long road, and it 
will finally end soon. I think he knows it. It will end, one way 
or the other."
    "And when it does end," said Harbin, "I want to be here. One 
way or the other."
    Tawnos shook his head. "The elves have gotten their hands on 
boats and are marauding their way up the coast. We need a good 
leader to rally the garrison units against them. You are that 
leader." Harbin said nothing.
    "You wanted the opportunity to lead," said Tawnos, "and the 
price of leadership is that you have to keep leading, even if you 
would rather be somewhere else."
    Harbin slowly nodded. "You and Father have already talked 
about this, correct?"
    Tawnos shrugged. "He has sought my advice regarding your 
well-being."
    Harbin looked up at the older, taller man, and said, "Will 
you look after him? Father, I mean. After his well-being?" "I 
always do," the Master Scholar replied.
    "No," said the younger man, "I mean this. When we parted, he 
said something that's bothered me. He said 'Tell your mother to 
remember me as I tried to be, not as I was.' He doesn't think 
he's going to live through this."
    Harbin looked at the ground, and Tawnos said, "I'll look 
after him. I've been doing it for years, in one way or the 
other." Harbin sighed. "I told him I was wrong, too." "Wrong 
about wanting to stay at his side?" asked Tawnos. Harbin shook 
his head. "A long time ago, he asked me what I thought about the 
Union's work. About magic. I told him I doubted that it even 
existed. But now, after seeing the elves and their queen and what 
they can do without any devices at all, I'm unsure. I feel 
responsible for convincing him that magic did not exist."
    "I don't think anyone ever convinced Urza of anything he did 
not believe in himself," said Tawnos. "Just remember that there 
is always something that you don't know, that you can afford to 
learn."
    "Is that why you're still with Father after all these years?" 
asked Harbin.
    "Probably," said Tawnos. "But I have learned much from a lot 
of people. I guess I assumed that I never knew it all to start 
with and was more willing to listen to others."
    Harbin smiled at Tawnos's words. The older man went to the 
far side of the tent and rummaged around, finally pulling out a 
short wand. The device was about the length of Harbin's forearm 
and had a thick, bulbous tip like an orange. "Here," he said. "A 
going-away present."
    Harbin looked at the device. "What is it?"
    "Another machine I developed some time back. It masks the 
user from the sensory devices of the artifact-creatures. This was 
a prototype. It doesn't seem to work on the larger beings, but it 
will help if there are any transmogrants around."
    Harbin smiled. "Still trying to protect me, Uncle Tawnos? No, 
you keep the wand. You'll probably need it more than I do, where 
I'm going."
    "So you will be going?" said Tawnos.
    Harbin held out his hands in mock surrender. "Of course!" The 
younger man gave a smile. "But once these elven marauders are 
taken care of, I will be back. Count on that."
    "Of that I have no doubt," said Tawnos. "After all, you are 
your father's son."
    "Of course I am," said Harbin, a tired smile spreading across 
his face. "Who else would I be?"

                          * * * * *

    Mishra did not question Hajar's absence nor ask about the 
missing ships, nor even Ashnod herself. Instead he pushed deeper 
and deeper into the heartland of the island. Anything that could 
not be fed immediately into the foundries was killed and burned, 
and charnel pits dotted the countryside. The air hung heavy with 
the smoke of what once had been Argoth's forests. Mishra's forces 
moved with the smooth and relentless efficiency of a machine, 
mowing down everything in their path.
    Finally Ashnod was summoned once more into Mishra's presence. 
The priests of Gix hung over his shoulder as she entered, like 
vultures waiting for the lion to make a fresh kill.
    "You have been talking to natives of this island," said 
Mishra without waiting for her to bow and scrape.
    Ashnod looked at the leering priests, then said, "Of course. 
I have been endeavoring to get them to attack Urza's forces as 
opposed to our own. They have a company of druidical priests 
that-"
    Mishra interrupted as if she had said nothing after "of 
course." "Do you believe that they could defeat my brother's 
forces?"
    Ashnod looked at Mishra, but his brows were in shadow, and 
she could not see his eyes. "No," she said simply, "I don't think 
they could."
    "But they could weaken him," said Mishra.
    "Yes," said Ashnod. "What is this about?"
    Mishra's head snapped up, and Ashnod saw the fire in the 
man's eyes. "Urza's main position is seven days away. There is a 
force of elves heading toward it, which is two days away from 
arriving. If the elves reach my brother first, they may weaken 
him sufficiently, allowing me to crush him completely. Your 
thoughts?"
    "Urza has many machines on his side," began Ashnod, but 
stopped as Mishra's scowl grew deeper. "Yes. If the elves attack 
Urza first, then he will be weakened. But he would win any direct 
battle with the natives."
    "Thank you," said Mishra, turning away. "You may go."
    "Milord," said Ashnod, "if there is to be a battle, we need 
to draw up the plan of assault."
    "One has already drawn up," said Mishra, and the priest gave 
another leering smile. Ashnod knew who had done the advising in 
this matter. "We will gather our forces and move in behind the 
elves, ready to attack after they do. You may go."
    Ashnod looked at the priest, then bowed low to Mishra and 
left his headquarters, muttering as she did so.
    That evening there was a celebration among the Brotherhood of 
Gix. There was a bonfire in their camp and much chanting and 
singing. Ashnod considered trying to reach Mishra then but 
decided against it. The Gixians had probably left at least one of 
their number behind to watch over the Artifice Qadir.
    The red-haired woman sat on her bunk, holding the old pack 
that still contained the Golgothian Sylex. She was to have no 
role in the battle, it seemed. And no role in whatever would 
follow it. She thought for a moment and looked into the darkness, 
the only sound the cheers of the priests of Gix.
    Ashnod would have a role, whether Mishra wanted it or not. 
She pulled some parchment from her pack and a stylus and began 
composing a letter to an old friend.

                          * * * * *

    The elves never stood a chance, thought Tawnos, sadly. All 
the valor and bravery and devotion in the world did not matter 
when you were armed with wooden armor and bone weapons facing 
remorseless metal and unthinking stone.
    They came in waves-elves, sprites, centaurs, and treefolk. 
Some were riding great wildcats, and others were commanding herds 
of slugs that wrapped around the legs of an artifact and sucked 
its energy dry. The sky above rumbled and lanced down bolts of 
electrical fury, and the ground replied in the thunder of feet 
moving across the hard-backed surface of the ravaged earth.
    And towering above it all was a titanic figure, a living 
embodiment of the torn forests of Argoth. It was huge and roughly 
humanoid, but the mane of its hair was trees, and its body was 
made of the living wood, entwined upon itself to form massive 
muscles. It born a stone sword that seemed to be forged from the 
heart of the mountain itself.
    Tawnos remembered what Harbin had said about the elven 
magics, and knew that the elves had somehow animated the power of 
the forest and bent it to their will.
    Urza's forces were quickly arrayed in defense: avengers, 
sentinels, tetravi, and triskelions, insect-headed mechanical 
soldiers armed with weapons of new steel and statues crafted out 
of primal clay. Word was sent down the line for reinforcements as 
the first wave struck the Argivian lines.
    The elves were slaughtered. For every mechanical device that 
fell, thirty elves perished; for every ornithopter that was 
brought down, there were fifty pixies. The treefolk screamed as 
they went up in flames, one after another, and still the elves 
came on. Tawnos was at the center of the line and felt it begin 
to waver, then to give under the relentless assault. Tawnos 
called for more support, but the auxiliary units were already 
committed to the flanks.
    If the center did not hold, then the army would collapse in 
on itself.
    The sky rumbled again, and the ground responded with a deeper 
cry. And Tawnos knew the reinforcements had arrived.
    Urza had his own titan, crafted in the mountains of Sardia 
before the dwarves betrayed them. It was a hulking giant of stone 
and metal that towered over everything in its path. A single 
stride was a hundred feet, and crows and carrion birds had nested 
in its head. Urza had brought it to Argoth on a great barge, and 
it had acted as a lighthouse to guide the ships to safe harbor 
past the storms.
    Now it met the only other being on the island that was its 
equal. The tree monster bellowed a challenge, and while the 
colossus was silent, it turned and bore down on its opponent. The 
two locked in combat that dwarfed the lesser beings around them. 
The center of both lines broke to give the titans room to brawl, 
and those elves and devices that were too slow to get out of the 
way were smashed into the earth.
    The stone sword arced through the air and bit deeply into the 
colossus's side. The great animate statue shuddered, and plates 
of metal cascaded from its joints like scales shed from a snake. 
The forest titan reared back for another assault, but the 
colossus was too fast for it. It grabbed the attacker's arm as it 
descended and smoothly and effortlessly twisted it from its 
socket. There was the sound of an entire jungle screaming as the 
forest beast's arm was ripped loose and sent spinning across the 
shallow valley.
    The forest titan was not to be denied, for as it lost one 
arm, it swung heavily with the other, a massive hand made of wood 
and rock. This smashed against the side of the colossus's head, 
and most of the giant's face became a cloud of dust.
    The colossus did not need its head to think or react. It 
grappled the front of the forest titan with one hand. With the 
other, it reared back and slammed a fist into the creature's 
chest like a battering ram assaulting an enemy gate.
    The forest thing's body exploded in a rain of splinters that 
cut down troops within a hundred yards of the brawl. Its legs 
thundered to the ground in two separate directions, and its head 
rolled backward and plummeted, screaming as it fell.
    That broke the elves' morale completely. Their assault fell 
apart with their gigantic leader, and they fled from the battle, 
dropping their weapons as they ran. Those machines that could 
pursue did so, cutting down the forest-dwellers with neither 
remorse nor pity.
    Yet the forest titan had succeeded, for the colossus could 
not recover from its attack. The force of the blow ripped the 
stone statue's own arm from its moorings, and it cascaded to the 
ground with the sound of an avalanche. Bolts of lightning shot 
from its metal-plated joints as the great statue slowly dropped 
to its knees, then sprawled forward, facedown, across the small 
stream that now ran red with blood and black with oil. The valley 
shook as it struck the earth.
    Tawnos watched the rout and felt sadness. It was not the 
elves' fault that they were forced to fight for a land they could 
not hold. They were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. 
Had their land remained secret, they would have been spared all 
this. But once revealed, they were cast in the maelstrom of war 
with the rest of them. He shook his head as a last group of elves 
and centaurs tried to rally on a mound of fallen triskelions, 
only be to overrun by soldiers.
    All that was left after that was the cleanup. The bodies were 
collected and burned, and the artifacts were checked and 
repaired. The colossus was beyond help, but plates from its hide 
could be stripped and used for other creatures.
    Urza arrived in the evening with additional reinforcements, 
along with more artificers and mechanics to held with the 
repairs. Though the elven force was almost entirely wiped out, it 
had taken a heavy toll on the Argivians.
    Then the scout arrived with the bad news. Mishra's force had 
been spotted five days' march to the west and was making for 
their position.
    Tawnos argued they should pull back, at least to the safety 
of the coastal forts, but Urza would hear nothing of it.
    "Strip the forts within four days' march of here," he said. 
"We will fight here."
    "We are battered and tired," noted Tawnos.
    "Our machines are battered, but they cannot be tired," said 
Urza. "What noncombatant living beings we have we can evacuate in 
time. Let this battle be at a time and place of our choosing."
    Tawnos looked at Urza and saw that Harbin had been right. 
Urza seemed resigned to battling his brother, regardless of the 
outcome. It would all end here, one way or another.
    The scout also brought a message for Tawnos. He did not say 
where he had got it, but Tawnos knew who it was from the moment 
he saw the handwriting.
    "Something important?" asked Urza. "Has Harbin had success 
against the raiders?"
    "Message from an old friend," Tawnos said, scowling. Urza was 
already poring over the maps of the surrounding terrain, and only 
nodded. Tawnos pocketed the message, and Urza said nothing more 
on the matter.
    Tawnos thought of the date, and said, "If they take five days 
to get here and attack by the sixth, it will be the last day of 
the year. Perhaps we can begin the new year with a world at 
peace, when we win."
    "The last day," said Urza softly. "And on the last day, we're 
equal."
    "Pardon?" said Tawnos.
    Urza shook his head, "Just an old thought. You get to an 
advanced age and that's all you have anymore. Old thoughts, and 
regrets."
    In Koilos, the demon Gix heard the chants of his priests in 
Argoth and knew that it was time to go to them.
    All the pieces were in place. The one brother was wounded, 
and his sibling was bearing down on him. The survivor would be 
battered beyond belief and in no shape to defend himself. Neither 
was prepared for the surprise the demon had prepared for them.
    Gix smiled as a small point of light appeared near his 
throne. It grew until it had formed into a disk, like a 
reflecting pool that had been turned on its side. There was the 
smell of smoke and the distant sound of crashing gears.
    He looked around at his domain within the cavern, at the 
scattered parts of the demolished su-chi. He would soon return in 
triumph.
    He looked at his observer, the poor priestess whose 
mechanical limbs had rejected her. She implored him with her 
eyes, for she no longer could speak.
    The disk was almost fully formed, and Gix did not have much 
time. He walked over to her and cradled her head in his hands. 
His talons pierced the flesh of her scalp and drove through the 
bone into the brain itself.
    Gix opened every synapse in the woman's mind and let the holy 
fire fill her as every part of her brain fired at once. She 
jerked and spasmed in his hands, and then was still. He let go of 
her, and she slumped to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut.
    Gix noticed that there was a smile on her sewn-together lips, 
and he smiled in return as he stepped through the gate and into 
the final battle between the brothers.
    
                           Chapter 33
                        TAWNOS AND ASHNOD

    The Last Battle began before dawn, as the overcast sky was 
just beginning to lighten. The remaining mechanics on both sides 
began activating their destructive artifacts, and the thrumming 
of their engines was a bugle call to both sides. The vibrations 
grew on both sides as more wings were limbered, treads were 
checked, and leg armatures were put through their final 
preparations.
    With the first light of dawn, the dragon engines surged 
forward, forming a wedge and bearing down on the Argivian 
position. Behind them lumbered two huge flanks of transmogrants, 
and the remaining Fallaji soldiers decked in Ashnod's spiked 
armor. Bringing up the rear were Mishra's great ground-shattering 
engines and war machines, protecting the flanks of the wedge. 
Behind these lines rose a dozen winged dragon engines, bugling 
battle cries and breathing flames into the morning air.
    Urza had guessed his brother would try a direct assault, 
counting on the weakened state of the Argivian forces after their 
battle with the Argothians. For that reason he positioned all 
Tawnos's mobile fortifications, the triskelions, in the center, 
supported by war engines of the Lord Protector's own design. The 
rest of his units were broken into smaller groups of clay 
statues, avengers, and sentinels. Shape-shifting automatons, made 
of primal clay worked over adjustable frames, held the flanks. 
The sky was alive with ornithopters and ornibombers, protected by 
tetravi and clockwork avians that swarmed upward toward the great 
flying dragon engines of the enemy.
    The armies crashed together with a scream of shattering 
metal. The dragon engines on the ground moved among the 
triskelions, hammering them with flame and savage blows, but the 
great fortresses refused to fall. Urza's war machines were 
smashed beneath the treads of the dragon engines, slowing them 
while hordes of avengers and clay statues clung to their flanks 
seeking to break through their armor to the driving motors within 
and destroy them.
    The dragon engines screamed, and the transmogrants fell upon 
Urza's flanks. The remade troops were picking at the clay statues 
like carnivorous apes, but Urza's newer shapeshifting automatons 
were too much for the reanimated forms of men and elves. Old 
blood and new oil splattered on the combatants as they slammed 
into each other.
    In the air the clockwork avians swooped and dived at the 
dragon engines, seeking the weakness in their armor that would 
allow them to penetrate and spread packets of explosives within. 
Occasionally there was a metallic scream as an ornibomber or 
dragon engine lost structural integrity and could no longer 
remain aloft. The huge engines sprawled into the seething madness 
below, crushing both ally and enemy beneath their sprawling 
hulks.
    On the far right flank, Tawnos led a squad of Yotian 
soldiers, heavily armored and looking more like beetles than 
humanoid automatons, looking for a way into the rear echelon of 
Mishra's forces. He held aloft the sensory-dampening wand that he 
had days earlier offered Harbin, and none of the other combatants 
seemed to notice him or his patrol.
    There was motion ahead of him, and Tawnos barked a command. 
The soldiers formed a wedge behind the old scholar, raising 
blades made of tempered glass that could cut through steel. 
Tawnos snapped the attack command, and they lumbered forward, 
their servos and governing mechanisms clicking as they sought out 
their targets.
    It was a group of priests, Gixians by their robes, and the 
automated soldiers fell upon them like wolves among sheep. The 
blades of unshatterable glass rose and fell like scythes, and the 
Gixians screamed as they fell beneath their razor-sharp edges.
    There was the clatter of glass upon metal, and Tawnos at 
first assumed that the priests were wearing armor. But when he 
caught up with his weapons, he saw that the Gixians had replaced 
parts of their own bodies with machinery-large lumbering, 
clanking prosthetics that denied them the speed with which to 
escape.
    Tawnos looked down at the fallen bodies and wondered if the 
alterations were voluntary. It smelled of Ashnod's work, but she 
had never modified the living, only tormented them. Was this 
something new in Mishra's arsenal?
    That was when things started to go wrong.
    There was a whirring noise behind him, the familiar whine of 
one of his own Yotian soldiers approaching. Tawnos half-turned, 
and in turning realized that the automaton had its blade poised 
to strike. The Master Scholar stepped back and stumbled over one 
of the Gixian's bodies.
    The fall saved his life, for the soldier's blade cut through 
the air where Tawnos had been moments before. Another of the 
soldiers stepped up in front of Tawnos to defend him, and the two 
Yotian automatons began cutting each other to ribbons.
    Tawnos rose slowly, the joints in his knees complaining. He 
looked around. All the Yotian soldiers were fighting among 
themselves. Their blades of tempered glass cut into each other, 
peeling away their heavy armor like orange skins. Already some 
were falling from the assault, but whether they were attackers or 
defenders Tawnos could not say.
    Tawnos shouted a command for the unit to form up, and the 
machines ignored him. He shouted the command for them to cease 
fighting, and they ignored that as well. Finally he bellowed the 
order that would deactivate the units. They paid no attention to 
this order. The battered survivors of the contests only lurched 
forward to seek new targets.
    Tawnos took a step back, then a second; then he was running 
for the center of the line. Two soldiers attempted to follow him 
but soon fell to fighting each other.
    As Tawnos moved along the line, the story was the same. The 
machines on both sides had forgotten their basic orders and were 
lashing out at random, striking at any target in their path. He 
found a unit of clay statues in combat with a band of usually 
allied avengers, the great automatons pulling chunks of primal 
clay from the statues' frames. On the horizon, a pair of dragon 
engines had their necks entwined like mating geese, and each had 
its jaws wide open, attempting to bite the other's head off. The 
triskelions had opened fire on Urza's battle engines and on each 
other, and already smoke was billowing from their frames. 
Overhead the clockwork avians were attacking the ornithopters, 
and their needle-sharp beaks ripped apart the crafts' reinforced 
wings.
    Tawnos stumbled across human bodies as well-mechanics, 
guards, other scholars, and Fallaji warriors. The humans had been 
the first to be destroyed in the rebellion of the machines.
    Tawnos heard someone call his name, and there was a flash of 
scarlet against a black cloak. Ashnod shouted his name again, and
    Tawnos waited as the woman scrabbled over the fallen body of 
a clay statue. She was bearing her ubiquitous staff and still 
carried the battered backpack she had possessed the previous 
evening.
    "Is this your doing?" shouted Tawnos over the clashing din. A 
hundred yards away, a headless dragon engine was using its neck 
as a metallic whip to breach one of the triskelion towers.
    Ashnod shook her head emphatically and shouted back, "It's 
affecting Mishra's devices as well. Maybe something in the way 
the machines are getting their commands?"
    Now it was Tawnos's turn to disagree. "Nothing like this 
happened before. Maybe the two brothers' stones-the Mightstone 
and Weak-stone. Could their proximity do this?"
    Ashnod shouted, "You tell me. It seems as if everything with 
a power crystal has a mind of its own."
    There was an explosion nearby. Too close. Both man and woman 
crouched as a fireball bloomed skyward, shaking the ground with 
its eruption.
    "One of Mishra's war machines," yelled Ashnod. "I'm going to 
get back to Urza's camp," shouted Tawnos. "Come along?"
    "Thought you'd never ask," replied Ashnod. The two headed 
away from the line as a great dragon engine, perhaps one of the 
originals Mishra had brought to Korlinda, rose over the hillock. 
It regarded the two beings before it as if they were insects. 
"You have a command word to control that thing?" asked Tawnos. 
"You think it would listen?" replied Ashnod. The dragon engine 
hesitated, then turned away, moving back into the heart of the 
battle.
    "Something you did?" said Tawnos, but Ashnod only shook her 
head. Then a third voice spoke up. "No, that was me."
    It stepped into view, and Tawnos saw a creature of 
nightmares. It was as tall as Tawnos, with long coils that sprang 
from the back of its skulllike head and twitched of their own 
volition. Its body was constructed entirely of struts and cables 
held together by sinews of flesh, which twisted like muscles as 
it moved. It was the ultimate automaton.
    "Demon!" shouted Ashnod.
    The creature laughed, and it was a harsh, clicking sound. "Is 
that what you call one who just saved you from your master's 
devices? Yes, I can control it, even if you masters can't. I can 
control most of these creatures now, and when they are done 
slaying each other, I will take the strongest ones back with me 
to Phyrexia."
    Ashnod dropped the pack and hoisted her staff with both 
hands. "Get back!" she said.
    The demon laughed again. "Now is the time to pack up the toys 
and go home. Urza and Mishra will die today, and with them fail 
their hopes and their legacy." He paused for a moment, then 
added, "And their students."
    The demon crouched to leap, but Ashnod was faster. She 
brought up the end of her skull-tipped wand, and multicolored 
energies surged forth from the tip.
    The creature staggered under the force of the blow but did 
not fall. "You've grown more powerful," it snarled, but its words 
were forced.
    "I've been practicing," said Ashnod. Tawnos noticed that her 
teeth were gritted as well. "Tawnos," she shouted, "take the 
backpack."
    Tawnos did not move immediately, instead drawing his own 
weapon.
    "No!" shouted Ashnod, "This one is mine. Take the backpack. 
In it there's a bowl. Tell Urza to fill it with memories of the 
land. Got it? Memories of the land."
    Tawnos did not move, and Ashnod cursed. "Urza's going to need 
it, if this thing is here!"
    Already the demon had risen to its feet and was staggering 
forward, struggling against the beam of Ashnod's staff. As Tawnos 
watched, its arms grew longer and its fingers sharpened into 
talons. Sweat was streaming down Ashnod's face.
    "Go, Baby Duck!" she shouted, and redoubled her effort. The 
demon staggered back a few paces but then resumed his slow 
progress forward.
    Tawnos grabbed the pack and turned, running for the base 
camp. Behind him the demon screamed and Ashnod cursed. Then their 
voices were lost in the clanging din of the mechanized 
battlefield.
    
                           Chapter 34
                        URZA AND MISHRA

    Urza was alone at his camp. The aides and apprentices had 
fled or had rushed elsewhere as reinforcements or had been killed 
in combat. Below him, across the haze-filled valley, was a sea of 
mechanized ruin. Most of the smaller automatons had been smashed 
now, and only the great behemoths were thundering against each 
other. An oily smoke covered most of the land, and he could not 
see the opposite side of the valley any longer.
    Urza removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 
So much effort, he thought, for so little result.
    Tawnos was out there, he knew, but Tawnos had fought before 
and always returned home. Harbin was at least safe from this 
battle, en route back to Penregon. Urza realized he should leave 
now, should pull back.
    But pull back to what? The forts had been emptied to bring 
troops to this battle. There was nothing left in the combined 
kingdoms to send, even if the boatyards were still functional. 
There was nothing left of the land with which to build anew.
    Urza looked out over the vale and shook his head. He thought 
of Loran's notes, and he thought of Harbin. The boy had seen what 
the natives of this land could do and had come to believe there 
were more powerful forces than just artifice and machinery. 
Perhaps he was right. But it was too late for that.
    Perhaps it was always too late, thought Urza.
    There was movement to Urza's right, and he turned, expecting 
to see Tawnos stepping out of the gathering smoke. Instead it was 
another figure, this one muscular and young, and dressed in the 
robes of the desert.
    "Hello, Brother," said Mishra.
    Urza blinked. Mishra looked unchanged from when they had last 
met face-to-face, at Kroog. Indeed, if anything, he looked 
younger, stronger, and more confident. Instinctively Urza's hand 
went to the Mightstone hanging from around his neck.
    "You're looking unwell," said Mishra, a cold smile on his 
face. "Your machines have sucked the life out of you. That is 
your error. One of many."
    Mishra took a step forward, and Urza's stone began to glow. 
The pouch around Mishra's neck began to shine in response. Mishra 
opened it with his left hand and pulled the fist-sized rock from 
it.
    "Two of a kind," said the younger brother. "How long have we 
fought? And for what, Brother? For trinkets such as these?" He 
pulled out the ankh with his other hand. "For rulership of 
nations and people?"
    "I just wanted to learn," said Urza, softly. "I just wanted 
to build my devices."
    Mishra took another step forward, and Urza tried to push the 
younger brother back, forcing his will through the stone as he 
had at Kroog. As he had back in Tocasia's camp at the beginning 
of his life.
    He was less effective this time. Mishra took another step 
forward, slower this time, and his smile was fixed and brittle. 
"You've let yourself grow old, and your light is dimming," he 
said. "Shall we talk one last time, or must I slay you now?"
    "You still want my stone," said Urza, but it was exhausting 
to speak. He felt age resting on his shoulders, and the stone as 
a great weight around his neck.
    Mishra took another step, and both brothers were bathed in 
the light now, the multicolored light from their own stones. The 
two men were only a foot apart. "You think this is only about a 
mere fractured gem? You think that is where the power is?" Mishra 
said, and there was effort in his smile. "You still covet my 
stone, Brother? Here, take it!"
    Mishra lashed out with the stone gripped tightly in his hand. 
Urza dodged to one side but knew as he dodged that Mishra's 
attack was merely a feint. The ankh in Mishra's other hand came 
up suddenly, and Urza twisted and stumbled backward, trying to 
get out of the way of the blade. The light of his stone died as 
the razor-sharp edge of the ankh streaked across his forehead. 
Urza's face exploded in pain as he fell back.
    Mishra laughed, and Urza reached up to his face. The ankh had 
carved a deep furrow across his forehead, which already welled 
with blood. The thick, sticky fluid ran down the sides of Urza's 
face and stained his glasses a sanguine hue.
    "You never realized true power, Brother," taunted Mishra. 
"You never had to fight for your life. You were always safe in 
your world of devices and calculations. Now you see you went down 
the wrong path. You'll die old and alone, and I will take your 
lands and peoples and inventions and bend them to my will." 
Mishra leaned forward to deliver a killing blow with his ankh.
    Urza felt anger, hot and fresh; and with that anger came 
action. Were he thinking rationally, he might have tried to 
retreat, to talk, to plan another assault at a later day. But he 
was in pain, and anger welled from that pain. He moved 
instinctively and impulsively.
    He dropped the defenses he had erected around him, defenses 
that had blossomed when the two fought. Instead, he used the 
energy of the stone to launch a direct assault against his 
brother.
    He used the Mightstone as a focus for his assault, but poured 
into it his anger at Mishra. He poured all his rage, and all his 
other emotions as well: how he loved his brother and how he hated 
him, how their war had wrecked their lives and their world. All 
this he poured through the stone in one blast of energy.
    And as he did so, he felt something give within him. It was 
as when a muscle suddenly pulled from strain, or a gear changed 
within a device. Suddenly the mental walls around him fell away, 
and he realized his brother had been right.
    He had never realized true power.
    Until now.
    Urza knew the power came from within him, not from any device 
or crystal. He fed that power through the stone and into a single 
bolt against his brother.
    Mishra's chest exploded in a ball of crimson fire, and the 
younger man screamed and fell. The fire spread through his robes 
and he flailed his arms as the flames engulfed him. His body 
blazed brightly for a moment; then he was gone, fleeing back into 
the smoke that filled the valley.
    Urza watched him flee and now realized what had made Mishra 
so powerful. For Mishra's robes had burned in Urza's assault, and 
with the robes the flesh beneath them had peeled away from the 
heat.
    Beneath the flesh had been metal. Urza had seen it for only a 
moment but that was enough. There were plates where Mishra's ribs 
should have been, and pulleys and coiled knots of steel rope 
where his muscles should have operated.
    His brother had been consumed by his own machines. He had 
become one himself.
    Urza felt the effects of his own assault. Something had 
changed within him, and once the door was open it could not be 
closed. He could sense the world around him by more than sight 
and feeling. He could feel the power within himself and the power 
within the land that surrounded him.
    The land was in pain. No, not just in Argoth, but in all of 
Terisiare. He and his brother had plundered the earth for its 
riches, and damaged it almost beyond repair. Now it cried out to 
him, in a maddening chorus, crying for respite. Crying for 
release.
    There was another flicker of motion to his left, and he 
raised the Mightstone against a new assault. But this time it was 
Tawnos staggering out of the smoky fog, coughing and clutching a 
backpack. The student looked ancient as he staggered forward.
    "Urza," said the former apprentice. "The machines no longer 
obey."
    Urza looked over the battlefield and saw it with new eyes. 
Where before there was the confusion, he now saw another 
puppeteer pulling the strings. Pulling the strings of the 
artifact creatures. The strings of his brother. His own strings.
    "There was a demon, a creature from Phyrexia," continued 
Tawnos. "He ambushed me and Ashnod. Ashnod said I should bring 
you this." He pulled a bowl-shaped sylex from the pack. "Urza, 
are you listening?"
    Urza looked at the bowl and heard the cries of the land 
around them. "I hear," he said. "More than you realize, now, I 
hear."
    "We should retreat," said Tawnos, "get away from here. If 
your brother finds us ..."
    "My brother has been here once," said Urza, "and he will be 
coming back." He took the bowl from Tawnos's hands, and as he 
touched the sylex, the cries of the land became more intense in 
his ears. They rose in a deafening cacophony of pain that only he 
could hear.
    "Ashnod says you are supposed to fill it with memories of the 
land," said Tawnos. The scholar's mouth worked a moment, then he 
added, "I don't know what that means."
    "I know," said Urza, and he did know. The moment he took the 
bowl from Tawnos he knew what its purpose was and how he was to 
use it. The understanding flowed through him like an electric 
jolt.
    "We should go," said Tawnos.
    "No," said Urza, softly.
    "Urza, you're hurt-" began Tawnos, but Urza cut him off.
    "No," he repeated. "It ends here, for me and for him." For a 
moment, his eyes focused on Tawnos, and Urza said, "You must go 
and find a safe refuge. Find some place to take cover."
    "Urza, I'm not..."
    "Do Not Argue!" thundered Urza, and his eyes flashed with 
rage. "Find the deepest cave, the furthest tree, the strongest 
fortification. Find anything to protect yourself and Do It Now!"
    Tawnos was gone, and Urza was alone on the hillside. Only for 
a moment, for there was a clanking and clattering to his right, 
down toward the valley. The noise grew louder by the moment.
    Mishra was returning, and he had brought a dragon engine with 
him.
    The mists parted as the great machine rumbled up the hill 
toward the wounded scholar, and Urza mentally corrected himself. 
Mishra had brought the dragon engine as a part of himself..
    Most of the flesh had burned away from his brother's form, 
leaving only a maze of coiled wire and black cables beneath, 
oozing fluid. The cables had reached out from within his body and 
merged with those of the dragon engine. This one had been the one 
at Korlinda, and similar cables had extruded from it to join with 
Mishra. Machine and man had become one entity.
    Mishra's face was largely intact, save for a long, burned 
scar along one side. The tatters of flesh flapped against the 
metal beneath as his mechanical jaw opened and closed, bellowing 
threats. There was a dripping redness along that side that might 
have been blood.
    Urza saw the abomination that was his brother and knew what 
must be done. He spoke a word and pulled the energies of the land 
to him.
    In an instant, the hillside at his feet slid away, crashing 
toward the Mishra engine. The man machine was caught by the 
cascading earth and dragged backward, down toward the valley 
floor.
    It would not stop his hate-filled brother, Urza realized, but 
it would slow him down. And that was enough.
    Urza sat cross-legged with the bowl in his lap. The runes 
within the bowl spiraled toward the center, but he did not need 
to read them. Whatever force now coursed through his veins 
allowed him comprehension, allowed him to commune with the 
artifact as he now heard the cries of the land. Blood from the 
gushing wound on his forehead dribbled into the bowl and filled 
the carved runes with crimson.
    Urza summoned his memories, the memories of his life and his 
studies, and willed them into the bowl. He thought of Argive and 
of Korlis. He thought of his towers and workshops and of the 
orniary in Kroog. He thought of lands he had flown over and 
fought over. He thought of the Kher Ridges and the Caverns of 
Koilos.
    And he thought of a small encampment, now forgotten by most 
living men and buried by sand, where students of an old woman dug 
for artifacts of an ancient and forgotten people. Where two 
brothers learned about the Thran.
    The Mishra machine had recovered from the avalanche and was 
now charging up the hill, its dragon head screaming. Urza looked 
up and saw his brother's face, half-torn from the metallic skull 
beneath, and wept for him. The artificer's tears joined the blood 
and memories in the bowl, and he felt the power well up around 
him.
    The power filled him now, flowing to him from all the lands 
and all the memories of the things that he had done. His regrets 
and pride and anger and solitude all poured into the bowl, 
filling it to the brim, filling it to the bursting point. And 
beyond.
    The Mishra machine had attained the hilltop now, and its 
serpent head loomed high above him. Mishra was grinning, the 
smile half-flesh and half-steel. It was the grin of a man 
triumphant.
    Mishra was screaming something, but Urza no longer heard his 
voice. All he heard was the land, crying for release.
    And Urza released the power.
    A flash at the base of the bowl spread outward and upward, a 
new sun brought to the earth and igniting everything it touched. 
Urza felt the flash for a moment and smiled as it washed over 
him. His last sight was of his brother, melded to the machine, as 
both were caught in the blast. The smile on his brother's face 
turned into a twisted parody as the systems of his body failed. 
Then the Mishra dragon reduced to its smallest particles, and 
those particles were caught by the force of the explosion Urza 
had called into being. They were blown far, far away.
    And Urza was gone as well.

                          * * * * *

    Argoth died at last. Those survivors in the land only had a 
moment to react to the great flash of light on the horizon, when 
suddenly it was on top of them.
    The surviving trees ignited where they stood, blown down by 
the
    wind, their stumps uprooted by the undulating earth as ground 
slid beneath the sea, and new earth shot up from the force of the 
explosion.
    Gaea screamed as the circle of destruction widened.

                          * * * * *

    The men on Harbin's ship who had been looking south were 
blinded by the light, their eyes reduced to pools of blood from 
the intensity. The masts and sails of the ship were set afire by 
the heat.
    The ship was suddenly rising, as the sea itself became a 
mountain and carried the boat with it. The ship rose upward, and 
Harbin clung to the tattered remains of the rigging, screaming 
his father's name.
    All at once the boat and the man were atop the great swell of 
the ocean, and Harbin could see, far to the south, the reddish 
glow of the sky as Argoth burned. He could see other swells, each 
larger than the one that had just overtaken them, advancing like 
relentless armies.
    His ship was cast down again into the ocean.
    Gwenna felt the ground tremble beneath her and heard the cry 
of Gaea as her land died. They were fighting Korlisians along the 
coast, and many of the warriors on both sides now cast down their 
weapons and began to weep. The war was over, and there were to be 
no victors.
    Gwenna noticed the sea was gone, leaving only broad patches 
of mud and rock. She realized what that meant. She shouted for 
her warriors to flee to the hills inland and broke into a loping 
run; she did not see which ones obeyed her.
    She was halfway up the nearest hill when the first great 
waves, each the size of a small mountain, broke against the 
coastline, smashing everything in their path.

                          * * * * *

    In Penregon, Kayla set down her pen at the sound of distant 
thunder. But the thunder did not diminish but instead became 
louder and was soon accompanied by the rushing of winds. The 
ground shook beneath her, and in another room there was the sound 
of dishes clattering to the floor.
    The room was rocked, and the furniture slid against the far 
wall and was smashed. To the south there was a great reddish 
glow, as if all of southern Argive had caught fire.
    The door flew open, and Jarsyl, Harbin's eldest, came in, 
crying and clutching one of his father's old toys, a mechanical 
bird that Tawnos had made for him. Kayla hugged the child and 
whispered soft words to him, as outside the house men screamed 
and buildings toppled.
    And a single tear ran down the side of her face as she 
comforted her grandchild.

                          * * * * *

    In the caverns of Koilos the air wrinkled and pursed, and 
there was the smell of burning oil as Gix returned to his lair.
    He had been damaged, and his movements left greasy footprints 
and spatters of oil. There was human blood on him as well, on his 
chest, his talons, and his face, but he had no time to consider 
his appearance.
    He worked quickly, one part of his mind calculating how long 
it would take for the blast wave to reach him, another wondering 
if the mountain itself would be sufficient protection, while a 
third part readied the Thran machine. A loose pile of power 
crystals was placed on the holder that he had hoped would once 
again carry the united Weakstone and Mightstone, and his 
bloodstained hands moved over the glyphs with hurried grace.
    The air began to swirl and form its gateway, but it was not 
yet fully formed when the earth shook beneath his feet. The front 
of the blast wave was surging up the canyon outside. Gix leapt up 
the steps to the dais, and looked around. Already parts of the 
ceiling were beginning to cave in, and the machines were sparking 
and going dead.
    Gix cursed and dived through the small portal, feet first. 
And as he dived, the portal winked shut around him.
    There was a scream within the vaults, and then nothing, save 
for a demon's arm, severed at the elbow, clenching and 
unclenching at something it could not attain, lying on the floor 
of the shattered room.
    Near the foot of the Ronom Glacier, Feldon and Loran watched 
as a great duststorm swallowed the foothills far below them. The 
sand had been drawn from the desert hundreds of miles away and 
now flayed everything in the lowlands. Even at their height, a 
hot, dustladened wind swept over them, and Loran pulled her cloak 
tight with her left arm. Beneath the cloak, her right arm was a 
twisted and mangled remnant.
    Feldon surveyed the terrain below them as one valley after 
another disappeared beneath the blast, leaving only a churned fog 
of dust and despair that was already trying to climb their 
mountain. The lower peaks were already vanishing beneath the 
assault.
    "Well," he said at last, "it's over."
    Loran said, "Good."
    And there was silence in Terisiare.
    
    EPILOGUES
    DIVERGING PATHS
    (64 AR)
    The dreams had called them. From the now-ruined monastery and 
from the glass-paved lands of Yotia. From the abandoned wreckage 
of Tomakul and from hidden places within the old coastal 
kingdoms. They brought with them their inventions, their devices, 
and their notes on the nature of magic. The dreams beckoned them 
to the Secret Heart of the Thran, to the caverns of Koilos, and 
they obeyed.
    They dug out the passage where it had caved in. They buried 
the bodies they found there and made a reliquary for the great 
demon's arm they found, eternally twitching, at the foot of the 
dais. They repaired the machines as best as they were able, 
guided by the old knowledge and by their dreams.
    At last they were finished, and they placed the broken and 
fading power crystals in their holders, touching the glyphs as 
they had been instructed. The machines hummed and sputtered and 
came to a slow, flickering life.
    Slowly the air pursed and a swirling pool appeared, a gateway 
into the promised lands beyond. Through that gate came a long 
mechanical arm, tipped with talons, mate to the one that they had 
venerated as the arm of Gix.
    The arm beckoned to them and withdrew back into its own 
lands, and a voice rang out from the gate. "Enter my children," 
it said, "enter and taste paradise."
    Smiling, the priests of the Brotherhood of Gix stepped up to 
the gateway and entered Phyrexia.

                          * * * * *

    What had once been a verdant coastline was now awash with 
debris. The flotsam of great trees and the jetsam of huge 
boulders had been driven miles into shore, creating a blasted 
region along the shore, devoid of life.
    Among the wreckage was a large metal box, seven feet in 
length, three feet in width and height. It had weathered the 
destruction and came to rest among the other far-flung remains of 
what had been Argoth.
    Urza stood alongside the box and pressed his hand against the 
lid.
    The box's top slid along its casters, revealing the 
slumbering form of his former apprentice. Tawnos took a breath, 
then sat bolt-upright, gasping for air. His face was pale, and he 
was covered with dead skin that had flaked off but had nowhere to 
go within his confinement.
    Urza waited for Tawnos to regain his composure, standing as 
patient as a statue. Tawnos took a deep breath, held it, then 
took a second one. Then he looked around at the devastation that 
surrounded them.
    "It is over," said Urza, sitting on the edge of the box.
    Tawnos gulped and looked around. "This was the safest hiding 
place I could think of," he said. Urza did not reply. Tawnos 
said, "Your brother?"
    "Dead," said Urza. "I ..." He shook his head. "The demon, the 
Phyrexian, killed my brother long ago. I never realized it."
    "Where are we?" asked Tawnos.
    Urza looked around and sighed, deeply. "The southern coast of 
Yotia."
    Tawnos blinked. "It has changed."
    "The world has changed," said Urza, "because of what we did. 
Because of what I did."
    Tawnos climbed out of the box, and Urza helped him. Tawnos 
felt weak from his incarceration and rubbed his arms and legs, 
both to shake off the dead skin and to restore circulation. It 
was cold on this shore, colder than Tawnos remembered it as a 
youth.
    "I need one last task from you, my former student," said 
Urza.
    "Name it," said Tawnos.
    "I want you to go west. Find the remains of the Union, the 
scholars of the ivory towers. Tell them what happened here. Tell 
them what we did, and what we failed to do. See to it that they 
do not do the same. I trust you to do this."
    Tawnos looked at the older man, but it seemed to him that 
Urza was no longer old. His hair was blond again and his 
shoulders straight.
    But his eyes were old beyond years and pained beyond mortal 
hurt.
    "You can always trust me," said Tawnos. "Where are you 
going?"
    Urza turned from his former pupil. "Away," he said after a 
short while. "I am going ... away."
    "It looks as if we could use your help here," said Tawnos.
    Urza made a noise that Tawnos thought was a nervous laugh. "I 
don't think the land could survive any more of my help. I need to 
... I need to go away. And think by myself. Where I will not harm 
others."
    Tawnos nodded, and said, "I don't know if there is any place 
that far away."
    Urza shook his head and said, "There are places far beyond 
the land of Terisiare, far beyond world of Dominaria. When I 
poured my memories into the sylex, I saw them. I see many things 
that I had never seen before."
    He turned back to Tawnos, and the Master Scholar saw Urza's 
eyes. They were no longer human eyes, but rather two gemstones, 
radiating with a cascade of multicolored hues: green, white, red, 
black, and blue.
    Mightstone and Weakstone, reunited at last, within the 
surviving brother.
    The image was only for an instant; then Urza's eyes were 
normal again. Urza smiled. "I must go away," he repeated.
    Tawnos nodded slowly, and the man with human/crystalline eyes 
stood. "You have long been a student," said Urza. "Now go be a 
teacher."
    As he spoke, Urza began to fade from view. Slowly the color 
drained from him, leaving only outlines; then they too faded. 
"Teach them of our triumphs and our mistakes," said a distant 
voice. "And tell Kayla to remember me not..."
    "... As you were, but as you tried to be," finished Tawnos, 
but he was speaking to empty space. Urza had passed from the 
world into greater worlds that only his crystalline eyes could 
see.
    Tawnos looked around, but there was no sign of life. He 
struck inland, hoping to get past the worst of devastation before 
he had to travel west. He recognized no familiar landmarks, and 
he had the feeling that he would not for a long time. Tawnos 
wondered how bad the devastation truly was.
    And as Tawnos walked inland, he was greeted by the first 
flakes of snow drifting down a chill wind.
